Clang! Thud!
The clashing of spear and steel echoed repeatedly, sometimes met with the dull thump of blade striking Unsullied shields.
After a brief moment of introspection, Carey ultimately chose to cling to life. Nearing fifty, well past the golden age of three wives and four concubines, he had come to terms with it.
As a commander, he still had formidable skills in combat. Channeling grief and rage into strength, Carey's blade moved with fierce precision, forcing Grey Worm, known for his agility, to focus entirely on blocking and parrying, unable to find an opening to defeat him for the time being.
The duel was intense. Though his eyes were watching, Drogon's heart was filled with dread. He hoped Daenerys remained pure, that she hadn't betrayed him and subjected him to eternal shame.
Steel sword and iron spear clashed again, sparks flying. Physically weaker than Grey Worm, Carey used his body weight to pin the spear to the ground and swept his blade along the shaft toward the eunuch's hand.
Schlinnk!
The sword was sharp, and Carey's explosive power was tremendous. Had it struck, it would've taken Grey Worm's thumb clean off.
He didn't fear pain—but without his thumb, he could never wield a spear properly again. Worse, such an injury could mean his career was over.
Grey Worm's eyes widened in alarm. He released his spear and dodged to the side. The sword sliced away from the shaft, barely missing him, but still cut a deep gash in his armguard.
Had it not been for that armor, his chest would have been slashed wide open.
Carey, who rarely fought in person, displayed a level of prowess that earned grudging admiration from the Dothraki, who roared with beastlike cheers.
Among them, several Dothraki women—who cared little for looks and worshipped strength—began to eye Carey, the rampaging beast of a man, whispering wistfully, "We should braid the Golden Company commander's hair and tie bells to it. Shame he's about to be gelded."
Their love was wild and primal—words weren't minced.
Though their commander was battling fiercely, the Golden Company refused to be outdone. Their members bellowed loud enough to drown out the Unsullied's rhythmic shield-banging.
Still, Grey Worm wasn't the type to lose heart. He raised his shield to block another slash, then swiftly drew a dagger from his waist.
Among the Unsullied, daggers were typically used for ambush, not defense. Now, shield and sword clashed in a storm of strikes that drew cries of exhilaration from the crowd.
Ultimately, Grey Worm was the champion of all Unsullied in hand-to-hand combat. Before long, he managed to slice open Carey's exposed underarm. Blood drenched the hem of the commander's tunic.
Howling in pain, Carey switched his sword to his left hand—but he wasn't left-handed. His blows weakened, and the tide turned. Grey Worm began to win over the dark-skinned girls watching, their Dothraki sense of beauty always favoring the stronger, even if he were just a stallion.
Thump!
Emboldened by momentum, Grey Worm smashed his shield into Carey's face, knocking out a row of teeth.
Dazed, Carey slipped and collapsed hard onto the deck. Grey Worm seized the moment and thrust his dagger toward the man's heart.
Golden Company soldiers shouted in panic: "Commander!"
Drogon bellowed: "Halt!"
Grey Worm flinched, freezing in place, dagger mid-strike. He looked to his king, confused.
He couldn't let that bastard, who might've tainted his wife, die so easily.
"Stand down, Grey Worm," Drogon ordered. "Men! Castrate that lawless wretch!"
Rommo, the Jaqarran—the Dothraki executioner—led his men to drag away the broken Carey.
The Jaqarran was a role in Dothraki Khalasars, often filled by old or maimed warriors who once achieved great deeds. They delivered mercy to the wounded and harvested heads from the dead.
Rommo's duties, however, extended beyond that. He personally carried out punishments for noble offenders.
"Your Grace, to execute a commander for the sake of a mere handmaid—I refuse to accept this!"
"The Golden Company can't lose Commander Carey!"
His loyalists stirred the troops into a thunderous uproar.
ROAR!
Snowball, now the size of a grown lion, growled menacingly.
He would grow even larger—perhaps surpass even the old lion king from the Rainbow Lands.
Drogon's cold gaze turned glacial. This was a direct challenge to his authority.
He pointed to the Golden Company fleet and shouted, "Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion—fly in that direction and await my command!"
The three dragons soared over the designated waters, circling above, exchanging roars with the mercenaries below.
Then Drogon turned to Roman, the giant gnawing under the mast. "Roman! Take a boat to the Golden Company fleet. If anyone speaks out of turn, tear off their heads!"
That message was for those disloyal mercenaries. Drogon knew they would hear it loud and clear.
Roman grumbled and reluctantly rose, lumbering toward the boarding plank. Snowball bared his teeth and followed close behind.
As the dragon shadows loomed above and the giant began to move, the protests among the Golden Company quickly quieted.
From Viserion's position, Drogon heard the harshest cries from one particular ship.
"Viserion! Dracarys!"
BOOM!
Flames poured down from above, turning the ship into a blazing inferno.
That did it. The mercenaries were cowed into silence.
Drogon didn't need them to speak. He had something to say.
"Carey Enyr was elevated by me. I can just as easily strip him of rank. He will remain your commander—for now. But how long he holds that title depends entirely on whether he can correct his attitude."
He raised his voice further:
"I, Drogon, loathe traitors above all. If I sense even a hint of disloyalty—Dracarys will be your fate!"
Then he stood, sweeping his gaze across the decks. "Now—kneel. Swear your undying loyalty, or die!"
He knew oaths meant little—but at this moment, they were necessary.
The Dothraki and Unsullied knelt at once, shouting:
"We pledge eternal loyalty to the Breaker of Chains! We hold no other hearts! Should we break our vows, may the wrath of the gods fall upon us!"
"We are loyal to the mightiest Khal! If we betray him, may the hooves of the Horse God trample us into the Red Grass!"
Expected loyalty—but Drogon accepted it, nodding in satisfaction.
He turned to the ragged formation of the Golden Company.
Those who swore their loyalty, he accepted, even if they were two-faced. He couldn't read minds, after all.
But those who refused—those stirred by Carey's screams into rebellion—were burned by dragonfire, crushed by Roman's hammer, or had their throats torn out by Snowball.
Thankfully, they were few.
This terrifying display didn't frighten the truly loyal. If anything, it deepened their reverence for Drogon.
The so-called "own men" had shown their true colors. Burned, drowned, smashed, or torn apart—Drogon remained unmoved. All that mattered was Lorean's report.
What she whispered to him in private made him exhale in relief. If his household had truly fallen to chaos, his reputation would've been ruined.
After all, any woman he claimed belonged to him alone.
Lorean warned him: "Your Grace, the queen is weeping. She's heartbroken by your mistrust."
Drogon scoffed. "A woman with a heart as fickle as water and flowers is a nightmare to any man. Her punishment has only just begun. Do you know what 'water-flower heart' means?"
Lorean trembled. "Y-Your Grace… I-I do not."
Drogon sneered. "It means she's worse than a whore marked with teardrop tattoos at the corner of her eye."
Daenerys hadn't crossed the final line—but Drogon still intended to punish her. She was growing wilder by the day—her clothes, her attitude—everything was becoming more seductive, enough to unsettle even real men.
"My blood of my blood—bring the chains. Shackle the Khaleesi and confine her to the Unsullied fleet's brig. She knows why she's being punished. When she abandons the behavior I hate, then she can face me again."
The bloodrider hesitated. "Khal… she's the Khaleesi…"
Drogon roared, "Precisely because she's the Khaleesi, she must be more dignified than the rest. Since she's captured your hearts—then I shall shackle hers!"
Understanding dawned, and the bloodriders murmured to themselves in awe.
This man before them—this towering force—was still the same cold, ruthless Khal they once followed.