Daenerys was small and delicate, looking every bit like a helpless plaything in the claws of a beast—but appearances could be deceiving. That petite frame held within it an immense and explosive force, and once unleashed, it radiated the majesty of a true Dragon Queen.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Under her command, Drogon swept down and unleashed a merciless trail of flame atop the main tower, where the Ghiscari soldiers were thickest.
Armored soldiers screamed as the searing heat melted their flesh, praying for death to come swiftly. Those in flowing tokar robes—symbols of Ghiscari nobility—or the ill-equipped slave-soldiers weren't so lucky. They were incinerated in an instant, without even time to scream, vanishing into ash.
"Look! That fire-breathing monster must be a real dragon from legend!"
"The silver-haired girl riding it—she must be Daenerys Targaryen, last pure-blood heir of House Targaryen!"
"O Great Harpy, show us a miracle and smite these demons! Deliver your faithful from evil!"
"Run! Get to the pyramid!"
Panic swept through the Ghiscari ranks. Terrified, they saw the pyramid—the twisted symbol of their evil rule—as their only refuge.
Daenerys, growing more accustomed to viewing from the sky, gazed down coldly. But she did not command Drogon to burn the unarmed.
During the turmoil in Qarth, many had seen the silver-haired queen and her dragons. Through ravens and pigeons, news of these world-shaking events spread far and wide.
Both Daenerys and Drogo knew this, but made no effort to stop it. They wanted the world to know that they commanded dragons—so that the Westward march might go unchallenged.
The governor of New Ghis had intended to bribe his way out of trouble, but the sight of young dragons had tempted him too greatly. Learning that the dragons were not yet fully grown, and seeing Drogo's army weakened by illness and hunger, he rashly chose war.
Now, he deeply regretted that decision. Seated on a throne atop the nine-hundred-foot-high pyramid, he waited in dread for the outcome.
He wanted to flee, but all the allied slave cities of Slaver's Bay—now renamed the Bay of Freedom—had either fallen or turned neutral. There was no sanctuary left for a Ghiscari noble.
All he could do was wait, ready to pay the price for his folly. If by some miracle New Ghis held, he could continue his tyrannical rule. But if the city fell, he would drink the poisoned wine his trembling wife now prepared.
New Ghis was far larger than Meereen. After clearing the defenses atop the main gate, Daenerys flew Drogon toward the far walls.
Drogo had feared the black dragon might collapse under her weight and fall from the sky, but those worries were misplaced.
Drogon, comparable in size to the silver filly Drogo had gifted Daenerys at their wedding, bore her easily. If a horse could carry the Dragon Queen across the Dothraki Sea, then surely a predator at the top of the food chain could too.
He also feared that wild arrows might strike her, but that was no concern either.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Arrows rained like a storm, but Drogon's wings shielded Daenerys completely, deflecting them with scales as tough as steel.
Watching her singlehandedly burn through the city's defenses, Drogo's warriors roared with pride and joy.
The fierce authority of a dragonrider blazed forth. Her loyal followers shouted endlessly:
"All hail the Queen!"
Drogo's own battle with the sea monster Naga had been more perilous, threatening the lives of all. Yet even that had earned him fewer cheers than the spectacle Daenerys now delivered.
Why? Because warriors baptized in blood and fire preferred overwhelming, crushing victories.
This was the burden of a ruler. Drogo felt no jealousy—only pride. True rulers commanded loyalty through absolute dominance.
Daenerys had earned her people's hearts through talent and daring. The glory was hers, and rightly so.
For now, Drogo focused on what lay ahead. Daenerys could rain dragonfire from above, but she couldn't land. A phoenix grounded among vultures would be torn apart.
He could see that his wife held deep compassion. She had Drogon strike only where armed resistance gathered, sparing civilians. So breaching the city gates still fell to others.
Turning his head with effort, Drogo looked to the mighty warriors behind him. After a few seconds of thought, his gaze landed on the giant, Rommon.
The man ate like a beast and was the strongest in the army. If he didn't sweat for the cause, it would be an insult to those who had died from lack of food and water.
"Rommon," Drogo commanded, "take your warhammer and smash open New Ghis' gate!"
As a rare wonder of the world, Rommon was always overshadowed by the dragons. But he wasn't content to be in their shadow. He hefted his hammer and said simply, "Yes, Your Majesty."
Each of Rommon's steps made the deck creak ominously.
As the giant disembarked, Drogo instructed Missandei to issue the next order:
"Warriors of mine, disembark! Follow the giant's lead, and slay every last bloodstained Son of the Harpy!"
The defenders atop the wall were already ash. Rommon, impervious to falling stones and arrows, strolled leisurely toward the gate. With a few mighty blows, he shattered the hardwood doors.
What awaited behind them were soldiers too slow to flee dragonfire, now slain by Drogo's warriors.
With Rommon leading in his heavy armor, the fatigued but determined army pushed forward, cutting down the Harpies and their enslaved footsoldiers, sending survivors fleeing in chaos.
Behind them, warriors gave chase. From above, dragonfire rained down. With the city gates sealed tight and nowhere to run, their only options were surrender—or death.
But Drogo would accept no surrender.
Seated on a chariot drawn by horses, he ordered:
"Execute them all. Leave no threat behind."
Once the army held all four gates, Drogo gave Daenerys a new command: lead the dragons and burn down every pyramid in the city.
Daenerys was torn. She hated unnecessary death. But if she didn't do it, Drogo would send someone else—and dragonfire was cleaner and swifter than any blade. A quick death was kinder than a drawn-out one.
So she obeyed.
With the battle decided, Drogo and the now-radiant Daenerys sat embraced atop the harpy statue, watching flames rise across the city.
Since the day he'd left the Dothraki Sea, the Ghiscari had been a thorn in his side. Now, the last stronghold of the Sons of the Harpy had become a sea of fire.
And the dragons had written the final, fiery punctuation mark in the long war between Drogo and the Ghiscari slavers.
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