After two consecutive gladiators were killed, Daenerys and Hizdahr found it hard to endure the loud ridicule from the three khals, forcing themselves to respond with strained smiles.
Daenerys subtly signaled Theon to send stronger gladiators into the fight. Theon was also evaluating the Dothraki's combat prowess. In pure martial skill and strength, there was no real chance of victory, but with his Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, he could cut through their weapons and turn the tide.
After some thought, Theon sent Wolter Yinz and Ehlo Sgard into the arena. Since the Dothraki wielded arakhs, these two gladiators would fight using chain hammers—an unusual weapon choice meant to counter the curved blades.
The slaves dragged away the corpses while the two burly gladiators, clad in skirted armor, strode confidently into the arena after donning their helmets.
Humm~~ Humm~~ Humm~~
The sound of whirling chain hammers filled the air.
Ehlo Sgard wielded a short chain hammer—an iron mace attached to his wrist by a chain, with a spiked metal ball at the end, which he spun rhythmically.
Wolter Yinz, on the other hand, had a longer chain weapon, lacking a solid grip. It was simply a long iron chain with spiked metal balls on both ends. He could swing both simultaneously or throw one end for ranged attacks.
"Oh!"
"Both are experts!"
As the two gladiators skillfully twirled their weapons, the audience roared with excitement, clapping and cheering at the spectacle of these unusual weapons.
Wright watched Daenerys, who had lifted her chin, looking down at the fight with an air of confidence. She seemed quite pleased with the two gladiators, as if victory was already assured.
Adjusting the iron mask on his face, Wright found himself contemplating what would happen if he were to simply abduct Daenerys right now.
No one here could stop him—it would be effortless. But her two dragons weren't nearby. Even if a dragon and its rider were separated by great distances, there was always a connection between them. A dragon could sense its rider's emotions—joy, fear, rage. Some of the more intelligent ones could even fly to their master's aid unbidden.
However, from what Wright had heard, Daenerys' dragons were locked in massive iron cages, transported by carts. Even if he hacked her into pieces, her dragons wouldn't be able to fly to her rescue.
After a moment's consideration, Wright decided to hold off. He would wait and see how things unfolded—perhaps in a few days, the cart carrying the dragons would arrive.
"Ah!" A scream tore through the arena.
So soon? Wright turned his head back toward the fight, just in time to see Ehlo Sgard kneeling on the ground. A Dothraki warrior had driven his arakh straight into his mouth, leaving only the hilt visible.
"Hahahaha!"
The Dothraki warrior laughed wildly as he twisted the handle. Ehlo Sgard, his mouth overflowing with blood, trembled violently, his hands clawing desperately at his killer's arm. But no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't break free, only managing a series of muffled, gurgling cries.
Wolter Yinz, seeing his comrade near death, roared in fury, trying to psych himself up. "Laa-woo! Laa-woo!"
His chain hammer suddenly lashed out. The opposing Dothraki warrior, caught off guard, raised his arakh to block.
Clang!
The flying chain wrapped tightly around the arakh, binding it in place.
"You're finished!" Wolter Yinz bellowed. His opponent now stood vulnerable, holding the ensnared arakh in one hand while his other arm hung at his side. Walter began spinning the second spiked ball, preparing to launch a fatal strike.
Thud! Thud!
Two throwing knives buried themselves deep into Wolter Yinz' eyes.
His spinning chain hammer dropped to the ground. "Ahaha! I can't see! I can't see!" he screamed.
The crowd gasped in shock—they hadn't expected the Dothraki to possess such deadly knife-throwing skills.
"O-lo-lo-lo-lo~~"
The gathered Dothraki raised their arakhs in triumphant cheers as the two victorious warriors turned to face their khals, standing tall and proud.
Khal Drogo stared at Daenerys and ran a finger across his throat.
The two Dothraki warriors drew their arakhs and placed them against the necks of the defeated gladiators, slowly dragging the blades across their throats. Their agonized screams only seemed to further excite the Dothraki, while the faces of the Meereenese spectators darkened.
Then, with two swift kicks, the severed heads were sent rolling into the horse troughs.
Theon looked pained but had no time to grieve. He continued sending gladiators into the arena, only for each of them to meet a gruesome end. Soon, the horse trough was nearly overflowing with severed heads.
Theon was doing this on purpose, trying to provoke Daario Naharis and Quentyn Martell into entering the fight. However, Daario remained seated, eating and drinking, acting as if none of this concerned him. Quentyn attempted to step forward several times, only to be held back by his attendants.
Now, only three fighters remained—Iron Mask, Buffalo, and White Skull—along with a handsome gladiator who was currently being toyed with in the arena.
