Drogo ordered the royals on the high thrones to be removed, then sat down himself. He casually picked up a diamond-encrusted wine jug and a golden goblet resting to the side, poured out red wine, and swirled the drink as he watched the Unsullied and the khalasar steadily bring in piles of gold and silver treasures, savoring the taste of wine dancing on his tongue.
Outwardly calm, the Khal's mind was anything but.
In the nights of Slaver's Bay, the Sons of the Harpy lurked in the shadows committing their crimes. But they were just cunning men—however much they stirred up trouble, Drogo always had a way to crush them.
Qarth, however, was different. Here, one had to guard against unpredictable sorcerers, shadowbinders, and lurking assassins. The warlocks of the House of the Undying openly stirred mischief, while the Faceless Men's assassins prowled the dark.
It gave Drogo a headache. He had no intention of staying long. Once he stripped the local nobility of their wealth and received whatever "enlightenment" the House of the Undying promised, he would leave.
He suddenly realized: he was a conqueror, not a ruler. Even though he was doing his best to learn and plan for governance, it wasn't his strength.
Aside from the Unsullied and his khalasar, there were few people he truly trusted. Unless he personally remained in Qarth to oversee things, there was no way he could maintain control of this ancient eastern titan for long.
He had ruled well enough in Slaver's Bay. There, the people supported him—any decree he issued received enthusiastic approval. Everything flowed smoothly.
But in Qarth, the tall, pale Qartheen would never accept him. And the other Free Cities watched greedily from afar. Drogo feared none of them, but he saw no need to waste time sweeping them all away.
He had more than enough wealth already. Occupying the Free Cities would only distract him and scatter his forces, inevitably delaying his journey to Westeros.
So he decided: once he got what he wanted, he would abandon Qarth and sail west, letting the Qartheen, and all the princes, archons, sea lords, governors, and sellswords of the Free Cities, fight over the city's rule themselves.
"Ssskkreee!"
The moment he heard the screech of his dragons, Drogo knew his beautiful wife had arrived.
Daenerys entered the hall, accompanied by Missandei and followed by her three dragons, walking forward with wings spread like crutches.
At once her eyes found her husband, seated on the throne—the man she had been so worried about. But her gaze only lingered briefly before wandering again, mesmerized by the treasures around her.
Seeing this, Drogo wondered: If I left Daenerys behind to rule, would she be willing?
He knew well how much his wife craved power. But the thought was immediately smothered. Wherever he went, once night fell, he needed her beside him.
He could wave his hand and summon countless beauties—either offered by subordinates or coming to warm his bed of their own accord—but his heart would still feel cold and empty.
Before his rebirth, he had embraced many women. But only Daenerys had ever reached his soul.
She walked up the steps to the throne and, with no shyness at all, asked for a hug. There were few others present, and Missandei was like a sister to her. Besides, the little beauty from Naath had seen much and endured even more.
Despite her young age, Missandei had served so many slavers that even she had lost count.
Such was the cruelty of slavery—being stripped of one's will. That was why Missandei revered the Dragon King and Queen who had granted her freedom.
She considered herself lucky. Though she had lost her innocence, her beautiful face had been spared the tear-shaped slave tattoo that marked others forever.
Blinking her violet eyes, Daenerys warned with concern, "Husband, I heard Grey Worm's report. He said you held a decaying heart in your hands—something that can turn the living into withered corpses in an instant! That's an evil artifact. You mustn't let it corrupt your mind!"
Beloved Missandei added, "Yes, Your Grace. That cursed object's power is terrifying. You mustn't fall under its spell."
Drogo sighed internally. He wanted to slap her lightly on the back to remind her not to speak so plainly, lest it increase his wife's fear.
When he had stormed Qarth, he'd ordered a hundred khalasar warriors to surround Daenerys' tent, keeping her safe and unaware of the danger. That's why she'd only just learned about the heart now.
He figured that if he told her it was the source of vitality for the Undying Ones and came from the warlocks' tower, she might refuse to go to the House of the Undying altogether.
But the heart was so strange that he couldn't easily make up a lie. After hesitating, he finally said, "That heart is tied to the Bleeding Star. It's hard to explain. But I promise—I won't be seduced by its power. In fact, I intend to destroy it. You've probably heard—the cursed thing has already flown away."
Daenerys buried her fear, smiling sweetly with her brows slightly furrowed. "My sun and stars is the noblest and brightest of men. No evil can ever taint your heart."
After a day of blood and fire, her warmth felt like a balm. Drogo lifted his goblet to her lips, and Daenerys obediently took a small sip.
The rich wine slid down her throat. She sighed contentedly. "So good… This is Dorne's specialty. Once we land in Westeros, we'll drink summerwine to our hearts' content."
The meaning behind her words was clear—she was reminding him not to get too attached to Qarth's luxuries and to keep his sights set on the richer lands to the west.
That aligned perfectly with Drogo's own plans. He'd even worried she might be reluctant to leave.
Without thinking, he said, "Mmm. Jon Connington said that Prince Doran of Dorne has long awaited the return of the true dragon. Your dream will come true."
Daenerys' face darkened. She looked at him in surprise. "Drogo, how do you know what the exiled Hand said?!"
When she'd met with Jon Connington, she had only brought bloodriders who didn't speak Valyrian. She had deliberately kept parts of the conversation secret. How could he possibly know?
Drogo cursed himself. He couldn't mention the skinchanger. But he definitely couldn't say a talking snowball told him, either.
He stammered, "Uh... I guessed. Everyone knows the Martells' stance. It's no surprise that man would say something like that."
Daenerys seemed uneasy. "True... everyone knows."
Seeing her expression, Drogo suddenly imagined something that both saddened and frightened him.
She deliberately hid Jon Connington's analysis from me. Could she be plotting to ally with that false dragon, whose fate is still unknown? When we land in Westeros, will she break away from me? Use the fake dragon's supporters to suppress me?
Today's battle was ablaze with dragonfire. Normally, the wild dragons would've been drawn immediately. Yet they only appeared once the fight was over... Did Daenerys deliberately keep them with her?
Drogo had her body—but the secrets of her heart were hers alone. That much was clear. Everyone had secrets. No one bared everything... unless they weren't human.
A true dragon bows to no one. Not even love can extinguish a burning ambition like hers…
So thought the Khal, shaped by the game of thrones.
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