"Give him a big one!"
A player ignored the incoming arrows and chucked a Thunder Bomb straight into the middle of a Dothraki knot. The blast killed a dozen men and horses in a spray of blood and bone. The next second the same player got turned into a human sieve by a concentrated volley of Dothraki arrows.
In the growing chaos, terrified livestock started stampeding through the camp like mad.
Bono, one of Drogo's captains, was the first to pull together a few hundred warriors to hunt the raiders. Before they even laid eyes on the enemy, herds of cattle, sheep, and warhorses exploded out of the side tents and trampled Bono and his men into bloody mush.
Another captain, Jaco, led a hundred warriors straight at seven players. He should have won easily, but he had to show off and try to duel them all by himself.
A fire lance blast dropped him dead on the spot. His hundred followers ate a follow-up wave of Thunder Bombs—men and horses flipped like toys, heavy casualties everywhere.
Everything was going the players' way. Panicked livestock, screaming slaves, Dothraki warriors running around like headless chickens.
A camp of tens of thousands had turned into total self-inflicted bedlam. This wasn't an enemy raid anymore. The Dothraki were blowing up their own camp.
At the critical moment Khal Drogo led his bloodriders and inner circle in a roaring charge, cutting down anyone who got in the way.
"Everyone back to your tents!"
"Khal Drogo is here!"
The warriors who still had their heads gathered around him. Those still panicking got whipped back into line with arakhs and arrows.
Drogo's presence and authority pulled thousands to his side in minutes. Wherever fresh chaos flared, he charged in and crushed it.
When the livestock went berserk he ordered them driven out of camp the same way they did on a normal grassland hunt.
Just when it looked like the uproar was dying down, the players refused to quit. Wherever Drogo's riders stamped out fires, the players followed right behind and lit new ones with Wildfire.
Green flames started jumping from tent to tent.
Drogo split his forces to hunt the raiders, but his cavalry flinched every time a Thunder Bomb went off. Chaos erupted again.
The nightmare lasted until dawn. Black smoke over the Dothraki camp nearly blotted out the sky.
The hundred players finally ran out of bombs and bolts. Drogo's men wiped them out and sent them straight back to the respawn spring.
Drogo sat on a folding stool, face unreadable, bloodstained arakh resting across his knees.
Enemy blood. His own men's blood.
One night and the damage was catastrophic. Livestock scattered—only a few rounded up so far. Slaves had rebelled in the chaos and fled—only a few thousand recaptured. Women and children dead or wounded by the hundreds.
His once forty-thousand-strong khalasar now numbered under thirty thousand.
A savage rage burned in every Dothraki chest.
"Khal, give me five thousand warriors. Let me hit them again. I swear I'll break Pentos and slaughter every man, woman, and child inside!"
Cohollo, the oldest bloodrider—short, fat, bald, missing teeth—growled with pure hatred. He'd once saved young Drogo from mercenaries, so he alone could speak freely in front of the Khal.
"No. Everyone attacks together. Use the slaves we captured to pile the earthworks. Today we break Pentos!"
Drogo stood up, bloodied arakh in hand, eyes sweeping the circle.
"Break Pentos. Burn every stone house. Kill every iron man. The rest become our slaves!"
"Kill!"
"Kill!"
Bloodriders and captains raised their blades high, eyes blood-red, roaring.
The horn sounded.
Drogo had no retreat left. His pride wouldn't allow failure, and last night's disaster had already shredded his authority.
Warriors didn't care about excuses. They only saw crushing losses under his command.
The camp was also running low on food. If they didn't take Pentos fast he'd have to retreat—and that would finish what was left of his reputation.
So he couldn't back down. Either he took the city… or he and his khalasar died outside its walls.
The horn sounded again.
Over thirty thousand Dothraki pressed against the walls. In front, thousands of slaves trudged forward carrying bags of dirt, faces blank with exhaustion.
"Attack!"
Cohollo's whip cracked across a slave's back. At his command the Dothraki drove the slaves toward the walls to start building ramparts.
Thousands of slaves shuffled out with dirt bags. A thousand skilled Dothraki archers on each flank tried to suppress the defenders on the battlements.
"Loose arrows!"
Bevos saw the slaves enter range and immediately ordered a full volley. Defending the city meant no mercy.
Bows, crossbows, scorpions, and catapults all fired at once. The slaves took horrific losses.
"Die at the walls!"
Under Cohollo's orders any slave who tried to run back got shot dead on the spot. The rest had no choice but to keep moving forward to die.
"Use Wildfire!"
Bevos shouted.
Wildfire had become his ultimate siege weapon—he couldn't imagine holding the walls without it.
"My lord, the Wildfire we stored in Pentos was all taken by the Grenadiers to Braavos. Last night's raid and the defense used up every last jar!"
The brown-skinned deputy didn't move. He just delivered the bad news.
"Gods damn it!"
Bevos had no choice but to order a tight defense. Infantry waited behind the gates just in case.
By midday the slaves forced to build the ramp were almost all dead. They'd burned through a ton of arrows, but the earthworks were only half done. Drogo's thirty thousand riders still couldn't reach the walls.
Cohollo led two thousand archers in hit-and-run skirmishes along the walls. He killed plenty but left behind a hundred and fifty corpses before retreating in a hurry.
Drogo saw they wouldn't take the city today. He ordered his men to round up more civilians from the surrounding lands—tomorrow they'd use them to finish the ramp.
Cohollo, still furious, volunteered to stay outside the walls with two thousand men and camp there, guarding the half-built earthworks so the city couldn't destroy it overnight.
"As High Admiral he was supposed to lead sailors to chase down cavalry—not play gladiator in the arena. Worst of all, he got himself killed by horse-lords! He's a disgrace to all of Pentos!"
Inside Viserys's tent the king hurled the letter away in disgust.
Groleo, standing nearby, fought with everything he had to keep a straight face and not burst out laughing.
Stupid bastard.