The blue sea lay calm under a clear sky, the sun warm and gentle. Only the soft lapping of waves—no higher than an arm's length—against the
The blue sea lay calm under a clear sky, the sun warm and gentle. Only the soft lapping of waves—no higher than an arm's length—against the hull and the smooth pull of wooden oars broke the stillness.
The tow ropes hung slack, the sails drooped limply from the mast. With little wind and no need for long-distance sailing, the sails were left loose.
Drogo stood on the foredeck, watching the three young dragons chase each other playfully across the sky. He tried to let the joy of this rare voyage at sea wash away the frustration of having too few ships.
The slavers had taken the large merchant vessels when they fled. Fewer than ten aging ships remained. Yet Qarth was one of the largest ports in the known world. True power there lay in the hands of the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers, each of which maintained its own massive docks. Behind them were piers that hosted ships from the Free Cities, the Summer Isles, and Westeros.
A sprawling marketplace operated day and night along the coast. Wineries, warehouses, and gambling dens lined the roads. Only the city's northwest side connected to land, leading to the vast Red Waste.
With such a coastal position, Qarth naturally had a strong navy.
That was Drogo's biggest concern—his lack of ships, seasoned captains, and skilled sailors to mount a naval assault on the City of Splendor.
He had already posted high bounties to recruit shipwrights and naval instructors, and dispatched envoys to purchase large amounts of timber. He intended to build a fleet.
But ships weren't the only problem. To the Dothraki, the sea was "poison water." Any liquid that horses could not drink was considered unclean.
This belief had been deeply ingrained by tradition. Braid-wearing warriors were raised with this mindset—and their khal was no different.
The first time Drogo boarded a ship and attempted to launch from the Skahazadhan Cape, it felt like sailing into hell. He was seasick, terrified, vomiting uncontrollably—his dignity in shambles.
But his will was strong. After a dozen trial voyages, he overcame his fear. Now, he could stand calmly and admire the sea.
And if he could do it, then surely his fearless riders could follow—marching into Qarth aboard wooden horses.
The Unsullied, always meticulous about cleanliness, would wash themselves with sand and seawater after every training session. They feared neither the sea nor the unknown.
Drogo decided that once the fleet was ready, the eunuchs would begin naval combat training first.
Viserion and Rhaegal circled overhead, weaving playful spirals as they competed to see who could fly higher. At times, they locked claws and tails, tumbling through the sky like a scaly knot. Just before hitting the sea, they would split apart, shrieking and flapping back into the air, steaming water rising in their wake.
The dragons' bellies were like bottomless whirlpools—never full. Any fish foolish enough to leap from the water was likely to be flash-roasted in flame and swallowed whole.
Drogon flew as well, but often vanished beyond the horizon, hunting in unknown skies. He would sometimes be gone for days.
Unlike his brothers, the black dragon was bolder and more independent. He was growing the fastest—first to test his wings over the ocean, first to dive into the terrifying storm clouds.
The young dragons were now the size of full-grown goats.
"They're getting bigger," Drogo said with awe. "Once we take Qarth and sail for Westeros, they'll be ready to ride."
Not yet. Forcing one to carry a rider now could mean disaster—death in the deep, even.
Few could resist gold. With generous rewards offered, Meereen quickly drew a crowd of shipwrights and seamen—many of them former pirates or pirate allies.
Drogo didn't mind. He had once been crueler than most of them.
What mattered to him was loyalty. If they followed orders and served with sincerity, their pasts were irrelevant.
As the fleet took shape, Drogo turned his attention to Free Bay's defenses. He decreed that all adult men must serve in the military, trained under Unsullied discipline.
The king and queen had made it clear: they would not stay in Free Bay forever. The paradise they built must be protected by its own people.
This urgency drove the freedmen not just to survive, but to grow stronger—ready to fill the gap once the Dragon Father and Mother departed with their elite forces.
Within a month, the Free Army had grown to more than eighty thousand.
After three months of training, Drogo sent the Bloodriders and Grey Worm to crush potential threats in nearby regions. They were ordered to nail any captured Great Masters to the mile markers—just as the slavers had once done to children.
Grey Worm proved an able commander, rarely relying on numbers. He often led smaller forces against larger enemies. Though the Free Army was young, they fought bravely—and won more than they lost.
Their success pleased Drogo. He believed that even if he left now, Free Bay was already a military power to rival the Nine Free Cities.
But strength alone wasn't enough. The true deterrent was fear.
There were rumors that Volantis, long allied with the slavers, was planning an invasion.
Drogo issued a public warning:
"If any power dares invade Free Bay after I leave—I will strike them down, no matter how far away they are!"
If the Triarchs of Volantis had any wisdom, they would suppress their ambition.
And they did. After Drogo's clear threat reached Volantis, all talk of supporting the slavers vanished.
The danger had passed—unless he died in battle. But Drogo believed his name would continue to inspire fear.
Before departing, he divided the Free Army—twenty thousand to guard each of the three cities, and the rest deployed based on strategic geography.
Archmaester Malposi had long urged Drogo to appoint key ministers: Hand of the King, Master of Coin, Master of Whispers, Master of War, Master of Ships, and so on. But Drogo left those appointments to him.
He had no interest in the so-called "talent" under his command. His real choices waited in Westeros.
By day, Drogo ruled. By night, he tried. But Daenerys could not bear children.
He was over thirty now. Of course he wanted an heir. But fate had denied him. The dream was a dream.
He could have chosen another woman—many were willing. But he would not hurt Daenerys.
So he treated the three fierce, wild dragons as his sons.
When even the Dothraki had overcome their fear and become sailors like the Unsullied, Drogo made the announcement: he would leave Free Bay.
On the day of his departure, all the freedmen put down their work. From Meereen to the harbor road, they knelt in tears, sending off their king.
"Strongest Khal of the Great Grass Sea! Father of Dragons! Breaker of Chains! Father of the Freedmen! You will forever be the Eternal King of Free Bay!!"
Though he departed, Drogo's legacy—his glory, his greatness—was carved into their hearts. It would be sung forever.
The small council, led by Malposi, declared that Free Bay would never have another king.
Such unity, such heartfelt devotion—Drogo had never been so moved.
As he rode away, he shouted with emotion:
"I am a conqueror. My path is paved with blood. But so long as I live—your freedom will never die!"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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