Drogo had always been bold and relentless—before his rebirth and after. But now, compared to his former self, he had grown wiser. He no longer charged forward recklessly; unless necessary, he would not waste his strength on foolish bravado. Now he weighed his options carefully before taking action.
With no wealth, too few warriors, and no ships to cross the black salt sea, Drogo decided to begin with their prisoner—the Qartheen noble.
He asked, "Xaro, how much wealth do you possess? How many ships? How many men?"
Xaro, sensing hope, secretly rejoiced. As long as this barbarian leader was interested in worldly riches, he still had a chance.
"I possess enough wealth to purchase half of Qarth. I own thirty-five ships, including luxury yachts. As for manpower... not much. I'm merely a merchant. Including servants, guards, and sailors, no more than five hundred."
Drogo spat on the floor. "Pah! Half a kingdom, my ass."
He knew Xaro had risen too quickly to last. His treasury was already empty, and his wealth was little more than smoke and mirrors—trinkets to lure nobles and seduce women. As for ships and men, he was lying. He had more of both.
To still play games while being a prisoner? Drogo was no naïve Daenerys. His eyes turned cold and sharp as he barked,
"Tell the truth. Or I'll make sure you never speak again."
That was a death sentence. Xaro nearly pissed himself in terror and quickly confessed everything—down to the jewelry he'd gifted to his thirty-something former wives.
"My overseas trade has collapsed. Jealous competitors banded together to shut me out of major markets. I've been losing money for years. Aside from a few showpieces to maintain appearances, my vaults are empty. I have nearly a hundred ships up for sale. My staff has been cut to fewer than two hundred. And my wives..."
Drogo interrupted with a scowl. "Enough! You'd throw your wives to the wolves to save yourself. You really are a shameless pig."
Xaro bowed his head, shameless and desperate. "Yes, Khal Drogo! I am a pig. A pig who will give you everything I have."
Wealth could be regained. Life, once lost, could not. Xaro had clawed his way up from the bottom, rising through humiliation and grit. Now, even if he lost everything, he believed he could rise again. His experience and ambition gave him an edge even against kings.
Drogo despised his cowardice—but for now, this was exactly the kind of man he needed.
Exhausted, he yawned and said, "I'll spare your life for now. I may find a use for you. Soon, I'll have someone bring parchment and a quill. You'll write a letter to your steward or wife, ordering them to send all your remaining wealth here. I will read it myself. If you try to call for help or summon mercenaries from Qarth, I promise you—you'll die. Understood?"
Xaro was not disheartened. In fact, he answered eagerly, "Thank you, great Khal. I will serve you with my life. The letter will satisfy you—I swear it."
Drogo sneered. "Aggo! Find him a room. Lock him up. Keep a close eye on him."
"Yes, blood of my blood."
Drogo had chosen Aggo on purpose—his fiery temper would ensure Xaro wouldn't be too comfortable. No one disrespects Daenerys and gets off easy.
Thinking of Daenerys, the battle-hardened Khal couldn't help but shiver. He suspected tonight would be another sleepless night.
At least dawn was not far away.
"Rakharo—inform the khalasar. Ten days of rest. No need to attend worship or homage ceremonies during that time."
With that, Drogo groaned and rubbed his back, heading off to see Daenerys.
His grumbling, almost ungrateful demeanor made Ser Jorah burn with jealousy. His hand tightened unconsciously on the leather of his sword scabbard.
Come morning, Drogo and Daenerys sat together on the flat rooftop of the palace, bathed in golden sunlight. The peace and beauty made him think of that old phrase—a match made in heaven.
"Sssskree!"
Below them, the three hatchlings had learned to glide. They took off from the palace towers and glided smoothly to the ground, shrieking with excitement.
Their loyal companion Snowball had joined in the fun. The dragons took turns letting him ride on their warm backs, soaring and strutting together.
Daenerys beamed with joy, watching her children. She said dreamily, "They say Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters rode dragons over 150 meters long. Their wings could shadow entire towns. And legend has it, so long as they are free, dragons can grow without limit. My love, how long until Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion are strong enough to carry me—no, us—into the sky?"
Drogo noticed the slip in her phrasing. He answered coolly, "I don't know. But it shouldn't take long."
Daenerys thought to herself, Grow quickly, my children. I can't wait to show you the Dragonpit beneath King's Landing.
While she dreamed of the Iron Throne, Drogo was pondering skinchangers.
Perhaps it was exhaustion—or the loss of his mother's weirwood arrow, which had been burned by Jhogo—but he hadn't entered a vision for weeks. He could now sleep soundly, even without wine.
But just moments ago, as he dozed off, he'd dreamed again. He had seen the hatchlings learning to fly—in the garden of the palace.
Just as he began to question the dream's truth, Daenerys's cheerful voice had awakened him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the exact same scene below. The hatchlings' movements matched perfectly—only the dream had shown it up close, and real life was more distant.
Could that arrow carved with the bleeding face be hidden in the garden? Impossible…
Drogo shook off the thought. If the dreams returned, he'd find the answer eventually.
Ten peaceful days passed quickly.
At dawn, Drogo summoned his khalasar before the palace gates.
Rested and well-fed, his people looked strong and vibrant. Drogo was pleased.
But rest breeds complacency. The Dothraki were a nomadic people. They did not linger in one place.
It was time to move.
"My khalasar! You have one day to fill your waterskins and harvest every edible fruit from this city. Tomorrow, when our supplies from Qarth arrive, we march to Slaver's Bay—to Astapor, the city marked by the sigil of the harpy!"
His people were confused. Many questioned why he would abandon the conquest of Qarth and instead head to a slaver city ruled by the Good Masters.
They had angered the warlocks of the House of the Undying, slain the shadowbinder Quaithe, and captured the wealthiest merchant of Qarth. To march openly into that city now would be suicide.
"Qarth remains our target. But we must delay the conquest. Why? Because we need allies. We need warriors—trained from birth, castrated, emotionless, obedient. The Unsullied—perfect soldiers. Masters of the blade. Killers without fear."
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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