Drogon, as if sensing that it didn't take much fire to incinerate Young Aegon, ceased his torrent of flames after a few searing breaths. The
Drogon, as if sensing that it didn't take much fire to incinerate Young Aegon, ceased his torrent of flames after a few searing breaths. The monstrous shadow shifted, wings flapping, and returned to its perch atop the mast. Each beat of his wings stirred scorching gales that whipped the sails until they crackled with tension, faint wisps of smoke curling up from the heat.
Those who knew Khal Drogo to be fireproof remained perfectly calm, unmoved, their expressions full of scorn for the burning imposter. Some of the Dothraki were so composed they nearly broke into open laughter.
"Ah, poor judgment," Drogo muttered to himself, catching the acrid stench of burnt hair. "I didn't even need to hug the bastard to prove he's a fraud. And now I've roasted myself like one of those bald Red Priests who worship R'hllor."
His thick mane, once the pride of a warlord, was all but gone. Fireproof, yes—but not hairproof.
As Drogo stood laughing amid the inferno, Young Aegon was plunged into a living hell.
Under the dragonfire's assault, his skin blistered and split. With a grotesque pop, his face peeled back to reveal a soft, round babyish face hidden beneath.
"Aaah! Aaahhh!"
Daenerys, squinting through the flickering wall of flame, caught a glimpse of the transformation. His anguished howls struck her harder than any image could.
"The true-born dragon does not burn," she thought coldly. "He's a fraud. A liar. Let him burn."
The face-melting trick—a layer of false skin, like a Faceless Man's disguise—unnerved Drogo. "Could this pretender be tied to the Faceless Men?" he wondered grimly.
The ferocity of the ambush stunned the Golden Company. Most stood frozen, but Jon Connington's face twisted in agony as he screamed, "Your Grace!"
The exiled Hand of the King, mad with devotion to Rhaegar, could not watch what he believed to be his prince perish in fire. Drawing his sword, he plunged through the flames, heedless of the danger, and slashed toward the Khal.
"Drogo, look out!" Dany cried.
But the bloodriders and Unsullied were already in motion. A volley of arrows arced through the air. Connington, forced to block and retreat, stumbled back, narrowly avoiding being skewered by the deadly rain.
With the path now cleared, Grey Worm raised his armored arm and bellowed, "Unsullied, kill every mercenary on this ship!"
In a wave of disciplined fury, over a hundred Unsullied surged forward, spears in hand, eager not to let the Dothraki claim all the glory.
The Dracarys Unleashed erupted into chaos. Steel clashed against steel, screams tore through the air, and the stench of blood mixed with smoke to foul the sea breeze.
On the adjacent ships and dock, hundreds of mercenaries in gilded armor stood restlessly, plumes fluttering on their helms, hands twitching over weapons. Yet none moved to assist.
It wasn't reluctance—discipline bound them. Jon Connington had drilled the Golden Company to follow orders with Westerosi rigor. Without a command to attack, they dared not act.
In the midst of the blood and fire, Daenerys refused to retreat to safety. Surrounded by towering, battle-hardened Dothraki, she stood firm. They would die before letting harm come to her.
But even the tightest defense has its cracks.
Driven mad by the prince's dwindling screams, Connington fought like a man possessed. Under the cover of his dying men, he carved a path through the fray and charged at Drogo once more.
"Hmph."
Drogo, already weary of the man's madness, had been listening for his steps. At the perfect moment, he smirked, released the limp, charred body of the impostor, and sidestepped.
Connington's blade, intended for the Khal's back, plunged deep into the smoldering corpse of his supposed prince.
The false Aegon let out an inhuman shriek of pain, so piercing it seemed to shake the ship's timbers.
Even Snowball, the blood-marked white lion, responded with a savage roar of his own.
Connington's face twisted with rage. "Damn you, savage! I'll tear your cursed corpse to pieces!"
He barely finished the sentence when—
CRACK!
A massive hand slammed across his face.
"For that foul mouth of yours!" Drogo growled.
The blow ripped his lips, shattered teeth, and sent blood flying. Connington reeled, dazed, seeing two towering warlords where there should have been one.
Drogo's code was simple: anyone who dared to sow discord between him and his wife paid in blood.
Just as he prepared to crush Connington's skull, the knight lashed out. His blade pierced toward Drogo's gut, and the Khal barely caught it between his palms in time.
Connington could have pushed the strike further—but he didn't. With a grunt, he released the sword, scooped up the ruined prince, and fled toward the ship's rail.
"Golden Company—ATTACK!" he roared. "Kill every last savage!"
"Fool!" Drogo shouted.
But too late. The two toppled overboard—splash!—and the sea hissed as flame met brine, thick bubbles surfacing like the last gasps of the damned.
Furious, Drogo slammed the railing with his palm and flung his sword after them, watching as Connington, miraculously afloat, struggled toward the nearest enemy ship, dragging the charred corpse with him.
A blast of warhorns echoed over the waves—low, hoarse, and mournful. One by one, the enemy ships and docks lit black smoke signals, oily pitch igniting like a swarm of hungry black beasts ready to swallow the rising sun.
The enemy was on the move. War had begun.
Drogo no longer cared whether the knight and his "prince" lived. He roared to his men:
"Unsullied, drop the sails! Row forward! Ballista crews, prepare! Fire-arrow crews, ready! Catapults, ready! Archers—take aim!"
Worried the enemy's flame weapons would ignite his own sails, Drogo acted swiftly.
To protect Daenerys from burning pitch and stray fire, he ordered fifty Dothraki to escort her back to the small meeting boat from last night, far from the battlefield.
Knowing that the Unsullied were superior at sea, Drogo named Grey Worm commander of the fleet. Then he took up his Valyrian steel blade, mounted his crimson warhorse, donned mail and helm, and prepared for battle on land.
He ordered the giant Roman to lead the braid-wearing warriors toward the enemy's main dock.
Oars sliced into water. War drums boomed like a colossal heartbeat. With each beat, the rowers surged in unison—a single living machine of war.
Drogo split the fleet: one half toward the docks, the other to engage the enemy ships.
Pitch barrels and flaming arrows flew first from the Golden Company, but Drogo's ships retaliated with speed and ferocity.
Soon, fire engulfed the sea. Red and gold blazes leapt from vessel to vessel, rising and fading in waves of light and death.
Day turned swiftly to dusk. The very air smelled of scorched meat, like overcooked stew. Ashes floated like fireflies across the burning sky.
In this manmade hell, they were but ants beneath a storm of gods.
Life had become meaningless.
-
-
-
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Hear Me Roar, Lords and Ladies! 📢
Dragon King of Ice and Fire now has 30 chapters ahead available exclusively on Patreon! 🐉🔥❄️
Step into the realm of dragons, power, and destiny—early access awaits those brave enough to claim the throne. 👑⚔️
🔗 Join here: www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus
👤 Patreon name: SrMagnus🐦 Follow on Twitter: https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ Remember, I'll always post more chapters of the novel that gets the most Power Stones!