With Drogo's broad frame no longer blocking the view, everyone at the front could now clearly see the murderous intent in "Jhiqui's" actions. The normally emotionless Unsullied cried out in unison with Missandei, "Your Grace!!"
Their spears were long—but not fast enough to stop an assassin this close. If Drogo wanted to survive, he could rely on no one but himself.
In a flash, he grabbed "Jhiqui" by the shoulders and hoisted her into the air like a rag doll.
Shnk!
The razor-sharp dagger sliced from his abdomen up to his ribs, leaving a long, shallow cut. Had Drogo not been so tall, it might have slashed his throat or jaw.
This was how a lifelong warrior survived: by reflex and instinct. Letting the dagger plunge straight in would've meant death.
By lifting the assassin off the ground, Drogo ruined her aim. Her strength remained, but the strike had lost its precision.
Stunned by his brute strength, the assassin hesitated—missing her only chance.
Drogo shifted his grip. One hand clamped around her throat like iron. The other seized her knife hand, rendering her helpless. She flailed with one arm and both legs, but she was utterly powerless.
The Unsullied rushed in, spears raised. But Drogo barked, "Stand down! I want to interrogate this treacherous bitch!"
The would-be killer, coughing and wheezing, weakly slapped at his chest.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
His eyes burning with fury, Drogo growled, "You're not Jhiqui. Speak! Who are you? Who sent you to kill me?!"
Assuming the Khal had strong feelings for his maid, the assassin croaked out, "I—I am Jhiqui."
But when Drogo was cruel, even he feared himself. Unmoved, he squeezed harder and snarled, spit flying from his lips, "Even if you were Jhiqui, you'd still die! Talk, and I'll make it quick. Stay silent, and I'll flay you alive—inch by inch!"
Her limbs went limp. She gasped, "Put me down… or I'll die before you get what you want…"
Drogo snatched her dagger, then slowly set her down. He held the blade to her neck. "There's no escape. Talk."
Red-faced and panting, the assassin finally caught her breath and raised a trembling hand to her face.
Drogo snapped, "Don't try anything! Or you'll die quicker!"
She sighed and replied bitterly, "Didn't you want to know who I am? Let me show you. You said I have no way out. Why so nervous?"
She paused, then added with resignation, "I'm Qarth's so-called King of Assassins. I've never failed… until now. But even assassins die. I've worn so many masks—I don't want to die wearing one more. I want people to remember me. Remember the fear I leave behind."
With that, she dragged her hand down her face—from forehead to chin. Her features shifted: her face grew gaunt, eyes turned blue-green, and her nose sharpened into a hooked beak.
She seemed unbothered by the blade still at her throat. Tossing her head dramatically, her long black hair vanished—replaced by golden curls.
Gasps erupted.
It was a man.
One of the Qartheen nobles muttered, "That's the head of the Assassin's Guild…"
Drogo recognized him. They'd met at the dock on Banner Isle, disguised as an inn worker trying to chat him up.
But Drogo suspected this so-called "Regretful One" had yet another name.
"What's your true name?" he asked.
The man laughed bitterly. "No one."
Drogo sneered. "A Faceless Man, then."
The assassin froze. "You—You know the Faceless Men?!"
"Your words gave you away. Either way, it ends here. I am Drogo. I repay all debts. The day you tried to kill me, your fate was sealed."
True to his word, Drogo raised the dagger and sliced his throat clean.
The assassin clutched his neck, blood spraying through his fingers, and rasped his final words: "All men must die… But Horse King… by killing a servant of the Many-Faced God… my master will avenge me…"
He toppled backward and died with eyes wide open.
"Let him come," Drogo said coldly. "Then there'll be one more corpse to keep you company."
Drogo wasn't moved by the threat. Death followed him like a shadow. One more enemy meant nothing.
But that didn't mean he didn't fear the Faceless Men.
As someone well-versed in the world of Ice and Fire, he knew how terrifying the assassins of the Many-Faced God truly were.
They had originated in Valyria, long before the Doom, and were able to change their appearances at will.
Masters of disguise, they were every noble's worst nightmare.
Their training demanded they forsake their names and identities. They became "No One."
Their creed: All men must die. They killed only for a price—and the more powerful the target, the higher the cost. To kill a king could cost a fortune beyond imagining.
Thus, no king in recorded history had ever openly died at their hands. Drogo had nearly been the first.
Faceless Men often carried a special coin with a faceless visage to prove their identity.
From the tales he knew, Drogo recalled one Faceless Man in particular: Jaqen H'ghar, who called himself "a man." And then there was Arya Stark, second daughter of Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
At this point in time, he figured Arya hadn't yet reached Braavos or begun her training.
Drogo had survived—but he didn't feel victorious. He stooped to pick up the discarded human-skin mask, his heart weighed down with unease.
He didn't know where it had come from—and feared it might once have belonged to Jhiqui herself.
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