Led by Drogo and the armored giant Roman, the Dothraki focused on killing and scattering the enemy soldiers launching arrows and catapults f
Led by Drogo and the armored giant Roman, the Dothraki focused on killing and scattering the enemy soldiers launching arrows and catapults from the sea, easing the pressure on Grey Worm's fleet and reducing their casualties.
The air over the sea was a cacophony of sound—shrieks, cries, horns, the trembling of war drums, the rise and fall of thousands of oars slapping the water, and the terrifying whistle of burning pitch and fire arrows cutting through the air.
Flaming projectiles soared like orange-red birds, tracing elegant parabolas as they dove toward their targets. These were burning tar pots, dragging long tails of fire as they fell upon both fleets.
Seawater doused many, but some landed on decks and exploded, spewing death in fiery tongues.
Above Daenerys, the dragons—provoked by the flying fire—joined the battle, spewing hellfire that scorched the ships of the Golden Company, turning the tide of battle. The mercenaries suffered terribly.
As ships closed in, both sides changed weapons. Arrows whistled across the gap like venomous serpents—one strike meant blood.
Sharp-eyed mercenaries spotted Jon Connington fleeing in despair, dragging Young Aegon, who clung to his arm like a leech. They boarded a small boat and vanished over the horizon.
Whispers spread across the Golden Company. Morale began to crack. Only the highly respected "Glorious Right Hand," second only to the commander, kept order—but even he could not hold the line for long.
Once their ships were seriously damaged and the leadership lost, the Golden Company fell into disarray. In contrast, the Unsullied remained calm, disciplined to the core. Even as comrades burned or died beside them, they continued their duties without flinching, executing their roles with grim precision.
Shattered wood, torn flesh, flaming decks—all bore testament to war's brutality. Rowers deep below remained safe unless the ships were utterly destroyed.
Despite the intensity of the enemy bombardment, Unsullied casualties were light. Their shields blocked most attacks and formed protective walls for ballista and catapult operators. Only a direct hit from a firepot or pitch barrel could bring them down.
The Unsullied knew no fear, felt no pain, and obeyed without question. As long as breath remained, they fought for their king.
Grey Worm led by example, shouting, "Maintain course! Don't drift!"
After long exposure to Dothraki ways, even the Unsullied showed a beastlike rage. Facing larger and more heavily armored enemy ships, they rammed straight into them with a death-or-glory attitude.
Drogo had told Grey Worm not to worry about losing ships—so long as they kept fighting, more could be taken in conquest. That was the Dothraki way. Take what you need through war. That was a true Khal's creed.
The Unsullied wore no armor—only light leather vests. On the advice of a seasoned pirate, they avoided heavy gear that would only drag them to the depths. They trusted their round shields, valuing mobility and protection over steel plating.
Thick smoke blinded many, but the sounds of battle told all.
Ships crashed together with bone-rattling force—again and again.
Once ships were locked together, the Golden Company's high-mounted crossbowmen gained the advantage. Bolts flew constantly, trying to drown the Unsullied in steel.
Drogo was prepared. If the grappling hooks failed, the Unsullied would smash through hulls with small battering rams and attack from inside.
Hooks flew. Rams struck. Both sides poured onto ships through the smoke, eyes red with bloodlust.
With ships entangled, ranged combat lost all meaning. Swords clashed. Spears thrust. Shields slammed. It was brutal melee warfare.
Here, the Unsullied excelled. Left hand on shield, alternating between spear and shortsword, they carved through even armored foes. Mercenaries leapt into the sea to escape.
Naval artillery gave way to hand-to-hand slaughter, no different from the chaos ashore.
Neither side held a clear numerical advantage. Infantry shattered under Dothraki charges. Riders balanced on galloping horses, firing arrows even while bouncing across stormy decks.
Giant Roman, clad in layered plate only he could wear, crushed enemies with wild hammer swings, targeting dense formations or smashing smaller foes. He fought alongside Drogo, breaking enemy lines for the horsemen to charge through.
Drogo's Valyrian arakh, powered by raw strength, tore through gilded armor like paper. He was a force of nature.
Mounted riders protected his flanks, letting him focus solely ahead—his sweeping strikes clearing swaths of enemies.
He and Roman led the charge, their fearsome presence devastating the enemy. Hardened Dothraki found the battle easy, picking off stragglers or flanking opportunists.
Drogo scoffed at clever tricks. Against overwhelming power, all schemes turned to ash.
When the slaughter reached a crescendo, Drogo reined in his horse and let the Bloodriders push forward. He drew out a Myrish wineskin, raised it high, and poured it over his mouth and face.
"Ha ha ha! Now that's what I call a fight! Roman—catch!"
He laughed and tossed another wineskin toward the battle's MVP.
The giant missed, but no matter—terrified enemies scattered rather than intercept. Roman stomped over, picked it up, tore it open, and poured the drink through his helmet's slits.
After a few gulps, he chuckled and muttered, "Thank you, Your Grace."
Exhaustion crept in. But instead of resting, Roman walked toward a cornered group of mercenaries and flopped down on top of them like a living boulder, crushing them as he dozed.
Swords and arrows couldn't pierce his armor. The remaining Golden Company soldiers lay silently, accepting their fate beneath him.
By the time Drogo and Roman caught their breath, the Unsullied—with dragonfire support—had annihilated most of the enemy fleet. Limping ships now headed for shore to reinforce their allies.
The Golden Company had fielded thirty thousand men. Fewer than ten thousand remained.
With victory assured, Drogo gave the command: "Spare those who surrender!"
Many Golden Company soldiers had long wanted to yield, but Drogo's fearsome reputation had stopped them. Now, seeing others throw down their weapons and kneel, they followed suit.
The battle was over. The path to conquest lay open. Drogo looked toward the distant silhouette of Qarth's mighty walls, then at his blood-soaked warriors, and smiled with dark satisfaction.
Since his rebirth, he had restrained his men from committing atrocities. But the people of Qarth were different.
For them, evil would be met with greater evil.
Let those pale, arrogant "milk-men" of Qarth bathe and serve his exhausted warriors.
That, he thought, would win their loyalty forever.
-
-
-
-
🐉 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!