Chapter 2 – Fear
Is she changing her mind? Good—better not let him go.
And this half-bald middle-aged man… so he really is Jorah, the poor fellow ruined by that wasteful woman of his.
Drogon's voice echoed again in Daenerys's mind.
She froze—not sending Rakharo out immediately.
And Drogon… actually sounded fond of Jorah?
She had not misheard.
The mysterious voice truly came from Irri's direction—yet Irri had clearly said nothing.
And that remark about Jorah's wasteful… woman? Who would say something like that?
Daenerys was still wondering if it was a hallucination brought on by hunger and exhaustion when the voice came again.
"Khalessi…?"
Irri whispered nervously. Daenerys was staring at her with wide, tense eyes, and the girl shrank back.
Drogon glanced at the "Old Bear" Jorah, then stretched his small neck toward Daenerys curiously, wondering what she intended to do.
Could it be… my little dragon speaking?
And in High Valyrian, no less—words even Daenerys herself barely knew.
Her thought was absurd, ridiculous.
But if it wasn't Drogon, then who?
The voice came from his direction. That much she was certain of.
What are you looking at me for? Your little dragon is starving to death. Hurry up and give me something to eat!
Drogon complained inwardly.
He didn't care what Daenerys was thinking—he only knew he was starving.
Whatever happened to Rakharo was none of his concern. Let them worry about it.
He flapped his wings impatiently, urging Irri to hand over the meat.
There it was again—the voice.
This time Daenerys was certain.
It was Drogon.
He wasn't speaking aloud—he was speaking in his mind, and she could hear it.
I can hear Drogon's thoughts… And he doesn't even know it!
Daenerys felt a surge of joy and quickly averted her gaze, terrified he might somehow realize she could hear him.
"Rakharo," she said softly but firmly, "stay here for now. Let the others ride ahead first."
If Drogon had warned her Rakharo would die, then there must be a reason.
Even if she didn't understand how Drogon knew, she couldn't risk losing her most trusted bloodrider.
Let Aggo and Kovarro scout first. If they found nothing, she would consider the next step.
Rakharo hesitated, puzzled, but obeyed and led his horse aside.
Jorah also looked uncertain, but this was neither the time nor place to question her.
Irri returned to the black horse carrying Drogon's cage, took out a piece of meat, and offered it to him.
But Drogon could smell immediately that it was raw.
He wanted it cooked.
He remembered that Irri kept flint and kindling tied to her saddle.
He tugged her toward the yellow mare she rode, then hooked the flint pouch with a wing.
"Drogon wants it cooked," Daenerys interpreted instantly.
Mother of Dragons—you really do understand me, Drogon grumbled contentedly.
Although she didn't dare look directly at him, Daenerys had been paying close attention to every subtle movement.
When he snagged the flint pouch, a childhood memory surfaced—Viserys's voice:
"Only men and dragons eat cooked meat."
And she hadn't recalled it until now.
To think she had let her dragons starve this long…
Daenerys's heart tightened with guilt.
What a poor mother I am…
"Irri, roast more meat for them. As much as they can eat—cook it all."
At Daenerys's command, Irri hurried to set up a small rack and strike flint for fire.
Soon, the meat was sizzling. Irri slid a glistening piece of golden-brown horseflesh off the spit and held it out. Drogon swallowed it whole without chewing—like a starving wraith reborn into flesh.
Daenerys nodded to Irri and Jhiqui, who released the other two hatchlings.
Rhaegal and Viserion, seeing Drogon devouring his meal, could no longer restrain themselves. They flapped awkwardly across the sand, pushing and snapping at Drogon for a share.
What are these two idiots eating so much for? Drogon grumbled. They're going to die sooner or later anyway. Waste of food.
Viserion—shot from the sky by the Night King's spear.
Rhaegal—felled by a scorpion bolt in an ambush.
Remembering that chain of tragedies—Missandei's execution, Daenerys's wrath, and the burning of King's Landing—Drogon's irritation grew.
But Daenerys…
Daenerys went rigid.
Her hands froze on the cage latch.
She had heard him—clearly.
Drogon had said that Viserion and Rhaegal would die.
Impossible.
They were dragons.
When grown, their wings could blot out pieces of sky. Who could possibly harm them?
Unless… unless they were killed while still small?
But how would Drogon know the future?
A memory stirred—Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon, Meraxes, slain by a scorpion bolt.
The precedent was there—dragons could die.
Daenerys's heart seized.
These three hatchlings were her children, her hope, her future.
To lose two of them… she could hardly breathe.
And Drogon—her Drogon—would he live?
Would he survive whatever fate he seemed to know?
Her mind spiraled into panic.
"Khaleesi?"
Jorah's voice cut through the haze.
He saw the look on her face and felt his chest tighten.
For a moment, she looked like the frightened thirteen-year-old girl he'd first met in the manse at Pentos—lost, trembling, desperate for protection.
"Khaleesi, what troubles you?" he asked, unable to hide the ache in his voice.
Since Khal Drogo's death, Daenerys had suffered but never broken.
From her, Jorah had seen courage beyond expectation—strength that survived even the Red Waste. It was why he had sworn fealty.
What could possibly frighten her now?
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys asked suddenly, "why did you— a knight—leave the fertile lands of Westeros for Pentos?"
"My… execution," he said awkwardly. "Eddard Stark meant to take my head. I… sold a few poachers into slavery."
He hesitated, unsure why she was asking this now.
"My wife, Lynesse… she loved jewels, singers, dancers, feasts. Bear Island had none of those things."
"I hired cooks, jewelers, dressmakers to please her, but she was never satisfied. I built her a ship for pleasure voyages. I spent everything—ruined myself—became a sellsword… and she left me for a wealthy merchant."
Shame tinged his voice, but he continued honestly.
"Lynesse," Daenerys whispered. "So she is the 'wasteful woman' Drogon spoke of."
Her face drained of color.
If Drogon knew that…
Then what he said of Rhaegal and Viserion must also be true.
Her knees wobbled; she nearly collapsed.
"Khaleesi!"
Jorah caught her at once, bewildered by her sudden weakness.
"I… I am fine." Daenerys forced calm. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. Truly."
Jorah could sense she was hiding something, but he could not press her.
Daenerys looked at her three dragons scrambling over one another for meat, and a fierce resolve settled in her chest.
No one would ever harm them.
"Jhiqui," she said through clenched teeth, "slaughter the mare. Feed it to the dragons."
The small mare—her first gift from Khal Drogo.
The pain of sacrificing it sliced through her heart, but if feeding her dragons now meant saving their lives later, she had no choice.
Before long, the roasted meat—nearly equal to the combined weight of the three dragons—was gone.
Yet they were still hungry.
Daenerys ordered more fires lit, more food cooked.
She would starve before her children did.
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