The Qartheen riders wore copper-scaled armor, their heads protected by long-snouted helms adorned with copper fangs and long black feathers. They sat tall upon ornate saddles inlaid with rubies and garnets.
But their mounts were not horses—they rode camels, larger and more tightly bound to their riders.
This formation, while troublesome for the khalasar and the Unsullied, was not insurmountable. Camels were not only sluggish, but slow to respond. Once overwhelmed by the crushing blows of the giants or the ferocious charges of braid-bearing warriors atop elephants, their riders were as good as dead.
The Unsullied deftly raised their shields to block downward slashes from above, countering with long spears or slashing at the camels with short swords—tactics that often produced the expected killing effect.
With their king leading the charge, morale soared. The fierce and seasoned warriors fought with growing fervor, sweeping through the enemy like a tide tearing through rotted wood.
Drogo wielded his blade in one hand and held the decaying heart in the other. Beneath the moonlight, his warhorse responded flawlessly to the pressure of his legs, stopping or charging as needed. His mastery of horsemanship was undeniable.
He targeted the weakest infantry, determined to reap as many lives as possible in the shortest time.
From horseback, the Khal was unstoppable. The Qartheen soldiers could not challenge his might. Targeting his mount was equally futile—it was fully armored, clad in neck and face guards and covered in chainmail.
In the past, Drogo might have shouted "no killing for those who yield" once the enemy began to break. But not this time. He only regretted that there wasn't more blood to spill.
He had become so ruthless that even exhaustion failed to move him. The heart in his hand was a death charm—if it failed to consume enough blood, it would begin to drain his own life force.
This was Drogo at his most powerful—reborn, decisive, and bloodthirsty, as savage as the decaying heart itself. He slaughtered without hesitation, striking such fear into his enemies that even his own men began to dread him.
Every dying soul had their lifeblood pulled away by a mysterious force, converging upon the heart, which devoured it greedily. Full-bodied warriors were reduced to withered husks in an instant, and trails of blood coiled toward the heart like crimson rivers flowing to a sea—eerie and terrifying in their beauty.
This indiscriminate drain of life—foe or ally—struck terror into all who witnessed it.
Such an unimaginable battlefield would surely become legend, its horrors spread across the known world. All who heard or saw would remember the cursed, rotting heart.
As the blood nourished it, the heart began to glow red, pulsing with growing strength and rhythm. It was awakening.
Drogo showed no emotion. He did not know how long the Undying Ones could live—but if they were truly immortal, then their lifespans likely stretched across thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years.
Men of the world of ice and fire matured early, both mentally and physically. Their harsh environments ensured that few lived long.
From what Drogo had read, there were several Undying Ones in the House of Dust. They seemed long dead, their souls lingering in a spectral state. The heart in his hand was the source of energy that kept their consciousness intact.
Their combined lifespans likely exceeded ten millennia. To return to their youthful forms would require a tremendous quantity of fresh blood. Drogo had no way to calculate the amount. He only knew one thing—the killing could not stop.
Qarth was surrounded by three massive walls. The guards at the outer gate were nearly all slain. Fearing that the heart would again begin draining his life, Drogo shouted: "Khalasar! Unsullied! In half an hour, scale the second wall and open the iron-plated gate!"
The braid-bearing warriors and eunuchs were fearless, ready to die for their king. But the second wall was even taller than the first—by more than ten feet. It bristled with archers and stone-throwers. To seize the high ground within half an hour was nearly impossible.
Fires erupted at the wall's base. Pitch-filled jars burst open with searing flames. Though no match for dragonfire, the orange and red blaze was hot enough to sear flesh and boil blood.
Drogo couldn't help but wonder: had Aegon the Conqueror felt the same when he soared above the Field of Fire?
The three dragons were unmatched siege weapons, but Drogo knew neither how to tame them nor how to speak Valyrian. All he could do was hope they would be drawn to the battlefield—drawn to the scent of blood—so he could cry out: "Dracarys!"
His warriors charged forward under a rain of arrows, falling stones, and flaming pitch. Some were cut down mid-climb, their grappling hooks severed, their ladders overturned.
The passageway was too narrow for catapults. The wall was too high. Arrows shot upward were useless. Only one man—Drogon himself—was strong enough to shoot a bolt that high, but he was burdened by the cursed heart and could not act.
Watching his loyal soldiers die one after another, Drogo's heart grew heavy. "The Golden Company, clad in golden armor—I should have sent them to storm the walls."
In Drogo's mind, the newly-submitted Golden Company were mere fodder. The khalasar and the Unsullied were his true warriors—his brothers.
But mercenaries could not be trusted until they swore absolute loyalty. So he had sent them on meaningless tasks.
Though he had spoken without intent, others took his words to heart. Grey Worm, soaked in blood and still thrusting his iron spear, spoke: "Your Grace, no falling debris can harm Roman. Let him climb two ladders at once and breach the wall for you!"
It was a good plan. Drogo had considered it, but feared the ladders couldn't bear the giant's weight. He had withheld the order to protect Roman.
But now was no time for hesitation. If the enemy lived, he would die. In moments like these, selfishness was inevitable. Better to risk Roman's life than lose his own to the heart.
The giant was hard of hearing. Drogo roared: "Khalasar! Stack two siege ladders! Roman—climb and breach the wall! Unsullied—hold the ladders steady!"
Roman obeyed, dropping his heavy hammer, and began his slow ascent, step by step.
Clang! Boom!
The defenders atop the wall tried everything to stop him, but the massive armored form advanced steadily. All they could do was pray that the groaning ladders would snap.
But fortune favored Drogo. The new ladders held. Roman scaled the wall, grabbed a bowman, and flung him down like a melon smashed on stone.
Then a second, a third—soon the space around him was clear, while withered corpses piled beneath the wall.
With the giant breaching the defense, the warriors surged up the ladders like bees to a hive, leaping over the wall and throwing themselves into chaotic melee.
Creeeak!
The heavy iron gate groaned open. Drogo galloped in at the front, unleashing a new wave of carnage.
With Roman as the spearhead, they soon reached the highest wall. After storming through the final golden gate, and another brutal round of slaughter, something changed in Drogo's hand.
The cursed, rotting heart had shed its decay. It had become fresh—pulsing and red.
Now vibrant and alive, the heart seemed to reach saturation. And to Drogo's astonishment, the blood essence still pouring toward it… began flowing into his own body.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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