Under the stunned gazes of all present, a crimson giant emerged from the pile of bones and slowly stood tall. Who in all of Qarth could riva
Under the stunned gazes of all present, a crimson giant emerged from the pile of bones and slowly stood tall.
Who in all of Qarth could rival the Dragonfather in stature—other than the gluttonous giant Rommo, who spent his days feasting in the palace of the merchant prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos?
"Drogo!"
"Your Grace!"
"Khaleesi's Khal!"
Cries rang out in unison. Fear gave way to ecstasy. Even some of the usually stoic Unsullied erupted in cheers. It was a testament to how deeply Drogo's presence had rooted itself in the hearts of former slaves.
But Drogo paid their enthusiasm no mind. He opened eyes black as polished obsidian and gazed at the dragons hissing and sniffing around him. Then he reached out and laid his hand on Viserion, the white dragon—the dullest of the three.
As they grew, Viserion had become increasingly wild. Not even Daenerys's voice, nor her motherly affection, could tame him. Let alone Drogo's touch or command.
But this time, when Drogo reached out, Viserion recoiled slightly. After a moment's hesitation, the white dragon stretched out his neck and leaned into the touch.
Feeling the same blistering heat radiating from his father's hand, Viserion nudged his snout forward and nuzzled him.
Drogo, the Dragonfather, being doted upon by his dragons—it seemed only natural to the soldiers.
But Daenerys, who knew her husband intimately, was startled. His body, seared red by flame, now emanated something… transformed. Something more. As if he had been forged anew.
Seeing her solemn expression, Drogo gently patted each dragon on the head and said, "Go. Play elsewhere."
Viserion and Rhaegal hesitated, but Drogon understood. With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared toward the bay. His brothers quickly followed.
The bellies of dragons were like the gates of the Seven Hells—forever empty. They spent their days playing and hunting.
Even so, dragons remained the greatest of the Nine Wonders of the World.
To the common folk: without dragons, no man could conquer the world.
Drogo believed it with all his heart. Restraining the nature of dragons would only hinder their growth. The Dragonlords of House Targaryen had proven that time and again.
He would never make such a mistake. As long as they obeyed him—destroyed what he wished destroyed—that was enough.
His body now radiated blistering heat. Only Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, dared touch him—and only she had the right.
She gently tapped his chest and asked, "My sun and stars, does it hurt?"
Drogo answered calmly, "It doesn't. Just feels hot."
His condition was shocking—a layer of skin clearly burned away. Daenerys examined him, concerned. "Truly no pain?"
Looking into her worried eyes, Drogo replied, "Truly."
Daenerys suspected he was suppressing the pain to maintain his dignity. Had they been alone, she imagined, he'd have wept like a babe.
But she was wrong. Though his outer skin had burned away, the new flesh beneath was tougher than ever.
Otherwise, he'd be down to the bone by now. His skin wasn't peeling or shriveling—only reborn.
Pain or no pain, Daenerys trusted only what she saw. She called out urgently, "Grey Worm! Send for Qarth's best healers!"
Then, with growing worry, she added, "Blood of my blood—fetch Karl's golden tent from the camp. Set it here. We treat him on the spot!"
Touched by her concern, Drogo raised his hand to caress her hair. But fearing the heat might scorch her silver-gold strands, he lowered his hand and gently booped her nose instead.
Then, firmly, he stopped her: "Blood of my blood. Grey Worm. No need for healers or tents. Just bring me a few buckets of water."
Water—to cool him?
Everyone understood his intent.
But they also knew pouring water on fresh burns would unleash agony and possibly worsen the injury.
Still, none dared disobey. They rode swiftly to fetch water.
The recent fire meant water was readily available—used to keep the flames from reaching the crowded quarters of the city. Within ten minutes, a line of soldiers returned with buckets.
Drogo pointed to the ground, indicating where to set them. What others feared, he would face alone.
As he lifted the first bucket over his head, hearts clenched across the square.
Splash!
Water cascaded down his body. A soft white mist rose—like steam from a red-hot sword plunged into the forge.
Five or six buckets followed. Drogo let out a deep breath of satisfaction. His skin shifted from crimson to pale, revealing the dark brown hue of his Dothraki blood.
But to return to his usual sun-bronzed tone would take time.
Once his body cooled to something close to normal, and his stomach howled louder than his pride, he returned to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones and feasted like a starved wolf.
That night, he pondered the visions shown to him in the House of the Undying—the truths of past and future. Then he ordered Missandei to bring forth maps from the royal library of Qarth—complete world charts and tomes detailing Valyria and the Valyrian roads.
Old Volantis had been the first colony of the Valyrian Freehold. After the Doom shattered the empire, Volantis claimed its independence.
It remained the eldest and most powerful of the Nine Free Cities—rivaled only by Braavos—and was honored as "Valyria's First Daughter."
Now that the conquest of Westeros was at hand, Drogo needed to choose the best route for his forces.
According to the maps and the advice of Qarth's wise men, if he took the sea route, the fleet would need to resupply at Volantis, near the mouth of the Rhoyne.
After all, Qarth was halfway around the world from Westeros. An army marching on dried meats alone would suffer disease and death.
If they traveled overland, they would need to return to Slaver's Bay and follow the Old Valyrian Road—the fourth of the Nine Wonders—all the way west.
But such a path would slow them. They would face deserts, mountains, grasslands, swamps, and ruined lands haunted by beasts—far worse than the Red Waste they had once crossed. Many would not reach Volantis. Reaching Westeros would be a fantasy.
After much thought, Drogo chose the sea.
He feared no pirate. Once word of his fleet spread, the cowardly corsairs who preyed on merchants would steer well clear of his warships.
He feared no man, no storm, no kraken.
Nothing on land or sea could stop him.
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