(Notes for those unfamiliar with Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire are at the end of the chapter.)
The damp, vast plains were covered with copper-colored grass, and under the whipping of the high wind, it surged like a furious sea, rolling toward the farthest horizon.
Several almond-eyed men wearing colorful leather vests waved weapons that looked half like swords and half like sickles. They rode tall horses and broke through small patches of grass waves, surrounding a lone white-maned male lion so tightly that there was no escape. They let out wolf-like howls, proudly flaunting their strength.
Their robust bodies were like cast bronze. Their long beards were connected with silver rings, and their black hair was braided into thick plaits, radiating an aura of fearlessness and savagery.
"ROAR!"
The furious king of beasts roared and tried to break through the encirclement, but was skillfully driven back by the agile horsemen wielding strange curved sabers.
With no way out, and failing to escape, the lion had no choice but to accept the desperate fight these savages had forced upon it.
And its opponent was merely a child, around ten years old, who had been forcibly thrown off his horse into the encirclement.
He wore a short braid with a bell tied at its end and held a curved blade in his trembling hands.
Facing the snarling white lion closing in step by step, the boy couldn't withstand the suffocating pressure.
Retreating in fear, he cried out, "No, no! Father, I can't do it, I can't!"
As he backed up to a towering man — whose long braid and beard were the longest among the group, whose body was painted with claw-like mud, and who carried a natural air of leadership — a furious roar filled his ears:
"Drogo! You are the son of Balbo!
Once you hold an arakh, you must charge forward without hesitation! Cowardice must never appear in you!
If you wish to be the strongest Khal across the Dothraki Sea, you must bear the weight of it and become one whose braid is never cut!
There is no place for cowards in a khalasar!
Will you die under my blade or under the lion's jaws!?"
Hearing this, the boy named Drogo turned to look at his father's cold, merciless face.
His small frame gradually stopped trembling, and a look of determination surfaced.
He realized that he had no one to rely on — only by fighting the fierce beast could he have even a sliver of hope.
Balbo, sensing the change in his son's mindset, quickly acted to fulfill his desire.
He tightened the reins, and with a swift movement, leaned to the right, slipping off the saddle while keeping his right foot hooked in the stirrup to support his weight.
Then, he fiercely whipped Drogo across the back with his silver-handled whip!
Driven forward by the intense pain, Drogo stumbled uncontrollably toward the beast.
The white lion, still wary from Balbo's earlier oppressive presence, had been hesitant to attack.
But now, seeing the vulnerable Drogo left alone, its bloodlust surged.
The distance was short.
The lion lunged forward with all its strength, mouth wide open, aiming to pin the small human beneath it and crush his throat!
At that critical moment, Balbo swiftly took the massive double-curved bone bow from his back, drew a grayish-white arrow engraved with a weeping face from his quiver, and nocked it onto the bowstring, aiming precisely at the beast's forehead — the vital spot.
Although Balbo was harsh, Drogo was still his son.
Meanwhile, Drogo, unaware of his father's action, only felt a heart-wrenching pain, mistaking it for a punishment to prevent him from retreating.
Facing the greater threat of the charging lion, Drogo had no time to hesitate.
He turned his body, preparing with all his focus to fight back.
The whistling of the wind, the coaxing shouts from the clansmen — all disappeared.
All he could hear was the booming beat of his own heart.
The ferocious lion's gaping maw grew rapidly in his vision, its hot and foul breath washing over him.
At that critical moment of life and death, there was no more room for fear.
Just like his father had shown him countless times, Drogo gathered all his strength in his arms.
He raised the heavy curved blade high and, aiming at the lion's neck, slashed down from right to left in a sharp silver arc!
As the lion tackled him, the curved blade slipped from his hands, plunging heavily into the thick, dark earth.
"Splurt!" A column of blood shot out, spraying across Drogo's face!
The dying white lion managed to sink its teeth into Drogo's neck, but its bite lacked strength.
Only shallow scratches appeared on Drogo's skin.
Not waiting for the beast's death throes to finish, Drogo, his fighting spirit awakened by being bathed in the beast's blood, pushed the lion off and stood up.
He lifted his chin proudly and looked defiantly at his father.
Their gazes locked.
Unexpectedly, Balbo revealed a rare smile of approval and slowly loosened the bowstring.
Drogo instinctively felt his heart relax as well.
Despite hating his father's ruthlessness, he understood that this was the Dothraki way.
"Hmph!" Drogo grunted coldly, picked up the curved blade, and went to complete the coming-of-age ceremony that had been forced upon him prematurely.
When he wrapped the ferocious lion's hide over himself, it symbolized that — at just ten years old — he had already reached manhood.
