The walk through Illyrio's sprawling manse felt entirely different now. The opulence, once intimidating, seemed fragile beneath the weight of Balerion's presence outside. Illyrio Mopatis, though outwardly composed, moved with a newfound deference, leading Maegor not as a host, but as a guide to a force he barely understood. Kaeto walked a respectful half-pace behind Maegor, his hand never far from his sword, his eyes sharp and watchful.
They entered a massive, open-air courtyard that buzzed with a primal energy. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, horse, and unwashed men. Hundreds of Dothraki warriors, their braided hair long, their expressions fierce, moved about. At the center, around a crackling fire pit, sat Khal Drogo, a legend even in Westeros for his undefeated status and brutal efficiency. He was a magnificent, fearsome figure, bronzed skin, dark, gleaming eyes, and a long, magnificent braid that reached his waist, unbroken by defeat. His bloodriders, Viserys's future "allies," sat around him, their faces as hard as carved stone.
Drogo's eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on Maegor as they approached. He noted the silver hair beneath the remnants of black dye, the purple eyes, and the quiet, undeniable authority that radiated from the young man. He noted Illyrio's uncharacteristic subservience. A flicker of curiosity, quickly masked, crossed his face.
Illyrio, with a forced smile, began the introductions. "My Khal, this is A.M., the… the Westerosi merchant I spoke of. He has a matter of great importance to discuss."
Maegor stepped forward, ignoring Illyrio. He met Drogo's gaze directly, his Draconic Persuasion (Tier 2) subtly asserting itself, demanding attention, demanding respect. He spoke in the Common Tongue, knowing Illyrio would translate, but his voice carried a weight that transcended language.
"Khal Drogo," Maegor began, his voice deep and resonant, "I am Maegor Targaryen. And I come to you not as a merchant, but as a king."
A ripple of low growls went through Drogo's bloodriders. A challenge. Drogo merely raised an eyebrow, a silent command for his men to stand down. His gaze remained fixed on Maegor, assessing.
"You are a Khal," Maegor continued, his eyes never leaving Drogo's. "You understand power. You live by the horse. It is your life, your god, your strength. You believe the Great Stallion watches over you, that the grass is your world, that the dothraki are the strongest, for they ride horses." He paused, letting his words sink in, a calculated flattery of Dothraki pride.
"But you speak of dragons now," Maegor then stated, his voice taking on a new, cutting edge. "You are to take a bride, a daughter of the dragon. Yet, what do you truly know of dragons, Khal Drogo? What do you believe them to be?"
Illyrio, interpreting, seemed to sweat more profusely. Drogo considered this, his dark eyes unwavering. "Dragons," he grunted, his voice a guttural rumble. "Old tales. Spirits of the plains. Beasts of fire. Stones that breathe smoke." His contempt for the concept of living dragons was clear. To the Dothraki, fire was of the earth, horses were of the plains.
Maegor allowed a cold, disdainful smile to touch his lips. "You are mistaken, Khal. Dragons are not mere spirits. They are flesh and blood. They are the true lords of the sky, faster and stronger than any horse. They breathe fire that can melt stone, consume armies, and turn cities to ash. They are the ultimate power."
As he spoke, he focused his intent. He reached into his consciousness, extending his will towards Balerion. "Show him, Balerion," he commanded silently, using the potent link between them. "Show him the truth."
Outside, another, louder shriek ripped through the air. The Dothraki around the fire pit instinctively grabbed their arakhs. Khal Drogo's head snapped up. From the darkening sky, a black shadow descended, faster than an arrow. Balerion, now clearly the size of a cow, landed with a heavy thump in the center of the courtyard, kicking up dust and scattering embers. He let out a low, guttural roar, smoke curling from his nostrils.
The Dothraki froze. Their faces, usually so impassive, contorted with a mixture of raw terror and awe. Horses screamed in the nearby stables. This was no tale; this was a living nightmare, a fire-breathing god.
Balerion's obsidian eyes, filled with an ancient intelligence, swept over the gathered warriors, settling on Khal Drogo. He let out a smaller, challenging roar, daring them to move.
Maegor's voice, perfectly calm amidst the chaos, cut through the stunned silence. "This, Khal Drogo, is a dragon. My dragon. His name is Balerion. He is but a hatchling. But already, he is a force that can shatter your Khalasar. His fire can burn your arakhs, your braids, your very flesh. No horse, no matter how swift, can outrun a dragon's shadow."
He took another step closer, his eyes locked with Drogo's. "You value strength, Khal. You believe in power. I offer you a truth greater than any you have ever known. A dragon is not a spirit of the grass. A dragon is the embodiment of conquest. It is the beast that commands the earth and the sky. It is what makes men truly kneel."
"Your bride, Daenerys," Maegor continued, pressing his advantage, "is a daughter of fire and blood. She is a true princess of the dragon, but you do not understand what that means. You plan to take her as a trophy, to use her blood for your arakhs. You do not realize the power you were about to acquire, or how to truly wield it."
He paused, letting his words, backed by the terrifying presence of Balerion, sink into the Khal's mind. The Dothraki were a superstitious people. A living dragon was a god manifest.
"I offer you a different path, Khal Drogo," Maegor declared, his voice resonating with an almost hypnotic authority. "An alliance forged not on flimsy promises of a throne you could never truly hold, but on a shared understanding of true power. I am the Lord of Dragons. My blood is the blood of fire. And I offer you a chance to truly taste fire and blood, to ride under a sky commanded by dragons, to gain lands and wealth beyond your wildest dreams."
He gestured to Balerion, who let out another low growl, a rumble that vibrated in their bones. "You wished for a powerful alliance. You wished to be truly feared. With me, Khal Drogo, you will be more than feared. You will be unstoppable."
He held Drogo's gaze, letting the silence stretch, the weight of Balerion's presence filling the void. The Dothraki around them were pale, their eyes fixed on the dragon, their weapons forgotten. Even the proud Khal Drogo, for the first time in his life, looked uncertain, challenged by a power he had never conceived.
"So, Khal," Maegor finally asked, his voice sharp, demanding an immediate answer. "What is your reply? What is your belief now, in the face of a true Dragon?"