"Damn Milk Men, you cowards." Khal Drogo, mounted on his red steed, glared at Gendry before him. His opponent was truly formidable, the strongest Drogo had ever faced. Yet at the Battle of Myr, he had no choice but to give everything, in the Dothraki Sea, a defeated Khal had only death to look forward to.
"Truly a Khal of Khaos. He may not match The Mountain in height, but his combination of strength and speed makes him a top-tier fighter, though he lacks caution, going into battle without armor." Gendry studied his opponent closely. Drogo was tall, with a commanding physique, the tallest and fiercest among the Dothraki Screamers. Gendry could feel the raw power, the natural strength and agility that made Drogo terrifying.
Before their direct clash, Drogo had led the Screamers in about twelve charges, yet his stamina seemed endless, as though he had only just entered battle, still at his peak.
"Only cowards hide behind armor," Drogo roared, swinging his Arakh. His black braids, glossy as the midnight sky, oiled and adorned with small jingling bells, flowed past his waist and hips, a mark of the mightiest warrior.
The blade spun in a whirl of cold white light, its sharp curve making one instinctively close their eyes. Drogo moved as though he had many arms, the scimitar dancing wildly. Gendry raised his warhammer high. This was a storm against a storm, a bloody clash between warriors.
"Today I will slaughter you, Drogo." Gendry mirrored Drogo's movements, swinging his spiked warhammer. One side was a sledgehammer, the other like a bird's beak. The courage of the Horselord earned Drogo his respect, a powerful but foolish opponent.
The Dothraki fought without armor, leaving only blood, death, shattered limbs, and agonized screams. Death came swiftly and brutally across the vast grasslands. Drogo was unaccustomed to facing heavily armored warriors. The Dothraki traditionally relied on mobility, flanking, and archery, but now Drogo was trapped into a head-on confrontation, falling perfectly into Gendry's strategy. This was the essence of warfare, to seize the initiative.
"Die!" Drogo roared, blood flowing from a wound on his shoulder, yet he did not retreat. His eyes held doubt, confusion, and fear, but mostly resilience and fire. His Arakh whirled in the air, striking for Gendry.
Gendry gripped his warhammer, letting Drogo unleash wild attacks, then countered. Their blows were fierce and unrelenting. Each clash of scimitar and warhammer roared like thunder, a whirlwind of death as Gendry parried every strike.
"Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo." As Gendry and Drogo battled, a mournful bugle rose from Gendry's cavalry. For the Dothraki caught in the melee, the sound instilled deep fear. First Gendry's main cavalry sounded their horns, then those atop Myr's walls answered in echo.
"The time has come," Gendry thought, still locked with Drogo. The Dothraki had no chance of escape, this time they were doomed.
"Long live the Warhammer!" "Long live the Warhammer!" "Long live the Lord Commander!" "Long live the Breaker!" The black-armored cavalry bearing black quarter-flags shouted in unison, wave after wave.
This was the signal for a full-scale assault. The gates of Myr slowly opened, and Gylo Rhegan, former captain of the Long Lances, led the reserve knights out, light cavalry, heavy cavalry, and the Dothraki Screamers aimed at Gendry.
"Thud! Thud!" The shield walls led by Greywolf and Steel Fist regained vigor. The Unsullied cavalry and heavy infantry advanced in great strides, like a moving jungle. Soldiers in black armor, brandishing longspears or swords, surged forth, charging the stunned Dothraki.
At that moment, it was Khal Drogo's Dothraki Roaring Knights who were surrounded and cut off. Drogo's men, camped beneath Myr's walls, weary and fatigued, faced their fate. Gendry's main knights struck like a heavy fist into Drogo's Screamers, followed by the charge of the infantry shield wall and reserve cavalry. Drogo's warriors seemed swallowed by the crescent-shaped formation.
"Damn Milk Men." Drogo's gaze swept the battlefield as the black-armored soldiers mowed down exhausted Dothraki knights like farmers harvesting wheat. Drogo knew the tide of war was shifting toward the defenders. A flicker of anxiety passed through his dark eyes. He understood what that river of black armor meant.
