Chapter 12 — Eating and Drinking Without Restraint
"The doomed path?"
Daenerys hadn't even finished untangling her suspicions about Jorah when Drogon suddenly threw that phrase at her.
Did she once—past or future—do something terrible?
Thus, what should have been a carefully reasoned discussion… fizzled out in awkward silence as one woman, one man, and one dragon each drifted into their own thoughts.
---
As Drogon soared joyfully across the ocean skies, he didn't forget to train the two younger dragons.
Rhaegal and Viserion had long grown used to Drogon's style—
from dodging halfheartedly and getting smacked,
to now exchanging full-force blows until all three were covered in scratches.
Their fights were no longer simple biting matches.
Claws slashed, tails whipped, wing hooks locked—
and more often than not, they brawled from sky to sea.
Whenever the sailors had a break, they leaned against the railings to watch.
None of them had expected dragons—even as hatchlings—to be so ferocious, so eager to fight to the death, even using dragonfire on each other.
Drogon had already tested how much dragonfire a dragon could withstand.
Short bursts weren't fatal—only superficial burns.
But prolonged roasting? Even a dragon wouldn't survive that.
And as the hatchlings grew, their flames grew hotter, longer, deadlier.
Drogon's fire already outmatched the other two—
hotter, farther-reaching, and far more plentiful.
While the dragons battled happily across sea and sky, Daenerys was again deep in discussion with Jorah about where they should go next.
Daenerys argued for Pentos.
It was familiar, and with five large ships plus Illyrio Mopatis's connections, she believed she could slowly establish a foothold.
Jorah strongly disagreed.
"Khaleesi," he said, "Illyrio is a merchant above all else. Profit comes first. We may have five ships, but we have far too few fighters.
Sailing into Pentos now would be like throwing lambs into a den of wolves."
He continued:
"I've heard the Unsullied of Slaver's Bay are unmatched—disciplined, deadly, unyielding. If you intend to reclaim your birthright, buy Unsullied first. Only then go to Pentos."
"Unsullied?" Daenerys frowned.
"You mean those guards at Illyrio's mansion? They looked… unimpressive."
Jorah shook his head.
"Those were cheap house guards—rejects, bought for pocket change.
Real Unsullied are different.
You know the ferocity of Dothraki riders—so imagine this: Unsullied once held their lines against a force five times their number.
Spears and shields.
They forced the Dothraki to cut off their braids in defeat."
"That's impossible!" Daenerys protested instinctively.
"It happened," Jorah said firmly.
"You have five cargo ships loaded with valuable goods.
Sail them to Slaver's Bay—you'll earn a fortune.
With that money, buying a thousand Unsullied is nothing.
With an army like that… you will have real power. A foundation no one can ignore."
His words struck deeply.
Daenerys had always worried about her lack of strength.
Her entire fighting force amounted to Jorah, her bloodriders, and a handful of Dothraki screamers.
Even after the battle at Xaro's estate—
where the dragons had incinerated dozens of enemies—
the victory only made the problem clearer:
She did not have enough warriors.
If the Unsullied were truly as formidable as Jorah claimed…
She would never again need to beg for help,
nor swallow humiliation,
nor be forced into compromises by those who held power she lacked.
A spark of determination lit her violet eyes.
She was already beginning to see her path.
Daenerys ordered her small fleet to sail at full speed, straight toward Slaver's Bay.
---
With his body growing larger by the day and his wings finally strong, Drogon was no longer satisfied circling above the five ships.
And after days of eating roasted fish, he was thoroughly sick of it.
Fresh meat on board barely kept Rhaegal and Viserion fed—it was nowhere near enough for a bottomless pit like him.
For several days he had flown ahead along the coastline to hunt.
This world was vast and sparsely populated, and he had tasted many wild delicacies.
The only downside?
Without others to prepare his meals, he had to rely on his claws and wing-hooks.
Crude tools for butchering.
He simply couldn't imitate Rhaegal and Viserion's "swallow everything whole" method.
It made eating… uncomfortable.
So he flew ahead of the fleet, looking for land and prey, scouting for storms or pirates as he went.
Sailors had claimed that certain waters held enormous sea monsters, but Drogon had yet to spot one.
He did, however, find an unlucky pirate ship—
after cautioning them with a few gentle puffs of fire, he delivered Daenerys one more captured vessel and a dozen terrified sailors.
At this moment, though, he was flying in frustration.
He was starving—and still no land in sight.
Had he flown the wrong way?
Experienced sailors said they might reach Astapor by tomorrow.
Yet after flying for over an hour, he still saw no coastline. Something was obviously wrong.
He stopped flying forward.
Instead, he shot straight upward, breaking into cold upper air, and looked toward the horizon.
This time he saw land—
and beyond it… an endless green sea.
A grassland?
But Astapor wasn't supposed to be near a grassland.
Had he really flown off course?
Then Drogon's eyes lit up.
A grassland meant fat sheep and plump horses.
Delicious!
Whether he was off course or not suddenly didn't matter.
Even if he had flown wrong, he could call it "terrain familiarization" and "physical training."
Right now, eating was the highest priority.
He folded his wings and dove toward the plains.
Ten minutes later, land filled his vision—
a vast, endless emerald ocean.
The Dothraki Sea truly deserved the name; it stretched farther than he could see.
It was as if countless little lambs were waving at him from afar.
As he skimmed above the lush grass, the clean scent washed away the salty stench he'd inhaled for days.
He felt instantly refreshed.
He hadn't flown far when he spotted a huge flock of sheep grazing leisurely.
He was just about to grab two and roast them properly when he suddenly caught a familiar smell—
Roasting meat.
Seasoned roasting meat.
And it smelled better than anything Missy Quaithe made.
He turned his head.
To the right, near a cluster of tents, smoke drifted upward.
Someone was barbecuing.
And freshly seasoned meat was infinitely better than his own crude roasting.
Drogon flapped once and swooped right toward it.
But before he even reached the spit, the Dothraki tending the meat saw him.
They screamed and scattered in all directions.
"A giant bird! Run!"
As a dragon with the inherited knowledge of his species, Drogon already understood Dothraki.
He found it amusing that they fled—
good, they wouldn't disturb him while he ate.
Once he scared off the cooks and everyone inside the tents, Drogon landed beside the fire pit and began devouring.
Large slabs of roasted meat, a half sheep sizzling on the spit—
the fat dripping, the skin crackling.
After a few hearty mouthfuls, he grabbed a nearby leather wineskin and took a swig of fermented mare's milk.
Sweet and tangy—
though the gamy smell was a bit much.
Farther away, the fleeing Dothraki finally stopped running.
Seeing that the "giant bird" wasn't chasing them, they gathered courage and turned to look.
"That's no bird… that's a dragon! A real dragon!"
Cries of astonishment rippled through the group.
"The dragons have returned!"
More people recognized what they were seeing.
The stolen meat no longer mattered—
they were witnessing a miracle.
In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, even the Dothraki recorded tales of dragons.
But for more than a century they had vanished from the world.
None of them ever imagined they would live to see one again.