Chapter 17 — Change
When Daenerys spoke those words, Drogon already knew what she intended.
Here we go, he thought. Time for Mother to put on her Oscar-level performance.
"Your Grace," Ser Jorah urged, "with the Unsullied we would finally have the strength and leverage needed to build alliances."
Ser Barristan countered immediately, "Your Grace, relying on slave soldiers will alienate every lord in Westeros. We must not walk down that road."
The two argued their positions with great intensity… yet Daenerys didn't respond to either of them.
Instead, she playfully held Drogon in both hands, lifting him up and down, exactly like when he was a hatchling learning to fly.
She never expected her little dragon to grow so fast — soaring freely in the sky.
Thank the gods he could shrink himself; otherwise she would hardly see him anymore.
Ser Jorah and Barristan exchanged puzzled looks.
What was going on in her head?
[I'm being treated like a cute pet again.
I did NOT get smaller so I could be retrained like a baby.]
Drogon complained to himself — then flapped his wings and escaped her playful grasp.
Daenerys froze mid-motion. "…"
Then she stood up, expression firm again.
"Tomorrow morning we negotiate with Kraznys. Jorah — arrange the meeting."
"Your Grace—"
Both knights tried to continue persuading her, but she was no longer listening.
She strode ahead, returning to the docks and disappearing into the ship's cabin.
Drogon flew a sweeping arc above Astapor.
No war machines or anti-dragon weapons — good.
He told Rhaegal and Viserion through hisses to stay high and never fly low over the city.
Then he snuck several bags of silver and gold coins from the spoils they took back in Qarth.
He had tasted Astapor's food earlier — good, but nothing compared to the rich grassland mutton. The thought alone made his appetite fade.
Not good. Appetite drives growth. No appetite, no gains.
He made a decision.
Before nightfall, he would fly to the Dothraki Sea again.
At his current adult form, he could cruise at nearly 300 km/h, and push beyond 500 at maximum sprint.
In his miniature form, his body mass dropped dramatically while keeping two-thirds of his adult strength — making his average speed 500–600 km/h.
A round trip to the grasslands would take just over an hour.
Perfect for a late-night feast.
With that in mind, he dove into the sky — faster and faster — heading toward the endless green sea of grass once more.
After reaching the grasslands and "liberating" enough roasted lamb for dinner, Drogon filled his empty stomach and then flew farther inland.
He couldn't keep raiding the same flocks over and over — even sheep needed recovery time.
As he crossed the endless sea of grass, memories surfaced — Danerys once leading a tiny khalasar through this same land toward the Red Waste.
He felt an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
Below him, two khalasars clashed in a brutal battle.
The weaker side was nearly wiped out — the surviving warriors already had captured women and were taking them on the ground without hesitation.
The Dothraki did everything under the open sky — victories, weddings, births… and atrocities.
Drogon still wasn't used to it. But it wasn't something he could change. That was simply their way of life.
Just as he was ready to fly past, he spotted two familiar figures within the chaos — the mother and her little boy from last time.
A huge Dothraki warrior blocked their escape, hurling the boy aside as if he were nothing.
Then, laughing cruelly, he dragged the mother to the ground and began tearing off her clothes.
The child scrambled up, clutching his bruised arm, and desperately tried to pull the man away.
The warrior simply grabbed the boy by the arm and threw him more than three meters away.
The boy didn't get up this time. He only crawled — inch by inch — crying and gasping, trying to reach his mother.
Drogon let out a long sigh.
"I just ate his tribe's food.
Eating people's food makes it awkward when you have to burn them."
He folded his wings tight — and dove.
A shadow like a collapsing mountain swept across the battlefield.
"A dragon! A dragon!"
The Dothraki froze — then fled in blind panic, some not even pulling up their trousers.
Drogon caught the warrior mid-leap.
Claws closed.
The man screamed as Drogon lifted him twenty meters into the air — then let him go.
The warrior hit the earth with a sickening thud.
He twitched a few times and then lay still — dead or crippled forever.
The other victorious riders backed away in terror.
The losers were already nearly extinct — only women and children remained.
The victors had been moments away from enslaving and selling them.
Drogon turned toward the fleeing warriors and unleashed a sweeping curtain of dragonfire — igniting a wide circle of grass around them, cutting off any thought of returning.
He never hit a single person.
He didn't need to. The message was enough.
If he just left quietly, the mother and child would still end up raped and sold.
Fear was the only thing that spoke Dothraki.
He set fire in several more arcs, driving everyone back.
Then he let out a roar that shook their bones — a reminder of what hunted in the sky.
Only then did he glance toward the mother and son huddled together — and lift into the clouds.
A few minutes later, as he flew toward Astapor, something strange happened.
The white orb that had been dormant in his mind… changed.
It wasn't the orb itself moving — it was the halo of pale yellow motes gathering around it.
Like a dim sun suddenly beginning to glow, nourishing the sphere and giving it new life.
"What's going on? Why now?" Drogon wondered, tense and confused.
He didn't know — could not know — that the moment he flew away,
the boy and his mother dropped to their knees and bowed again and again in the direction he departed.
And the surviving women and children followed suit — though not with the same sincerity.
When praise and devotion are directed at a dragon… power moves.
After circling the plains and tearing through more "free samples," he used up nearly all the silver and gold coins he had tossed around in compensation.
Only then did he return to Astapor.
---
The next day
Daenerys arrived at the Great Plaza once again, with Jorah, Barristan, and Drogon perched on her shoulder in miniature form.
Kraznys and another Great Master were waiting.
"Ask the Westerosi girl how many Unsullied she wishes to buy," Kraznys drawled to the translator.
Before the girl could speak, Daenerys answered in perfect Common Tongue:
"I will buy every Unsullied you have."
The translator blinked in shock.
"You… wish to buy all the Unsullied?"
Kraznys burst into laughter the moment he heard the translation.
"You stupid Westerosi whore, do you even know how many that is? Eight thousand! You cannot afford them."
Drogon's eyes narrowed. A puff of heat trembled in his throat.
Daenerys continued calmly:
"Not just the eight thousand already trained.
I want those still in training — and the newly castrated boys as well."
Kraznys sneered, licking his lips with vulgar amusement.
"Oh? And what will you pay with? Even if you offer yourself, you couldn't afford them. And I cannot sell trainees — they're not finished. If they die on the field, it tarnishes our reputation."
"So here is reality," he said smugly.
"Your ships and cargo can buy you twelve hundred Unsullied.
That is your limit."
Daenerys shook her head lightly.
"I have dragons. I need untrained Unsullied to replenish battlefield losses."
Two urgent voices shouted at once:
"Your Grace — you cannot trade a dragon!"
"A single dragon is worth more than eight thousand Unsullied!"
Jorah and Barristan both understood now — and both were horrified.
Neither of them had imagined that Daenerys would offer up the child she cherished more dearly than life… for an army.