Chapter 13 — Daily Life of a Dragon Tamer
A small Dothraki boy spotted Drogon sitting there—eating and drinking with the posture of a man—and tried to squirm out of his mother's arms for a closer look.
Before he could reach him, his mother yanked him back and smacked him on the head.
"Disturb the true dragon while he's eating? Do you want to be swallowed alive?" she scolded.
The boy froze, then buried himself deep into her arms, trembling.
Hearing the commotion, the well-fed Drogon glanced in their direction and gave a powerful flap of his wings as he took off. The gust alone sent the mother and child sprawling face-down on the grass.
Lesson delivered.
Drogon resumed the hunt—for more roasted meat.
His body was now the size of a young horse, his wingspan stretching over six meters. This little bit of barbecue barely filled the gaps between his teeth, nowhere near enough to satisfy his growing appetite.
After tasting tender, seasoned roast meat, he had no desire to chase sheep himself. Why bother working hard when cooked food was everywhere?
And the Dothraki plains had no shortage of sheep or horseflesh.
Since it was lunchtime across the grasslands, Drogon quickly located another, much larger khalasar—hundreds of tents and nearly ten roasting racks.
He repeated his usual strategy: swoop down, scare everyone off, and feast alone.
A few warriors instinctively reached for their bows, but the Khal stopped them.
One look at Drogon's gleaming black scales was enough.
Their arrows probably couldn't pierce him, and even if they did, angering a real dragon would end with their entire khalasar roasted to ash.
While devouring the meat, Drogon noticed their hesitation, but he wasn't concerned.
At his current strength, ordinary arrows were nothing—unless they aimed for his eyes.
As for the backside?
What were they going to do—shoot him up the tail? It's not like he keeps a backdoor open!
Judging from the khalasar's clothes, they weren't exactly wealthy.
After clearing out five full roasting racks, Drogon took pity and flew off in search of his next meal.
A merciful bandit must have self-control, after all.
He raided a total of three khalasars before he was finally full.
Not a single Dothraki dared lift a hand against him, which left Drogon feeling proud and triumphant.
Ah… the joy of dragon-hood.
Though, a twinge of guilt poked at him.
The bigger he grew, the more he ate.
Pillaging alone would soon become insufficient… and if he kept stealing food everywhere he went, wouldn't that tarnish the reputation of an august dragon?
No—next time, he ought to at least toss some gold or silver coins their way.
A dragon paying for his meal would soothe his conscience, and his legend would sound much nobler.
Bloated and content, Drogon needed time to digest.
He flew lazily back toward Daenerys's fleet.
The moment he landed on the deck, he curled up and fell into a deep sleep.
---
Drogon had no idea that the moment he left, stories of a reborn true dragon began spreading like wildfire across the entire Dothraki Sea.
Daenerys, for her part, was long accustomed to Drogon running off.
She understood his appetite: huge, picky, impossible to satisfy with shipboard supplies.
So she allowed him to hunt freely.
What she didn't know was that today, he hadn't hunted anything at all…
He had simply robbed his way across half the grasslands.
---
After a full night's sleep, Drogon stretched lazily—only to discover he had grown again.
He was now the size of a mature horse, and his personal cabin could no longer contain him; he could barely spread his wings.
Just as he was about to head out, something new flickered in his mind—
another inherited ability.
Transformation.
The moment Drogon saw the word, he froze.
That… sounded awfully similar to a certain skill he used back when he played mobile games.
Did that skill actually transmigrate with him?
And now it had evolved into a bloodline inheritance?
Wait—could he transform into a human?
His heart pounded with excitement.
Sure, he'd already accepted his dragon body—more than accepted it, he relished it.
But if he could switch freely between man and dragon…
Wouldn't life be perfect?
He could enjoy dragon might in battle…
and enjoy beautiful women in a human body.
Drogon's mind drifted to very pleasant fantasies.
With great anticipation, he activated the transformation by channeling a bit of magic.
"Puff!"
A faint wisp of smoke cleared—
revealing a tiny, familiar baby dragon body.
Drogon stared at himself.
Where was his human form?
Where was his glorious future?
He had turned into… a newborn hatchling?!
This damn ability was just as unreliable as before!
He sat on the ground, wings covering his face, and mourned for a full five minutes before finally accepting reality.
He bounced up and tested his limbs—this small form was fast, light, and agile.
His defense, claws, and bite strength had weakened, but only by about a third.
Not useless—just annoying.
Trotting out of the cabin in tiny rapid steps, Drogon blinked at the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the sea.
Up above, Rhaegal and Viserion were soaring happily.
"Look at you two—having the time of your lives."
Drogon smirked.
Then—like an arrow loosed from a bow—he shot upward and rammed straight into Rhaegal's belly.
His reduced weight made him absurdly fast.
"Guh—!"
Rhaegal gagged, nearly spitting out last night's meal.
"No wonder you died to a ballista sneak attack. Your vigilance is pathetic."
Without pausing, Drogon clawed off several scales from Rhaegal's side, then darted up to clamp down on her neck.
Rhaegal finally snapped out of it.
She spun and snapped at him, but Drogon easily slipped away.
Then she froze.
This tiny black dragon… felt familiar.
Smelled familiar.
Just like the "boss" that tormented her daily.
Before she could sort through her confusion, Drogon smacked her on the head again.
Being bullied by the big boss was one thing.
But now even a small boss dared lay claws on her?
Unacceptable!
Rhaegal roared and thrashed wildly, trying to shake him off.
Drogon's claws were locked firmly into her scales—he wasn't going anywhere.
Not far away, Viserion rushed over at Rhaegal's cry.
He also froze when he saw Drogon's tiny body.
He didn't know what creature this was, but the aura was both familiar and terrifying.
He hesitated.
"The coward," Drogon muttered.
He released Rhaegal and launched himself at Viserion instead.
Forced to fight, Viserion attacked—but today was different.
This wasn't the Drogon he knew.
This small form moved like a slippery eel, dodging every bite and claw, and striking back with painful precision.
On the ships below, the sailors had already gathered, lazing on the deck as they watched.
"The dragons are fighting again!"
It had become the most exciting entertainment during long voyages.
"Who are they fighting this time?"
Someone squinted upward.
Usually it was three dragons in a chaotic brawl—more accurately, Drogon bullying the other two.
But today…
Rhaegal and Viserion were getting mauled by a tiny black blur.
From the distance, it looked like a single tiny dot weaving around two much larger dragons.
Rhaegal and Viserion were roaring in anger and pain, completely overwhelmed.
"This must be an intruder," Bloodrider Aggo declared, rushing to report to Daenerys.
Hearing the news, Daenerys hurried out of her cabin.
"That's impossible!"
She looked up—and her heart jolted.
The sky belonged to dragons.
What creature could outfly a dragon, outmaneuver a dragon… yet be so small?
And it was ripping into Rhaegal and Viserion.
"Aggo! Can you shoot it down?"
She didn't care what it was.
Anything threatening her dragons must be dealt with first—
and questioned later.