Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 240: Drogo’s Farewell

"Trade blood for fire, and fire for blood!!"

From the crude Dothraki watchtower, Regis braced himself as he shouldered the long, thick dragonbinder horn, directing its ominous sound towards the heart of Drogo's camp. Viserys blew into the horn with all his might.

As he did, Viserys opened his status panel and watched in alarm as both his Health and Magic rapidly diminished. His lungs felt like they were ablaze, as if he had swallowed a piece of burning charcoal. The severe depletion of his Magic power slightly eased the drain on his Health, but the damage was still intense.

He managed to blow the horn for a full minute, his Health stabilizing around 80. However, the drain on his Magic was terrifying—thanks to the red comet, it had surged to 600-700, yet it was almost completely depleted in just that one minute. Viserys realized this was likely due to the sheer number of people who had heard the horn’s call. This explained why Euron could control only one Kraken from the Smoking Sea, despite the multitude of monsters there.

But it seemed to be enough.

Viserys estimated that the horn’s sound had affected over 3,000 or 4,000 people, causing enough chaos to throw Drogo's camp into disarray. However, the watchtower was still some distance from Drogo's tent, so it might not have directly affected Drogo and the other leaders around him.

Even so, the Dothraki camp quickly descended into chaos, like a pot of thick porridge suddenly coming to a violent boil. Centered around the watchtower, thousands of Dothraki warriors lost control.

The warriors, who had been calmly chatting around the campfires moments earlier, suddenly turned on each other. Fists flew as companions punched one another in the face without hesitation. They didn’t even think to draw their curved swords; instead, they resorted to fists, nails, and even teeth, attacking each other like rabid animals. It was as if they had all gone mad.

The campfires set nearby hay ablaze, while curved swords slashed through tents, and the air grew thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the sharp tang of blood.

The situation inside Drogo's tent was no better. Even the usually docile servants had begun to attack their masters, and faint sounds of fighting echoed from outside. A thin servant hurled a plate at the person next to him, sending it crashing into their head. Drogo and the other Khals initially thought they were under attack by assassins, only to realize that the servants and guards were attacking each other as well.

"What are you doing?!" Khal Ogo shouted, bewildered as his own son suddenly turned on him, launching a frenzied attack.

With his father’s loud shout, Ogo’s son seemed to snap out of his frenzy. "Father? I... I..."

"Old Motho! Hurry! Stop him!" Ogo cried out, desperation in his voice.

The elderly Motho Khal, though partially affected by the horn’s eerie call, lunged at his son’s Bloodrider. The horn's magic had a stronger effect on the older warriors than on the younger ones. Meanwhile, the Khals and their Bloodriders, though shaken, managed to stay somewhat aware.

"It's witchcraft!" Drogo roared, his usual calm demeanor shattered.

Just then, a Dothraki guard burst into the tent. "Khal Drogo, there’s a large-scale fight in the eastern camp!"

"Send men to suppress it immediately!" Drogo commanded, his voice tense.

Another warrior rushed in, his face pale with fear. "Khal Drogo, there are cavalry approaching from the south!"

"How many?" Drogo demanded, his heart tightening as if gripped by an invisible hand.

"Too many! Tens of thousands!"

"This is impossible!" Drogo bellowed, uncertain if he was rebuking the guard or trying to convince himself. Tens of thousands of men coming from the south, from The Sorrows? That was the domain of the Stone Men—how could Viserys possibly have crossed from that direction?

Drogo’s mind raced, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events. 'Had Kambron deceived me? Was there never any Faceless Men involved?'

'No! Absolutely not!'

Drogo knew that overthinking would not help now. He mounted his warhorse and set out to gather the remaining Dothraki warriors who were still sane. Before long, he found a group of panicked yet clear-headed fighters. He shouted, "The vile milkmen have attacked us! Mount your horses, take up your scimitars, and follow me as I cut off their heads!"

"Off with their heads!" a Dothraki centurion echoed, rallying the others.

More and more warriors joined Drogo’s call. Despite the looming crisis, as long as Drogo was there, they believed they could defeat any enemy. Within half an hour, Drogo had gathered nearly 2,000 mounted warriors.

He quickly assessed the situation and identified the approaching cavalry as the weakest mercenary riders. They were no match for the Dothraki, especially under his leadership. Like a black wind sweeping through a wheat field, Drogo’s forces obliterated the 1,000 or 2,000 sellswords in a matter of moments.

"Long live Drogo! Long live Drogo!" his warriors chanted, as more Dothraki joined in the charge.

'If these raiders were the best the enemy had to offer', Drogo thought, 'they could pillage the Disputed Lands with ease'. But deep down, he knew the battle was far from over.

A cry from a golden eagle sent a chill down Drogo’s spine. He looked up to see a larger, more formidable force of cavalry approaching, their banners emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Viserys had not expected much from the mercenary cavalry. Their role was to lure out the Horselord, expend themselves in the fight, and die for a cause that would bring him victory. Their bones would be worth the price, and Viserys had no intention of compensating them for their sacrifice.

"Kill Drogo! Earn three sets of Valyrian steel armor!"

The chant echoed across the battlefield, and though Drogo couldn’t fully grasp the words, he clearly heard his name. Whatever they meant, there was no time to dwell on it—he had only one choice left: to fight. If he didn’t, the army he had so painstakingly assembled would scatter like dust in the wind.

Under the night sky, black and yellow-clad cavalry clashed fiercely, like wild beasts tearing into each other. The battle that would determine the fate of the war erupted without warning. The hooves of warhorses gouged bloody pits in the earth, while the men’s sharp spears fell like hammer blows. It was as if the Dothraki were throwing flesh and blood against steel, with an outcome that seemed grimly inevitable. Some of the enemy’s spears were even fitted with barbs, ripping away chunks of flesh with every strike.

Drogo scanned the battlefield, his brow furrowed deeply. The disparity in equipment between his forces and the enemy was stark. Even if he had three times as many men, he couldn’t bridge that gap. It wasn’t long before he found himself surrounded.

An iron net of knights in heavy armor closed in on the Dothraki, splitting and encircling them. Drogo looked down at the curved blade in his hand, already slick with blood, and let out a mournful cry: "Viserys! Where are you? Come and fight me!"

Whoosh! A white blur struck Drogo in the shoulder. He staggered, searching for the source of the arrow. His eyes locked onto a familiar figure—Viserys, bow drawn and aimed.

Swish! Another arrow flew, and Drogo swung his sword to deflect it, but it still pierced his chest. Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, three more arrows whistled through the air. They struck him in the left and right chest and in the neck, but still, Drogo did not fall.

"That's a lot of blood," Viserys muttered, drawing yet another arrow. He had originally intended to capture Drogo alive, to "treat the enemy in their own way" and give him a fitting end. But the tide of the battle was shifting rapidly, and with his forces outnumbered, the only way to achieve victory was to kill Drogo as swiftly as possible.

By the time Drogo's Bloodrider Cohollo turned around, he found Drogo’s body riddled with a dozen arrows, a grim testament to the end of the great Khal.