The lion's head formed a natural hood, covering the short braid that made him seem small, while the hide draped down to his heels, making him appear imposing and majestic.
The thrill of slaying a lion with a single blow awakened a kingly aura within Drogo.
He spread his arms wide, lifting his head to the sky, ready to embrace the glory that now belonged to him.
Just then, he noticed a strange sight:
A red comet was slowly sweeping across the low eastern sky — blood red, fiery red — with a long blazing tail like that of a dragon!
He was about to share this wondrous sign with the others when something terrifying happened.
His father, the clansmen, and their horses were suddenly engulfed in raging, ghostly flames — like messengers from the underworld!
The sudden catastrophe left Drogo stunned, not knowing what to do.
But that was only the beginning.
The copper grass, unable to withstand the intense heat, ignited, and the flames quickly spread, turning the heavy grass sea into dry black embers.
Amid the swirling smoke and steam, guided by the fierce winds, a massive, dragon-shaped storm formed, absorbing debris and growing larger, brewing lightning within its vortex.
It became so violent that it could topple mountains like dry leaves!
Facing the rapidly approaching giant storm, Drogo realized that this was a force no man could resist.
His survival instinct burned stronger than ever before.
He wanted to escape, but the surrounding flames had already cut off all possible routes.
In his panic and desperation, his father — now a scorched and unrecognizable figure — spoke:
"I will rise again when the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,
when the seas go dry, and mountains blow away like leaves,
when the unborn quickens in the womb once more...
Then, the king will awaken."
Drogo couldn't hear the rest clearly.
He only caught a few fragmented words:
"Child... dragon... heart tree... lake..."
Balbo then bared his white teeth in a ghastly but somehow warm smile.
He threw his silver-handled whip, bone bow, and arrows toward his son, then mounted a flaming horse and leapt into the sky, glowing like a second sun, disappearing into the distant east.
Instinctively, Drogo caught the weapons, grabbed the whip, and, without time for grief, rushed toward the narrow path his father had cleared for him.
As he dashed through the wall of flames, he suddenly felt himself stepping into thin air — as if falling into a bottomless abyss!
"Thud, thud, thud! Ah! It hurts!"
Qin Lang's heart was pounding wildly as he woke up screaming from the dream, finding himself embedded backward into soft red sand.
The thick smell of perfumed oils and smoke filled his nostrils. Above him, a fiery red comet swept across the night sky, while all around him, flames still roared ferociously.
Even more chilling were the sounds—not just the crackle of burning wood but the high-pitched, heart-wrenching screams of women coming from nearby.
In such an eerie scene, Qin Lang struggled to stand up, but his body simply wouldn't respond.
He felt as if he were falling apart, unable to summon even a shred of strength.
Barely able to turn his head, he surveyed his surroundings, searching for the source of the cries.
He saw no figures, only about two meters to his right, there was a high platform made of flammable materials—shrubs, tree trunks, and branches—now burning fiercely.
Farther away, other similar flame circles could be seen.
Judging by his condition and the depth of his imprint in the sand, Qin Lang realized he must have fallen from that high platform.
The strong smell of perfumed oil came from his body and the burning materials.
But what terrified him even more was the drastic change to his body: once frail and chronically ill, it now had the muscular build of a bodybuilder!
Moreover, a fierce, grayish-red scar was visible diagonally across his chest!
Qin Lang was utterly confused, his mind buzzing.
He suffered from an incurable disease — spinocerebellar ataxia — and had been nearly paralyzed, barely able to care for himself.
His family and doctors had kept him bedridden, playing with a phone just to pass time.
Recently, he had become obsessed with Game of Thrones, the hit TV series adapted from A Song of Ice and Fire.
He thought that perhaps this vivid, fantastical dream was born from his obsession.
But how could it feel so real?
Why was he now in a scene completely disconnected from modern civilization!?
Even more absurd—his body had changed!
His clothing resembled that of the Dothraki people from his dream.
In the dream, he had embodied young Drogo, experiencing everything vividly as if he had truly lived it.
And when he stepped into the void in the dream, he had truly fallen.
The pain he now felt—intense, searing, undeniable—was far too real for a dream.
He heard wailing—meaning there were people nearby.
He wanted to call for help, but his throat was so parched and raw that he couldn't utter a sound.
Lying trapped in the high heat, not a single bead of sweat came from his skin.
Clearly, this body was severely dehydrated.
The red sand was soft enough to dig a shallow hole for escape, but his limbs wouldn't move.
No matter how he racked his brain, Qin Lang found no solution.
He could only lie helplessly and hope for a miracle.