"Stop!" Daenerys stood up and pointed in their direction. "You three, get in!"
She didn't specify names, clearly wanting all three to fight at once. Buffalo and White Skull began preparing their armor and weapons, but Iron Mask noticed their sluggish movements, understanding that they were afraid. Gladiators had combat skills, but they were trained more for spectacle than for true battle. Against the Dothraki, who fought for survival, they were severely outmatched.
These two men were famous in Meereen and held a certain influence. Keeping them alive might prove useful. Iron Mask decided to spare them.
He grabbed their arms. "I'll go alone. There's no need for you two to die here."
"Iron Mask! These people are incredibly strong, you—" Buffalo looked at him in shock.
"Let's go together," White Skull said, running his hand over his shield. "As gladiators, we've always known this day would come."
"I have wealth beyond measure and countless followers. I fight as a gladiator for entertainment. I won't die. If you two ever want a different life, come find me."
With that, Iron Mask snatched Buffalo's massive axe with a twist of his wrist and strode toward the arena.
In the past, most of his efforts had been spent reading and studying magic. He practiced combat for less than an hour a day, relying on his system-enhanced attributes and superior weapons to crush enemies through sheer strength. But after reaching a bottleneck in his magical progress—where further advancement required an immense accumulation of knowledge—he had shifted his focus to training. Since arriving in Volantis, he had honed his martial skills, mastering various weapons and hand-to-hand combat, bringing them to new heights.
The duel in the arena continued despite Daenerys's command. The Dothraki only obeyed their own Khal.
Iron Mask recognized the handsome gladiator being tormented—he was a freeman, slender, fair-skinned, with striking features. Every time he entered the arena, he carried himself with an arrogant air, a performance designed to appeal to female spectators. By day, he fought in the arena; by night, for a fee, he entertained female slaves or male slave owners.
"Aaaah!"
The handsome gladiator collapsed, clutching his groin. His opponent, a Dothraki warrior, held up a bloody piece of flesh, displaying it to the crowd with pride.
Daenerys, irritated that only Iron Mask had stepped forward despite calling for three, was about to speak when the audience suddenly gasped.
Iron Mask had casually approached the Dothraki, shouldering his massive axe. With a single, devastating swing, he cleaved through both the warrior's sword and body in one motion. The man's upper torso was lifted into the air while his legs remained standing on the ground.
Using the axe handle, Iron Mask flicked the severed flesh toward the fallen gladiator. "Take your treasure. Dry it out, and you can hang it from your belt."
The gladiator repeatedly expressed his gratitude before limping to the arena's edge, his once-arrogant posture utterly destroyed.
Iron Mask discarded the lifeless half-body and stood firm.
"Iron Mask! Iron Mask!"
The people of Meereen finally had a victory to celebrate. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Seeing that Iron Mask was alone, one of Khal Drogo's men stepped forward.
"I am Qotho, a bloodrider of Khal Drogo. Today, I will take your head and kick it like a ball!"
Qotho's braid reached his waist, and he spun his arakh skillfully in both hands, his eyes filled with ruthless intent.
Iron Mask, looking at him through the slits of his metal mask, remained silent. He simply stood there, axe on his shoulder, unmoving.
Annoyed by the lack of response, Qotho lunged forward, slashing diagonally at Iron Mask's left side. His strike was precise, aimed directly at the kidney.
However, just inches before reaching its target, the blade stopped. Qotho's wrist had been caught in an iron grip.
Iron Mask drove his axe into the ground and struck Qotho's face with a powerful punch.
The force was tremendous. Qotho's left eye exploded on impact, his eye socket caving in as he instantly lost consciousness. Yet, Iron Mask still held his limp wrist. He lifted the bloodrider's body and struck his face again.
And again.
Qotho's head was completely crushed after just a few blows, leaving behind only a mess of red flesh and white bone fragments. Bright red blood mixed with pale brain matter flowed down onto his own body.
Gripping the handle of his massive axe once more, Wright swung it in a wide arc, cleaving Qotho's waist in two. He then picked up the upper half of his opponent and tossed it aside, leaving the two severed Dothraki corpses lying together on the ground as if they were a single body.
"Iron Mask! Iron Mask!"
"Such monstrous strength!"
The crowd erupted into a thunderous cheer.
Wright turned toward the Dothraki, took a deep breath, and spat as he bellowed, "Who else wants some?"
Aside from Asha and Theon, many had now realized that Iron Mask's strength was anything but ordinary. At the very least, his reflexes and raw power far surpassed that of regular men, rivaling even the strongest of warriors trained solely for brute force. Many among the spectators started to take notice of him with newfound wariness.
