Cries and shrieks tore through the mist, sharp and harrowing.
Countless stone men emerged from the water, their dense, stony hands clutching the warship. When Drogo looked down, a wave of dizziness washed over him.
"Oh gods! Save us!"
Those who believed began praying to their gods.
There was no wind in the Sorrows. With those living dead like stones below, the oars couldn't function properly at all.
Drogo realized that if they wanted to escape, they'd have to drive away or kill those hair-raising monsters.
"Loose arrows! Fire!"
Under various commands, the archers nocked their arrows and unleashed a rain of bolts.
Watching his men fight as if facing ordinary humans, Drogo shook his head. "Useless. That will only crush morale further."
As he had predicted, the arrows bounced off the stone men like they would off dragonscales.
Though Drogo had managed to cleave one of the creatures in two, it was only thanks to his Valyrian steel blade and his immense strength. Ordinary blades and arrows could barely harm these stone-hard undead.
Their bodies were stiff, and unlike Jon Connington—who was in the early stages of greyscale and could still scale ships using bolts—they couldn't climb well. But they had numbers. They built themselves upward like stacking bricks: one grabbing the other, one stepping on the other, slowly moving higher.
Drogo commanded, "Pour scented oil. Use fire arrows."
There was no time to boil oil; this was their only viable tactic.
Sailors hauled out barrels of scented oil, dousing the stone men, while archers lit and launched flaming arrows.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Drenched in oil, the stone men ignited in an instant. Yet even as they became men of flame, they still climbed furiously.
"They don't feel pain!" many shouted in terror.
Drogo agreed. The cries of the stone men were not screams of pain, but wails of suffering—the moans of a cursed fate.
With hearts of stone, these living corpses had more endurance than Unsullied weaned off their liquid courage.
Those familiar with greyscale shouted, "Don't let them reach the deck, or we'll share their fate!"
Pain meant nothing to them. But if they could destroy their physical functions entirely, the creatures would no longer be a threat.
Seeing the fiery stone men grow even more frenzied, Drogo decided to unleash his trump card.
If ordinary flames couldn't stop them, then dragonflame—hot enough to melt metal—would surely annihilate them in an instant.
He shouted up to the three dragons perched on the mast, already roused by the sight of fire: "Drogon! Viserion! Rhaegal! Burn them all!"
The green and white dragons responded immediately, flapping their wings and taking flight.
But Drogon remained, staring fixedly at the lower deck.
Time was critical. Drogo didn't dwell on the black dragon's odd behavior. His children were strong-willed. As long as the other two helped clear the danger, he was content.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The dragons rained fire down, burning the stone men layer by layer until they dropped into the water, hissing and steaming.
The dragonflame heated the river, and the rising steam merged with the fog, turning visibility to near zero. It became a world of blind men.
But the areas touched by dragonflame shone clear as day.
Soon, the first mate shouted with excitement, "We're moving! The ship can move again!"
Safe for now, Drogo exhaled deeply and called out to the captain, "Collinser, don't rush. Wait until the ships behind us are safe before we leave."
Thank the gods the ship was tall enough. If they had fought on the deck, the dragons wouldn't have distinguished between friend and foe. Man and ship alike would've been reduced to ash.
Climbing the stern in the glow of dragonfire, Drogo gave instructions: "Rhaegal, left! Dragonflame! Viserion—don't hit the ships!"
He wanted to burn the undead threatening his fleet—but not harm his own people.
Suddenly, a strong gust blew across his face. Drogon had moved.
Drogo felt a spark of excitement. The black dragon's destructive power far surpassed the others. If he joined in, the fleet would be free in no time.
But to his disappointment, Drogon didn't follow his brothers. Instead, he landed directly on the deck.
Even though Drogo couldn't see clearly, the sound alone told him what the dragon was doing.
About five minutes later, Drogon beat his wings and soared back into the sky.
"Drogon! Help Rhaegal and Viserion!"
But the black dragon ignored its father's command. It stirred the fog with its wings and flew off into the unknown.
The wind Drogon stirred carried a faint, sweet fragrance—sharp and distinct in the foul air. Drogo thought it might be perfume from one of the handmaidens, swept up in the gust.
"Drogon! Don't fly too far!"
Drogo feared his dragon might get lost. The Sorrows reeked of unreality, with danger lurking in every shadow.
Drogon was always the obedient one—his most loyal child. But today, something was off.
There was nothing Drogo could do but watch helplessly.
As he continued directing the battle, he often glanced down into the fog, knowing his beloved wife was below.
Yet he wasn't worried. No stone men had reached the deck, and Daenerys was safe.
The dragons worked quickly and efficiently. After clearing one area, they'd move to the next. The cheers that erupted like thunder told Drogo another ship had escaped danger.
Once he was certain the more threatened ships were safe, he guided Rhaegal and Viserion toward the vessel holding Missandei.
By the light of dragonflame, he saw what he had expected: the ship was overrun with stone men. No sign of the Tiger Warriors who'd been guarding her.
Clearly, they had either been eaten or trampled.
As for Missandei, the new owner of the silver horse, Drogo assumed she was unharmed—at least for now. The girl who had dyed her hair silver to impersonate Daenerys was important to Young Aegon.
In the Sorrows, even normal vision was obscured. With their eyes already turned to stone, these living dead likely hadn't noticed the silver-haired girl was a fake.
"False dragon... are you on that ship?"
Drogo hoped Young Aegon was there.
Then he gave the order: "All ships—keep a league away from the dragons!"
His voice boomed across the fleet, and his soldiers quickly relayed the command. Within minutes, every vessel moved away.
In under ten minutes, the ship holding Missandei stood isolated.
There wasn't much wildfire, but Volantis—the greatest of the Free Cities—had managed to acquire a jar of the Green Demon from a Myrish pirate king. Dofas had smuggled it out of the port.
Drogo had hidden the jar of wildfire in the supply hold of the ship holding Missandei.
If he could confirm Young Aegon was aboard, he'd have the trumpeter blow a coded signal. The deathsworn guarding the wildfire would ignite it on cue.
Ordering the dragons to torch the ship would've been easier—but too suspicious. This method allowed him to be subtle.
"First Mate, change course. Take us toward the dragon."
"Yes, Your Grace."
As the ships drew near, Drogo squinted into the fog, trying to make out the stone men.
Suddenly, a shocking sight emerged—one that left even the mighty khal stunned.
The ship... was slowly rising out of the water!
Lifting the vessel—one that weighed over a hundred tons—was a pair of enormous gray stone hands!
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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