Suddenly, from beyond the wall of flames, he heard a desperate male voice shouting:
"Your Grace! The dead are gone—why are you being so foolish!?
You stupid woman, come back to me! Come back!"
The shouting was almost cursing, and the language was different from the barbarian tongue in his dream — different from any Earth language he knew.
Yet Qin Lang could somehow understand it perfectly, as if it were his native language.
Where there were living people, there was hope.
But he couldn't call out. He could only bitterly watch the chance pass.
Yet soon, a new figure appeared.
A petite, delicate woman with exquisite Western features, her violet-colored eyes gleaming brilliantly, her skin pale as snow—an absolute beauty.
In her arms, she cradled three strange, oval-shaped stones with vivid, exotic colors.
Like a phoenix bathing in flames, she stepped through the wall of fire.
As she approached, the flames surged higher, fueled by the rising wind.
Her hair and clothes were nearly burned away, leaving her nearly bare — primitive and wild.
Qin Lang's heart nearly leapt out of his chest:
"This isn't some movie set. No actress would risk her life like this!"
As he watched, he noticed something miraculous:
apart from her hair, the woman's body was immune to the flames!
But he had no time to think further.
He could only stare wide-eyed, full of hope, mouth agape, silently screaming for salvation.
The woman noticed him almost immediately.
After a brief stunned pause, she sprinted toward him.
Upon reaching him, she knelt, let the strange stones fall aside, and gathered Qin Lang tightly into her arms.
She choked on her sobs and cried:
"My sun and stars, how did you fall!?
I thought you... you weren't supposed to wake again!
Even if you open your eyes... you're no longer you."
Being embraced tightly by this stunning woman, Qin Lang strangely felt no lustful thoughts.
He only felt suffocated, unable to breathe.
With only his head able to move, Qin Lang desperately bit into her shoulder, hoping she would loosen her grip.
But the woman only hugged him tighter and muttered crazily:
"Drogo... My blood is true dragon blood.
It will protect you from the fires of the red star and let you ride across the night lands unburnt.
You promised me, Drogo...
You would cross the Black Salt Sea with me, conquer Westeros, and present the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne to our son!
Our son, Rhaego, couldn't wait any longer... He's already gone to find you..."
Qin Lang felt dizzy.
She spoke in phrases ripped straight from Game of Thrones, and she called him "Drogo"?
"Could it be...?"
A flash of realization hit him — the scene, her appearance — it all fit too perfectly.
But he had no time to dwell on it.
He increased the force of his bite, tasting the salty, metallic tang of blood.
The taste was terrible, but Qin Lang, desperate and parched, greedily drank it.
As the hot blood flowed into him, spread by his digestive system, the searing heat burning his skin began to recede, inch by inch.
His strength returned — his lungs regained vitality — and he could breathe much more easily even under her crushing hug.
But with the woman's life force draining, her crying grew weaker.
At last, she whimpered in deep pain.
Awakened from his daze, Qin Lang immediately released her shoulder, ashamed.
Gathering his strength, he hoarsely asked:
"You... you wouldn't happen to be Daenerys Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, would you?"
His burning throat now able to produce sound again.
The woman trembled even harder, her body shivering with excitement.
Tears streaming down her face, she cried:
"Oh, Great Stallion! My sun and stars—you recognize me!
Your soul has returned from the night lands!
Yes, it's me!
I am your moon!
I am your Khaleesi!"
Qin Lang also trembled and muttered under his breath:
"Holy shit... Did I really transmigrate!?"
The woman blinked at him in confusion:
"Transmigrate?"
Just as Qin Lang prepared to ask more, a sudden loud "crack!" sounded.
The burning platform, already weakened, collapsed.
In a split second, Qin Lang instinctively shielded the woman with his body.
"BOOM!"
They, along with the three stones, were buried beneath a cascade of burning debris.
Luckily, it was mostly light materials.
The impact wasn't fatal, though Qin Lang felt increasingly disoriented.
Amid the chaos, vague memories flooded his mind—memories of young Drogo's legendary growth—
memories that didn't belong to Qin Lang but now lived inside him.
The dizziness overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes tightly.
In the haze, he sensed a growing heartbeat from beneath him, and faintly heard a chilling "crack, crack" sound—
like something was hatching.
No one knew how much time had passed.
At last, the fiery ashes died out.
Cold night air rushed in, making Qin Lang shiver awake.
Through the "shh-shh" sound of footsteps on the scorched ground, he opened his eyes — no longer confused — and pushed himself up with trembling hands.
Ashes and charred wood slid off him.
He staggered to his feet and glanced sideways.