Seeing his bloodrider slain, Khal Drogo rose to his feet, fixing Wright with a gaze as if he were already a dead man walking. Wright met his stare and raised a single finger, curling it in a taunting gesture.
"Aha!" Khal Drogo let out a booming laugh. That Iron Mask dared to provoke him? With a battle cry, he prepared to step into the pit himself to personally finish this fight.
Khal Drogo was a battle-hardened warrior, acknowledged as the strongest among the Dothraki in size, power, and skill. He swiftly assessed Iron Mask's speed and strength, concluding that he could defeat him in direct combat.
Khal Drogo, huh? Wright was intrigued. He steadied his breathing, suppressing the magic within him. He wanted to face this famed warrior purely with martial skill.
"Khal Drogo, you are a guest today," Daenerys suddenly declared. "According to Meereenese custom, your men may fight in the arena, but you may not."
Iron Mask could not be allowed to die—his immense skill was too valuable to waste. But neither could Khal Drogo perish, for his death would fracture his khalasar and throw his allies into chaos as they vied for leadership. Their hard-earned alliance could not be squandered over a mere spectacle.
Khal Drogo glanced at the other two khals at his side, then at Hizdahr, Daenerys's husband, uncertain of the game being played.
"Khal Drogo, the gladiatorial fights are meant to entertain the guests," Hizdahr quickly added. "If we, the honored guests, were to enter the arena, it would cease to be mere entertainment."
Khal Drogo pointed at Wright and drew a thumb across his throat before smirking and sitting back down. To the Dothraki, death was commonplace—even weddings required a few bodies to be properly celebrated. But by making that gesture, he had just signaled his men to take revenge on Iron Mask for their fallen bloodrider.
Dothraki warriors came to collect the bodies, while the corpses of slain gladiators were quietly hauled away by the estate's slaves. By nightfall, they would be turned into stew or salted meat in secret.
Daenerys studied Wright, his towering frame and powerful build making her eager to claim him for her own. He would likely clash with the Dothraki eventually, and now was the perfect moment to secure his loyalty. She spoke up, "Iron Mask, will you remove your helmet? I have yet to see your face."
Wright straightened and replied honestly, "I fear my appearance would frighten many here. Are you sure you wish to see it?"
"I've heard the stories," Asha quickly interjected from behind Daenerys. "He hides his face because he was burned and disfigured." If Wright removed his mask now, it could create an unpredictable situation.
"If he were handsome, why would he cover his face?" Theon added with a forced chuckle.
"I've seen burn victims before. Your Grace, perhaps it's best not to look," young Quentyn suggested.
Daario Naharis, leader of the Stormcrows, laughed and said, "Ha! You all just watched that man's face get smashed into pulp without flinching. What's a little scarring compared to that?"
Daenerys rose to her feet and gave the crowd a sweet smile. "A true warrior earns respect through loyalty, skill, and honor—not by their appearance. Iron Mask, your scars are not a flaw, and I will not judge you for them. Anyone who mocks you for them will be met with the scorn of all."
All eyes turned to her, sensing an increasing air of authority in her presence.
Looking at Wright, Daenerys raised both hands and declared loudly, "In the name of Daenerys of House Targaryen—Princess of Dragonstone, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, and Stormborn—I order you to remove your mask."
"As you wish."
The mask covered his entire face, even extending to his temples and reaching near his ears, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. Wright tossed his massive axe aside, reached behind his head with both hands, and began untying the straps.
Everyone braced themselves for the sight of a grotesquely scarred face. The tension in the air was palpable. Slowly, Wright lifted the mask away with one hand, brushing aside the hair flattened against his forehead by the metal. He then looked at Daenerys with a smile.
"It's over!" Asha, standing behind Daenerys, collapsed weakly onto the ground.
"This is bad!" Theon's hands trembled as he gripped the hilt of Nightfall, ready to seize Daenerys—perhaps taking her captive was the only way to ensure her survival.
"He's not disfigured!"
"He's actually quite handsome. Just a little uglier than me."
Quentyn Martell sat frozen in place, his face deathly pale, his legs shaking as he waited for the inevitable. The royal family of Dorne knew exactly who Wright was.
"So, you hid your face because you were too handsome and didn't want to attract attention. Hurry up and put the mask back on."
Daenerys spoke slowly, fearing her voice might betray a tremor. Her makeup concealed her complexion, but beneath it, her face had turned ashen.
She would never forget the man who had killed her brother. She still carried a small pinch of Viserys's ashes inside the pendant of her necklace, waiting for the day she could avenge him before laying him to rest in the Red Keep.
Clutching the armrests of her seat tightly, Daenerys waited for Wright's response, her heart pounding so violently it felt as if it might burst from her chest.