Drogo had not anticipated such cunning. The Unsullied shield wall was merely bait. The deadliest blow came from the coordinated cutting assaults of multiple troop columns.
Drogo's heart sank. "The rear… and my khalasar behind me." The enemy had first worn him down with the shield wall, then encircled him with three prongs of their army—how could they not raid his camp? But Drogo's fears were now meaningless; time had already run out.
"Charge!" "Charge!" The elite force led by Red Viper disembarked from swift longboats along the Myr River, hurtling toward the rear camp of the Dothraki khalasar. Inside were the elderly and weak of the Dothraki, along with plundered goods and stored grain.
The cries of battle rose and fell in waves. Khal Drogo felt a profound dread. The enemy's tactics and ambushes kept coming. He had relied too heavily on his experience, thinking the Unsullied shield wall was the main threat, never expecting the ferocious charge of heavily armored knights.
"A chance—the only chance." Khal Drogo heard the chaos, but there was no way to avoid it. His only hope was to defeat the enemy before him—the commander of the Twin Cities—and break out himself.
"Now." Gendry read Drogo's attack patterns, dodging only strikes aimed at vital areas while letting the Arakh scrape his armor. At the same moment, Gendry's warhammer dealt even greater damage.
The spiked side of the warhammer cut across Drogo's face, the sharp spike slicing from ear to lip. Blood gushed from the wound, driving him into a frenzy. Yet Khal Drogo, as agile as a cheetah, avoided breaking any bones.
"Damn you, you Milk Men, you coward, hiding behind stone houses and armor," Drogo cursed. Yet he felt a twinge of unease—the armored warrior before him met every attack with force and precision, handling them with apparent ease. With such courage and strength, Drogo had no choice but to respect his opponent.
"Khal." "Khal." Drogo's Bloodriders saw the battlefield shift. The Dothraki were under assault from both front and rear. The once-invincible Khal Drogo was now bleeding and wounded. If he fell, his Bloodriders would not survive.
Three of Drogo's Bloodriders tried to push through the chaotic melee to protect him.
"Whoosh." Anguy's arrow flew first. One of Drogo's Bloodriders fell, slumping from his horse. Anguy had targeted Drogo's oldest Bloodrider, Cohollo. His age had diminished his stamina. He was a short, stocky, bald man with a hooked nose and broken teeth.
The other two Bloodriders tried to advance but were blocked by Longspears and other knights across the battlefield, engaging in fierce combat.
Though elite warriors within Drogo's khalasar, the Bloodriders lacked armor and had already expended much strength in the dozen charges they led with Drogo. Their terrifying roars carried over the clash of battle, but their speed could not overcome the enemy's defenses. The knights, equipped with plate armor, iron gauntlets, lobster-claw greaves, and heavy throat guards, quickly exploited openings. Drogo's remaining two Bloodriders were soon dead.
The Longspear's tip slashed through a painted vest, piercing a Dothraki straight through the heart.
"Boom." Drogo's eyes were blood-red. All his Bloodriders were dead. Cohollo's death beside him and the raging fire in his khalasar only deepened his anguish. Years ago, Cohollo had saved young Drogo from mercenaries—his savior and loyal Bloodrider.
Though like a frenzied leopard, Drogo forced himself to calm down, realizing the method to counter plate armor. Large metal discs protected the junctions between the armor plates covering arms and chest. The weakest points were the seams at armpits, elbows, knees, and underarm joints.
Drogo swung his Arakh, aiming at Gendry's armpit to reach the vulnerable areas of heart and lungs.
This was one way to breach armor. Even many noble-crafted plate armors left the back of the lower legs and groin unprotected. Sir Duncan "the Tall" had once pierced a heavily armored knight's heart through the armpit with a dagger.
"Khal Drogo, as always," Gendry praised. Drogo's eye for weak spots was sharp, but that was all. Gendry's black-scaled plate armor was top-tier, and his reflexes and strength were unmatched.
Drogo's scimitar struck at the armor gap but had yet to land, while Gendry's spiked warhammer swept across Drogo's upper body, leaving a crimson gash on his chest. Though the wound was long, Drogo barely avoided it; a bloody strip of flesh hung from his chest. Blood from his left chest seeped slowly through his painted vest.
