On the chaotic red soil, only the embers of old campfires and abandoned supplies remained, with sparse patches of demon grass growing between cracked rocks, left to wither under the relentless sand and wind.
This desolate scene was all that Jorah and the bloodriders could see as they hid atop the hills flanking the pass, vigilantly keeping watch as Drogo had commanded.
Daenerys had led the old and weak deeper into the Red Wastes, returning this place to its lifeless silence, stirring a deep sorrow in their hearts.
"Hiss..."
Jorah let out a sharp intake of breath. His duel injury, suffered for Daenerys against Drogo's bloodriders, had not yet healed. Every movement, even lying still, brought waves of pain.
The others weren't much better. Though uninjured, endless travel had exhausted them to the bone. Without Drogo insisting they retreat earlier, they would have lacked even the strength to survive the coming beast tide.
Jogo, the sharpest among them, couldn't help but think:
"Perhaps our Khal, more worn than we, has already fallen to the lions."
Facing the entire white lion pride alone, survival seemed impossible.
Though not much time had passed, waiting any longer seemed pointless. Without Drogo, Daenerys would be their only hope.
Nervous, Jogo whispered to Rakharo:
"We've waited over two hours without a sign. Maybe we should join Jorah and Argo, and catch up to the Khaleesi?"
Rakharo had similar thoughts, but loyalty and oaths held him back.
"Let's wait a bit longer. Though Drogo and Daenerys look like ordinary mortals, the miracles surrounding them suggest otherwise."
Just as he spoke, dust clouds rose in the north—and with them, chilling roars.
All four men tensed, gripping their bows tightly, eyes locked on the approaching sound.
Moments later, they spotted a towering figure galloping toward them, pursued by a sea of roaring white.
That physique—those strides—it could only be their Khal.
Remembering Drogo's instructions, they braced themselves, ready to ignite their arrows at his signal.
But Drogo, galloping at breakneck speed, gave no order. He rode straight toward the fenced hilltop encampment.
Barely ahead of the pride thanks to his intimate knowledge of the terrain, he shot through the open gate and slammed it shut just as the white lions surged forward.
Safe.
Drogo collapsed backward, sprawling like a sunbathing turtle, gasping heavily.
"Roar! Awooo!"
The white lions clawed and gnawed at the fence, but Drogo remained indifferent.
His real concern was Mago and his approaching men.
He had prepared for this—coating every fence post with slippery horse grease, making them impossible to climb.
From their hilltop vantage, the bloodriders watched in awe.
After a while, Drogo stretched lazily, cradled the burping lion cub, and casually strolled up to the catapult perched atop the hill.
After some warm-up stretches, he plopped down on the beam, petting the cub's white fur, humming an old tune from another life.
The sun blazed hotter.
Drogo, parched, endured. But the cub grew hungry, whimpering and baring tiny teeth.
Hearing the cub's cries, the Lion King outside nearly exploded with anxiety.
Still no sign of Mago, so Drogo entertained himself—mocking the Lion King, making faces.
The Lion King, almost human in its understanding, realized its efforts were useless and settled down, setting an example for the pride.
Drogo, admiring the Lion King's command over its followers, felt a rare sense of kinship. True rulers understood one another.
Suddenly, the Lion King's ears twitched.
It stood, baring its teeth northward.
Drogo followed its gaze, spotting dust rising on the horizon.
"Finally here. Time to taste some roasted meat."
He cranked the catapult, loaded a jug of scented oil, and awaited the perfect moment.
Mago's forces entered the pass, confident and unaware.
Seeing no defenders, only a restless sea of white fur, Mago hesitated.
Before he could react, a booming voice rang out:
"Hey, Mago! Had lunch yet?"
That voice—that figure—everyone recognized him.
Drogo.
Mago paled.
"You broke the blood magic!"
Their loud exchange angered the lions.
The Lion King growled twice, restraining the pride.
Drogo shouted again:
"That's right! Your King is reborn! Shouldn't you kneel?"
His coughing betrayed his exhaustion.
Seeing this, Mago sneered:
"Ha! I kneel only to Khal Jhaqo now! You—a weakling—are no longer worthy!"
Drogo's face froze over.
"So be it."
Turning to the Lion King, Drogo bowed theatrically:
"Dear King, enjoy your roasted meat soon."
Then he released the catapult.
A jug of oil flew through the air, smashing into a mounted warrior.
Oil splattered everywhere.
At first, Mago's men relaxed—only oil, no fire.
They were wrong.
At Drogo's roar of "Fire!", the bloodriders loosed fire arrows, igniting the oil-soaked ground.
Chaos.
Flames engulfed the pass.
Men burned alive, screaming.
Within minutes, nearly a third of Mago's forces were dead or crippled.
The bloodriders, overjoyed, emerged atop the hills, shouting:
"Khal Drogo is invincible!"
Drogo smiled grimly.
Victory was close, but not yet won.
Mago, untouched so far, seethed with rage.
Hearing Mago threaten Daenerys, Drogo's fury exploded.
Dousing himself and his horse in oil, he set himself ablaze once more, becoming a burning god of war.
Even the Lion King tilted its head, stunned.
Mago, frozen by the sight, was struck by a fire arrow in the leg.
He howled in agony.
Just then, sharp cries pierced the sky.
The white lions froze.
On the distant horizon, Daenerys appeared, riding her silver mare—
three baby dragons perched on her shoulders.
Drogo laughed bitterly:
"Foolish girl... you came to die with me."
There was no turning back.
Grabbing the cub, he mounted his burning horse, smashed open the gate, and charged.
The lions, terrified of fire, parted before him.
The Lion King lunged again—only to be knocked aside.
Drogo roared:
"Submit or die!"
He carved a bloody path through Mago's men.
Facing the inevitable, the survivors dropped their weapons and begged for mercy.
Drogo accepted.
Mago, defeated and humiliated, tried to surrender.
Drogo sneered:
"Your life does not belong to me."
He ordered Mago bound and left to Daenerys' judgment.
Still burning, Drogo rode toward Daenerys, gently touched her face, then turned to the crowd.
Lifting the lion cub high, he roared:
"The dead return to the grave! The living submit!"
Men and beasts alike knelt before him.
Even the white lions bowed.
Their new king had come.
.
.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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