After inspecting the khalasar and the Unsullied camps, Drogo led Snowball to the coastal encampment of the Golden Company, now sworn to his
After inspecting the khalasar and the Unsullied camps, Drogo led Snowball to the coastal encampment of the Golden Company, now sworn to his command.
Even Grey Worm, who had upheld strict discipline since childhood, admitted that the camp was exemplary—compact, orderly, and well-fortified.
Though they might march out as early as tomorrow, the Golden Company soldiers had still taken the trouble to dig a deep trench around the perimeter, its base lined with sharpened stakes to ward off attackers.
The tents were arranged in neat rows, leaving a broad central avenue wide enough for carts to pass. Warhorses were kept under the watchful eyes of designated sentries, and near the stables, the surviving elephants ate rotting apples, curling them into their mouths with their trunks.
Drogo cast an approving glance at the grey beasts. Such creatures were far more valuable than fine horses; once they charged into battle, no man or steed could stand against them—giants perhaps being the only exception.
Since they had pledged loyalty to him, their old cloth-of-gold banners had been replaced with the flags of Slaver's Bay, flying from tall poles along the camp's edge. Beneath them, fully armed sentries patrolled with spears and crossbows in hand.
Drogo had once feared that the Golden Company might grow lax after surrendering. But now, it was clear he had underestimated their discipline.
He couldn't help but wonder: without giants and dragons, could even his khalasar and the Unsullied have truly defeated such a host—whose resolve and military order surpassed any other sellsword company?
Soon after Drogo and Grey Worm entered the camp, the senior officers welcomed him into a large tent of golden cloth. At its center stood a spear bearing a gilded skull—the remains of Ser Harry Strickland, the former commander known as "Homeless Harry."
This was tradition, a sign of respect to their fallen captain-general.
With Jon Connington having fled mid-battle and most of the former officers dead, the highest-ranking man now was a Valantene with a trace of Blackfyre blood—gray-haired, blue-eyed, and named Cary Enir.
To command such a company, a man had to earn respect. Cary, with his faint Targaryen heritage, left a favorable first impression, so Drogo appointed him as the Golden Company's sixth captain-general.
To Drogo, it mattered little who the man was. If he led well, he stayed. If not, he'd be replaced—even by some brute from the khalasar. All it took was a word from the khal.
The officers warmly invited Drogo and Grey Worm to share in Valantene delicacies. Eager to foster goodwill, Drogo agreed. Grey Worm, of course, followed his lead.
During the feast, Drogo asked about Young Aegon.
Even if the boy bore royal Targaryen blood, Drogo doubted he could withstand dragonfire. Daenerys was likely a divine exception—a chosen one. Only she, he thought, could be called a true child of the dragon.
Still, Drogo did not believe that the disguised "Aegon VI" was the son of Rhaegar and Princess Elia of Dorne, nor the full brother of Jon Snow, born of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.
Targaryens were famed for their beauty—but beneath the scorched disguise, the boy had revealed an ordinary, round-faced countenance.
Piecing together accounts from the officers, Drogo realized this so-called "False Dragon" was nothing like the man he had encountered. They described a virtuous, modest youth—once called Griff—who had dyed his silver hair blue and only recently revealed his hidden identity.
Jon Connington had trained him as a knight, but that was only a part of his upbringing. The boy could read and write, spoke multiple languages, and was passionate about history, law, and poetry. A septa had guided him in faith and healing since childhood.
He had lived among fishermen, mending nets, washing his own clothes, and even learning to cook.
To Drogo, it sounded as though Connington had tried to shape him into a just ruler—one who understood the sufferings of the smallfolk.
But the vision he had seen through Snowball's magic showed something else: a pampered exile, arrogant and frivolous, clearly coveting Daenerys.
Seeing was believing. Drogo was certain that the youth who had appeared beside Dany had revealed his true face.
As king, Drogo was naturally the center of attention, flattery flowing freely. He basked in it, drinking deep into the night until the moon had begun its westward climb. Only then did he call an end to the feast.
Having heard of the legendary appetites of Dothraki khals, Cary had already ordered two Qartheen maidens—fair-skinned like the Dragon Queen—to await Drogo outside his tent.
When Drogo emerged, the two women approached, one on each arm. Still groggy with wine, he made no effort to resist and let them lead him into a tent aglow with flickering red wax candles.
Both Qartheen girls were striking beauties—even Cary was envious. He muttered to himself, "Why haven't I seen them before? I told that idiot to find two pale girls like the Dragon Queen, but he picked the prettiest in the camp. There are plenty of pale girls… Guess I'll wait until tomorrow."
Grey Worm never involved himself in the khal's personal matters. He stood silent outside the tent, a wooden sentinel in the dark.
Inside, Drogo felt a weight lift—tonight, the woman before him wasn't Daenerys.
Even the most beautiful woman, once claimed, loses a bit of luster with time. It wasn't a matter of love—it was novelty that faded.
Though he'd had plenty to drink, Drogo wasn't truly drunk. He played along, using wine as a pretext to tease Dany—an act of defiance born of drink and pride.
Still, he figured her anger would not last. She had known his ways in life before rebirth.
It was Drogo's first time alone with Qartheen women. Wanting to lighten the mood, he suggested a game of riddles—whoever lost, drank a full cup of the spicy onion wine.
He lost nearly every round, as the riddles were all about Qarth, a city he barely knew. It wasn't ignorance—he was a king. He had never wandered the alleys where women used such games to earn coin.
Unsurprisingly, he couldn't hold his liquor much longer.
As Drogo dozed into a heavy sleep, the two girls exchanged a silent glance, leaned in close to either side of his head, and whispered softly into his ears:
"I regret this."
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