"Is this the path of fate?" Gendry thought. After all, Khal Drogo was bound to die this year, from the infection of wounds sustained in battle against Ogo and his men. The deadliest of those wounds was to his chest, even the crown of his chest had been slashed open.
The injury only drove Drogo further into madness. He raised his scimitar, but it struck only the hard outer surface of the armor. Gendry heard the clang as the blade met metal, saw sparks fly as it scraped across the armor, and knew the battle had decisively tipped in his favor.
"If this were the Dothraki Sea, you'd already be dead, you coward."
"This is not the Dothraki Sea."
"Take off your armor."
"It's not too late to lay down your weapon. You've lost. Surrender," Gendry said to Khal Drogo, though he knew it was a needless question.
The battles for the position of Khal among the Dothraki were brutally bloody, Drogo could not be unaware of that. And a man as proud as him would never accept defeat. Years ago, Khal Temmo had clashed with Dhako, known as the "Dragon of the North," though Dhako was already old. Temmo's khalasar shattered Dhako's forces, captured him, cut off his limbs and genitals, and roasted him alive before his eyes. After burning Dhako's wife and children alive, they burned him as well.
Of course, Temmo himself met no better fate. At the Battle of Qohor, Temmo, his sons, all the Ko, three Bloodriders, and over ten thousand Dothraki warriors fell on the battlefield, serving only to cement the Unsullied's fearsome reputation.
"Die." Khal Drogo raised his scimitar, but pain and exhaustion slowed him just enough, for Gendry, that was all the opening he needed.
The spiked mace first blocked Drogo's attack, then Gendry swung with all his strength, smashing the weapon into Drogo's skull. He poured every ounce of himself into the strike, feeling the Blood of the Storm burn through him, the power of the Storm. The heavy, crushing blow struck Drogo's temple. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, followed by stark white bone and soft gray matter.
Drogo stared at his opponent in disbelief. A flicker of anguish passed over his face, as if the sun had been swallowed by clouds. He instinctively reached for the back of his head, and then, with a thud, the Khal among Khals collapsed.
"Drogo is dead!" Gendry roared, crimson blood splattering across his armor. This was the merciless nature of war, the Dothraki were a brutal people. Such an end was not disgraceful for Drogo, better this than a slow, miserable death from infection.
"Drogo is dead."
"Drogo is dead!" The black-armored soldiers erupted into a wave of cheers. Khal Drogo's death left little doubt about the outcome of the war, it was an overwhelming victory.
Longspear leapt from his horse, severed Drogo's head with his sword, and impaled it atop his spear. The ghastly hole in Drogo's skull remained visible. Yet his long braids, the gold and bronze bells tied into his thick beard, and his iconic golden belt bore witness to his tragic fate, death.
Once handsome and fierce, the mightiest warrior of the Dothraki Sea had met a pitiful end.
Longspear rode up to Gendry. "Lord Commander, this honor belongs to you."
Gendry wiped the blood from his spiked mace. "Victory belongs not just to me, but to tens of thousands of warriors."
"Yes." Longspear's eyes glimmered with newfound respect.
Gendry looked at Drogo's head. Defeating him had been no small feat, but he had done it. From this moment on, he would be the undisputed ruler of the Twin Cities.
"The Khal is dead."
"The Khal is dead." The Dothraki felt their hearts stop at the news, the Khal's death was a devastating blow. Panic spread. The Khalasar began fleeing, the entire massive khalasar breaking apart.
The initiative now lay entirely with the Twin Cities Alliance, who pursued the collapsing Dothraki Screamers, striking them down relentlessly.
"It actually happened." Behind the Dothraki Screamers, Red Viper, directing a surprise strike on the enemy's rear, naturally heard the thunderous cheers.
A strange expression crossed Red Viper's face.
The main branch…the main branch…if the main branch falls, the good days for House Baratheon will soon arrive.
Khal Drogo, the Khal among Kaos, had fallen today on the lands of Myr.
The death of one king heralded the rise of another.
A crown is forged not only from gold, but from blood.