On his shoulder perched a strange creature: lizard-like, with bat-like wings, lava-like eyes, and black scales glistening with blood.
It looked like a small, black-and-red dragon.
Looking down, he saw the beautiful woman holding two other similar creatures in her arms:
one gray-white and golden, the other bronze and green.
Despite the terrifying appearances of the creatures, Qin Lang didn't feel afraid.
Instead, the little creature on his shoulder showed a sense of intimacy toward him.
He realized that this blood connection came from the woman by his side.
Surveying the surroundings, Qin Lang saw only the scorched remains of wood, ash, and some charred bones.
And the footsteps he had heard came from a burly, bald middle-aged man with thick, coarse black hair covering his arms and chest.
He was not handsome, but strong and imposing.
Behind him, three young warriors carrying weapons led a group of elderly, women, and children, all approaching slowly, their faces filled with astonishment.
The bald man was the first to kneel down on one knee.
The three warriors stepped forward one by one, respectfully placing golden arakhs, silver-handled whips, black shiny bone bows, and gray-white arrows at Qin Lang's feet.
Then, one by one, they all knelt, reverence written deeply across their faces, and shouted in unison:
"Blood of my blood! Blood of my blood!"
Having now merged with Drogo's memories, Qin Lang naturally accepted their reverence.
He looked down at them with the dignity of a ruler and murmured under his breath:
"My past life has been buried like dust.
I must now live in the present.
From this day forward, there will be no more Qin Lang."
At that moment, a surge of kingly dominance flooded his mind.
He clenched his fists, flexed his arm and chest muscles, and roared:
"I am the Unburnt!
The undefeated king of the horseback!
The strongest Khal of the Dothraki Sea!
The Father of Dragons, Drogo!
World of Ice and Fire — here I come!!"
Hearing his declaration, Daenerys hesitated for a moment.
She suppressed her own grand speech that was about to burst out, swallowed it back, and looked down at the fiery, hot creatures in her arms, smiling sweetly.
The three little dragons, seemingly infected by Drogo's heroic spirit, spread their translucent wings and beat them excitedly, flapping around both Drogo and Daenerys.
They exhaled thin streams of white smoke from their nostrils and let out sharp, piercing cries — "hiss, hiss, caw, caw" — declaring their arrival into the world!!
PS — Annotations:
About Khal Drogo:
He is a character from A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones, leader of the largest khalasar among the nomadic Dothraki people on the Eastern continent.
About Daenerys Targaryen:
She is the youngest daughter of "Mad King" Aerys II Targaryen, the last ruler of the Targaryen dynasty that ruled Westeros for 282 years.
After the dynasty's fall, she lived in exile across the Free Cities with her hot-tempered brother Viserys.
For political purposes, Viserys arranged Daenerys' marriage to Khal Drogo, hoping to use the Khal's strength to reclaim the Iron Throne.
As a wedding gift, she was given fossilized dragon eggs.
However, Daenerys' fate was tragic.
On the way to Westeros, Drogo was wounded while raiding a Lhazareen village.
Due to Daenerys' kindness, she protected a captured Lhazareen witch, who, seeking revenge, secretly poisoned Drogo's wound.
The witch's magic, demanding a life for a life, caused Daenerys to miscarry her unborn child and reduced Drogo to a lifeless, vegetative state.
Heartbroken, Daenerys smothered Drogo with a pillow out of mercy.
She then tied the witch to Drogo's funeral pyre, lit it herself for vengeance, and entered the fire while carrying the dragon eggs.
Because only those with Targaryen blood can tame dragons, in this fanfiction, Drogo is given the title "Father of Dragons" to plausibly make him a dragon rider.
About the Dream at the Beginning:
It serves as a narrative device to set the stage for Drogo's resurrection.
Though it seems vague and dreamlike, it is an important plot point for the story's future development.
Worldbuilding Notes:
This novel will not solely focus on Westeros.
The world of A Song of Ice and Fire is vast, and many parts were left unexplored by George R. R. Martin.
Here, those mysteries will be boldly expanded.
This story will not strictly follow the canon plot of Game of Thrones.
Since it's a fanfiction, large changes are expected to make it more interesting and unique.
Please support the novel by bookmarking, recommending, and investing.
Thank you to all readers!
Dothraki Glossary:
Khal: Title for the leaders of the Dothraki, similar to "Khan" or "Chief."
Khaleesi: Title for the wife of a Khal, akin to a queen.
Khas: A Khal's personal group of followers.
Khalasar: The full tribe that follows a Khal.
Khalakka: The heir to a Khal's position.
Ko: A second-in-command among the Dothraki, leading smaller groups.
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