Chapter 87 — Reinforcements
Drogon took in the corridor in a single sweeping glance.
With one beat of his wings, he skimmed past the Son of the Harpy in front of Barristan, his claws slashing cleanly across the man's throat without slowing. He didn't even pause before reaching Grey Worm.
A curved blade was already descending toward the Unsullied commander.
Drogon thrust out a small black claw and caught the strike head-on.
Then he opened his jaws.
Black fire poured down.
Even in his juvenile form, Drogon's flames burned nearly as hot as the molten gold crown Khal Drogo had once poured over Viserys's head.
The instant the dragonfire touched the golden mask, the man began screaming.
He dropped his weapon and clawed at the helmet. But the metal was already softening, glowing, beginning to melt. His hands recoiled instinctively from the searing heat — only for the agony in his skull to force him to grab it again, trying desperately to tear it off.
He barely managed to shift it before flesh tore with it.
The helmet wouldn't come free.
His scream cut off abruptly. He fell stiffly backward, still reaching for his head. The helmet struck the ground with a clang and rolled away, leaving behind a raw, blood-red ruin of a skull, patches of hair still clinging to it.
The three remaining attackers around Grey Worm had only a moment to register their companion's fate before their throats opened in unison — blood spraying as they collapsed one after another.
Behind them, Barristan's last opponent stood frozen in terror at the sudden carnage — and died a heartbeat later on the old knight's blade.
Barristan had just turned toward Grey Worm when seven or eight more masked men poured into the corridor from outside. Seeing the corpses at his feet, they charged.
Drogon was already there.
You like wearing helmets? Then keep them on.
He unleashed another sustained blast of black fire.
The newcomers abandoned all thought of fighting. Weapons still in hand, they tried to flee — but they could not outrun a dragon's breath.
Flames chained through them in a line.
The quick ones tore their helmets off and stumbled away, shrieking, hands pressed to burned faces. The slower ones never got them off at all — the metal cooking them alive.
Barristan, sword raised, stood stunned at the sight. It was Grey Worm's pained groan that snapped him back to himself.
He rushed to support the Unsullied commander.
Drogon's arrival had been just in time.
Barristan's shoulder wound was serious, but the rest were minor. Grey Worm, however, had taken deep cuts to the abdomen and leg, along with several smaller wounds.
Supporting Grey Worm, Barristan followed Drogon out of the granary.
In the distance, Missandei was arriving with reinforcements. She had set out with a hundred men, but Harpy ambushes along the way had reduced them to barely thirty by the time they reached the granaries.
They took Grey Worm from Barristan's arms, and the battered unit began the slow march back toward Daenerys's Great Pyramid.
Once he was sure Grey Worm was safe for the moment, Drogon rose into the air, scanning the surrounding streets and their route of retreat.
Then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he turned and flew back toward the Great Pyramid.
When Drogon arrived, the Great Pyramid was already under siege.
Hundreds of Sons of the Harpy swarmed its base, attacking from all sides.
The moment they saw Drogon hovering in the air, they recognized him — the small black dragon who never left Daenerys's side. As one, they stopped assaulting the Pyramid and turned their blades toward him instead.
They knew storming the Pyramid today was impossible.
But if they could butcher the Queen's dragon?
That blow to Daenerys would be devastating.
Facing the wave of masked men rushing him, Drogon let out a silent, icy laugh.
If you want to be dragon-slayers, you'd better be ready to be slaughtered.
With a powerful beat of his wings, he plunged straight into them — utterly unafraid of the blades flashing toward him. At his current level of defense, even in juvenile form, ordinary swords could barely do more than scratch him.
His wings lashed left and right.
Each sweep carved through arms and thighs — bone nearly visible, flesh split open, tendons severed. Hands went limp, legs collapsed. One strike was enough to end a man's ability to fight.
The Sons of the Harpy's greatest advantage had always been secrecy. They only wore the golden harpy masks during their operations.
That was precisely why Drogon didn't simply burn them all.
He wanted prisoners.
He wanted names. Houses. The families and powers hiding behind the masks.
A Harpy who managed to strike Drogon felt a moment of savage triumph — right until the impact jarred up his arm like he'd hit solid stone. The next instant, agony exploded through his limb, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.
Drogon moved through the crowd like a storm.
Screams filled the air.
Even the dimmest among them realized something had gone horribly wrong. After dozens of their comrades fell maimed, those at the outer edges stopped dreaming of slaying dragons or storming the Pyramid.
They ran.
They knew that with Drogon's speed, he would reach them soon enough. If they didn't flee now, they'd never get another chance.
Drogon didn't let them.
He went for the runners first.
One after another, the fastest were slashed down, tendons cut, collapsing in blood and despair. Some even dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.
Drogon gave none.
They had come to kill. They would pay.
Only when most of the attackers had lost the ability to resist did the Unsullied guarding the Pyramid move out to secure the area and capture the Harpies.
Seeing a chance to live, the vast majority surrendered. The sound of weapons hitting the ground rang out again and again.
---
From atop the Pyramid, Daenerys and the others watched.
She hadn't imagined Drogon could be even more terrifying than when he'd torn Mero apart. In such a short time, he had crippled nearly every attacker surrounding the Pyramid.
Beside her, Shireen stood with her mouth slightly open, staring.
Was this really the same little dragon who loved to eat and drink and let her pet him?
Seeing Drogon's ruthless side for the first time left her shaken.
Tyrion, who had heard Varys describe Drogon's grown form and had seen him intimidate a Dothraki khalasar, was still stunned. He hadn't realized Drogon's speed, defense, and lethality were already this terrifying while still so young.
If this is him now… what will he be as an adult?
He glanced at Daenerys, who watched Drogon with anxious intensity.
With him… what are the Seven Kingdoms, really?
---
Only after the Unsullied had full control of the prisoners did Drogon leave the Pyramid, flying across the city to check other battle sites.
Whenever he saw Unsullied or Second Sons being overwhelmed, he intervened. Where both sides were evenly matched, he simply swept past.
Before long, he spotted Jorah, fresh from battle. Judging from the bodies on the ground, the Second Sons had taken losses — though they'd been lucky not to face enemies several times their number.
"Drogon! Is the Queen safe? Why are you here?"
Jorah had already sensed something wrong during the fighting. Seeing Drogon confirmed it.
Drogon lifted a small black claw and made an odd little gesture — a circle with his digits.
Jorah nodded at once.
After spending enough time around this dragon, he understood.
The Queen was safe.