The next few days were largely uneventful (again). they ate, they drank, they slept, and they flew (and yes, they went “potty”.
By the morning of the third day, they were within the borders of Mordor. They flew to the opening of Mount Doo, and landed. Frodo walked in, stared down into the lava for a moment, before pulling the Ring off its chain, and throwing it in. “Good riddance,” he muttered, as he walked back out and climbed back onto Gwaihir. they took off just before the volcano erupted, the Black Tower fell, the Eye of Sauron got a sharp stick put through it, and Mordor was destroyed.
As for the other orcs, goblins, and the Nazgul, they were all pecked to death by Gwaihir’s second cousin twice removed and his army of giant seagulls.
J.R.R. Tolkien closed the book, and looked up. “And that, children, is why they didn’t simply fly the Eagles into Mordor. Didn’t you think I’d thought of that? but then, what story would there have been?”