Beneath the blazing sun, Daenerys led the line of refugees westward atop her little silver mare.
The devastating sight of the beast tide had left them too terrified to dare stop or look back.
Before, when the old, weak, and women had surged with heat and passion, it was because they hadn't understood the true horror.
Now, after witnessing that soul-shaking terror, there was no longer even a shred of bravado left among them.
Following close behind their Khaleesi were the bloodriders and Ser Jorah Mormont.
The elderly, children, and wounded filled the center of the column, while the mounted warriors who had returned under Drogo's banner covered the rear.
As for Mago, his hands were tightly bound with rope.
Jorah held the other end, dragging him mercilessly across the rough ground—a living emblem of crime and punishment.
Daenerys despised this cruel demon.
She even set her three hatchlings upon him, letting them claw and scratch, occasionally breathing out searing heat, much to the dragons' delight.
Reduced to the dragons' plaything, Mago pleaded for mercy—but Daenerys, releasing years of accumulated rage, had no intention of granting him a quick death.
The others had endured too much hardship to waste a thought on pity.
Even Mago's former riders showed no sympathy.
He was a fallen man now, no different than the dust beneath their feet.
As they marched, few spoke.
And when they did, it was only about one thing: Drogo, the Unburnt.
Though their Khal remained trapped amid the beasts, none worried anymore for his fate.
That man was truly miraculous.
Rotting wounds, blood magic, raging infernos, an entire enemy khalasar—none had managed to claim his life.
How could a pack of brainless beasts possibly succeed?
To many, Daenerys paled in comparison.
She had the dragons, yes—but Drogo was a dragon in human form.
He had what she did not.
That was why they had pledged themselves to Drogo so eagerly, without hesitation.
Daenerys understood their hearts all too well.
But she also knew the pull of power was irresistible.
The girl who had once miscarried a stillborn child often told herself in bitter moments:
"His unmatched strength—he owes it all to my blood, the blood of the true dragon!"
They pressed on, from the burning midday into twilight.
The strong could endure, but the elderly, the children, and the wounded began to falter.
The endless, barren wasteland gnawed at their spirits.
Still, no one dared stop until Daenerys herself gave the command.
Finally, it was Ser Jorah who rode up to her and spoke:
"Khaleesi, we have gone far enough.
The Red Wastes are barren and empty—no beast tide will pursue us this deep.
The people are exhausted.
Shall we make camp here for the night?"
Daenerys was exhausted herself, her vision blurring.
She had been waiting for someone to say it.
She nodded graciously:
"Very well.
Tell them: we camp here tonight.
We wait for Drogo to bring the stars back to us."
"As you command, Khaleesi," Jorah said, bowing low before galloping to the rear to deliver the orders.
Watching him go, Daenerys whispered almost inaudibly:
"Ser Jorah...
I still prefer when you called me 'Your Majesty'... or 'Princess.'"
Once nerves stretched to the limit were released, people could ignore anything—even mortal danger.
Some even cheered.
The men watered the horses and erected tents; the women gathered dry wood to make fires.
Daenerys instructed her handmaids to burn the meat thoroughly, and at the scent of roasting flesh, the hatchlings eagerly unwound themselves from her arms, darting off like three hungry little snakes.
Their appetites were monstrous, consuming several times their weight at every meal.
Drogon, the largest, was the most domineering—swatting his brothers aside and snatching the first bite of seared horse meat.
After feasting, the little dragons nestled into Daenerys' arms once again, nursing from her warmth.
She loved cradling them.
Their scales gave off a pleasant heat, especially noticeable in the cold desert night, filling her with comfort.
At such times, she would gently stroke their tiny bodies and murmur questions to the uncertain future:
"When you grow up, will you protect me like your father Drogo does?
Will you love him more than you love me?"
"Hissss."
The hatchlings replied in soft dragon-tongue she could not yet understand.
The darkness of night turned everything strange and dreamlike.
Though exhausted, few of the khalasar slept, save for children and the truly infirm.
Most sat staring at the sky, silently praying to the gods.
Suddenly—
"Awooo!"
A bone-chilling cry—half wolf, half lion—tore through the silence.
The eastern camp stirred restlessly.
Daenerys' hatchlings leapt from her arms and shot away like startled mice.
Warriors grabbed their weapons, readying for battle.
But when they saw the figure approaching, their tension turned to joyous disbelief:
"Our Khal has returned!"
Dust-covered but unbowed, Drogo strode forward, a dead lion slung across his shoulders.
Though clearly near exhaustion, he walked tall, refusing to let the weight stoop his back.
Their Khal—vain to the end—was a man who could back up every ounce of his pride.
The Unburnt King.
A tidal wave of emotion swept through Daenerys.
As he approached, alive, her heart raced uncontrollably, and her face bloomed with an irrepressible smile.
Drogo tossed the dead beast aside.
For once, he shed his usual aloofness, nodding to the warriors who gave him space, and made his way directly to his wife.
They all retreated respectfully, not only because of their reverence, but also because of what followed behind him—
A creature like a snowball, its forehead marked by a deep, blood-red streak.
Under the light of the blood moon, its gaze seemed to suck in their very souls—as if a door to hell had cracked open.
Even the proud little dragons, who disdained all beings save their mother and Drogo, were captivated, trailing behind the white cub in fascination.
Drogo embraced Daenerys and whispered words meant for lovers' ears alone.
Then he summoned her handmaids, gesturing toward the dead lion, giving low instructions.
Soon after, the camp broke into wild celebration.
Drogo was exhausted, too tired to think of strategy.
He called for feasting and drinking, and the revelry raged until the early morning hours.
When at last he entered Daenerys' tent, he was met with a surprising sight:
The hatchlings and the lion cub were playfully wrestling together.
Drogo was stunned.
He knew how prideful and aloof the dragons were—they had never played with anything or anyone but their human parents.
"What magic does this snowball have," Drogo wondered, "to win the favor of dragons?"
Was it the cub's bloodline—so noble it rivaled that of the dragons themselves?
Or did the hatchlings simply see it as an amusing pet?
Yet another mystery added to the growing pile.
But Drogo had no time to ponder.
The most precious thing in the world—his woman—was waiting for him, gazing up with her big, luminous eyes.
.
.
.
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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