In the novels, Daenerys was kind and sentimental, but as she rose to power, she gradually became consumed by her obsession with breaking the
In the novels, Daenerys was kind and sentimental, but as she rose to power, she gradually became consumed by her obsession with breaking the wheel of history. In the end, she became a true conqueror.
As for Drogo, he had left the Dothraki Sea largely out of ambition—unwilling to fall behind others—but part of his reason was to help the woman he loved fulfill her dream.
And because of that, he suddenly realized—was he now being led by the nose by Daenerys?
Even though, aside from tonight, he had always been the one leading.
"Am I a conqueror? Am I a king truly fit to rule?"
In the past, Drogo would never have questioned himself this way. But now, in a moment of melancholy, the thought crept into his mind.
He had once ridden across the Dothraki Sea, plundering across vast lands and relishing the thrill of battle. But now, he couldn't tell whether that life made him a conqueror—or just a raider.
His people were nomadic horsemen. Apart from the sacred city of Vaes Dothrak, which they treated as a temporary gathering place, they were always on the move. Even if they conquered paradise, they wouldn't settle there—they would strip it bare and ride away.
As a ruler, Drogo had once commanded a hundred thousand. Few dared speak against him—not because they loved him, but because he was powerful, ruthless, and crushed all who resisted.
But since being reborn, he had found himself hesitating. His violent methods seemed little different from the slavers he now opposed.
He believed he could defeat any king in single combat. And yet, those weaker kings had ruled their lands for years—not by brute force, but by more sustainable means.
Drawing from the orderly society of his past life, he had many new ideas. Though he and Daenerys shared a similar vision, he believed he was better suited to reform Astapor.
But the problem was that the Unsullied—their main military force—didn't answer to him. At that moment, he wanted to take the Harpy's Finger back. The thought had been sparked by Daenerys's elusive smile.
Still, as a king with principles, Drogo felt that going back on his word so capriciously would be dishonorable—especially with Daenerys. Even if no one dared say it out loud, they'd all see it as disgraceful.
And now, the dragons he had taught had begun to disobey. They were growing out of their juvenile forms—and perhaps beyond his control.
Drogo was certain: just now, when the dragons were gnawing on a corpse and roared at him, it was because they saw him as a threat to their meal.
Clearly, if he didn't start enforcing strict discipline, the dragons might one day lose all sense of kinship—and turn their fire on him.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, a thundering sound erupted—a vast tide of voices, like thousands of ropes twisted into one overwhelming roar.
"Drogo! Drogo! Drogo!"
The chant echoed across all of Astapor, a collective cry directed toward him—calling for him.
The overwhelming support stirred Drogo to his core. Without meaning to, he found himself retracing his steps.
And the moment he emerged back into the firelight, nearly a hundred thousand people turned to him, shouting his name without pause.
Such unity—he had achieved it once before. But when he looked up toward the platform and saw the one figure still standing—calling out to him—he understood. It had begun with Daenerys.
Now that he had shown himself, retreating would be more shameful than death.
Steadying his heart, Drogo regained his prideful posture and slowly walked back toward Daenerys.
As he stepped onto the platform, the sight before him both made perfect sense—and caught him off guard.
The plaza fell into stunned silence. Faces filled with confusion, especially among the Unsullied, whose emotionless expressions now wavered in disbelief.
Daenerys had knelt on both knees, head bowed, holding the Harpy's Finger in both hands, raising it respectfully toward him.
She was returning it to its rightful owner.
After a brief moment of thought, Drogo grasped the center of the whip and accepted it.
Looking at his wife, still kneeling silently, he suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Was I being too petty?
He had willingly given her the symbol of command, had entrusted her with its power. And seeing the supposed king lose control in front of everyone, like a beast acting on instinct—who wouldn't laugh?
Even if they dared not show it, they would surely laugh inwardly.
And yet, she was his Khaleesi. It had only been a faint smile—not a mocking laugh.
Regardless, Drogo felt that she still needed him—not for power, but for support. Her reliance on him outweighed her desire to stand alone.
Is this rationality or instinct? He didn't want to dwell on it. He reached out and helped her to her feet. Then, raising the Harpy's Finger, he called out once more:
"Grey Worm! Step forward!"
"Yes, Master—no, Your Grace!"
The old habit slipped, but Grey Worm complied.
Drogo didn't address it. His gaze fixed on the gleaming whip in his hand, and he felt a deep sorrow for the Unsullied.
This was the truth: whoever held the Harpy's Finger could control that devastating army. It had nothing to do with Daenerys's charisma being greater than his own.
This blind obedience wasn't what Drogo wanted. He would change it. He wanted to awaken their minds—not through the whip's threat, but through genuine loyalty.
"If Astapor is mine, then you are my people—not slaves under the Harpy's shadow. Under my rule, all are equal. The slave system is abolished. The shackles are broken. You are free."
"Those who once lashed your backs now tremble because of you. So stop thinking with old ideas—do not see others as masters just because they seem stronger for now."
"Why do I say for now? Because you now have choices. You are free to pursue what you love, to chase wealth, to win the hearts of those you desire. What you achieve will depend on your effort, your skill, and your gifts. But if you commit crimes—murder, theft, violence—you will face swift and merciless punishment!"
"Since we've destroyed slavery, the laws made by the old masters are void. Tomorrow, I will convene a royal council and establish new laws. And you will follow them."
"Without order, there is only chaos. And chaos leads back to the days of helplessness and humiliation!"
"This new system is only beginning, and will take time to perfect. But I vow: soldiers will be honored and receive royal wages. Freedmen will be granted land to call their own. Merchants and nobles must pay fair wages to laborers—no more treating workers like slaves. Treat them as partners. Show them respect."
"My people—do you believe in my vision?"
Through sobs, the crowd cried: "Yes! We believe!"
Aside from a few resistant merchants and nobles—and the Unsullied—Drogo could see clearly: the others were weeping as they answered him.
"Khalasar! Tear down every Harpy statue in the city!"
Drogo shouted to his mounted warriors, then turned his gaze to the Unsullied and roared:
"From this day on, none of you will be forced into inhuman training! The wine of courage will never touch your lips again! You will be treated with honor—like royalty. You will learn to desire once more."
"The Harpy you were taught to revere is crumbling. The masters are dead. You no longer live under a false god. Free yourselves—and fight for my King's Glory!"
With that, he hurled the Harpy's Finger into the midst of the gathered nobles and merchants. A bold move. But he wasn't afraid.
For his people would eliminate the danger—in an instant.
In that instant, a wave swept through the crowd. They all dropped to their knees, one after another, crying out for the man who had given them life again:
"Father! Father! Father!"
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