Chapter 113 – A Different Kind of Alpha
Having survived the most dangerous initial phase, Drogon was still wracked by relentless pain—but the terror that had gripped him at the beginning had faded.
Even if this truly was genetic collapse, he had likely passed the point of greatest risk. He didn't know what the final outcome would be, but deep down, he sensed one thing clearly:
He wasn't going to die.
As his body gradually adapted to the pain, a hunger unlike anything he had ever felt surged through him—far worse than when he had first arrived in this world.
In truth, he had already felt hungry when he woke up. The agony had simply drowned out everything else. Now that the pain had become… manageable, the hunger roared back with vengeance.
He let out a few low calls toward the restless Rhaegal and Viserion, signaling them to head out onto the grasslands to find food. He repeated himself several times, very clearly emphasizing one thing:
He wanted cooked meat—the kind already roasted by the Dothraki.
Rhaegal and Viserion already knew Drogon's tastes were different from theirs.
As they grew older, they had also grown smarter. After Drogon explained—half roaring, half gesturing—they finally understood and eagerly raced off, competing with each other to be the first to bring food back.
Once they were gone, Drogon forced himself to examine his own body through the pain.
Calling it gruesome didn't even come close.
His entire body was torn open, almost nowhere intact. Large patches of scales had peeled away, and chunks of flesh had fallen off along with them. Blood seeped from nearly every part of his body.
He was now roughly a third larger than before. New bone spurs had erupted from his head, face, and torso. Bone growth wasn't new to him—he'd already had more spines than Rhaegal and Viserion ever did—but those had emerged gradually, bringing nothing worse than mild itching.
This was different.
This was violent.
The worst were the two massive bone spikes on his chest.
They had punched straight through his body, blown open a gaping hole—and were the reason he'd fallen from the sky.
Staring at them, Drogon couldn't understand it. Bone spurs on his legs, back, or neck were one thing—but right in the chest? Two long spikes there made absolutely everything inconvenient.
As he studied them, he suddenly noticed something strange.
One of the spikes… moved.
Not a twitch.
A sway.
And it wasn't random—it was…
With that thought in mind, he clenched his focus and tried again through the pain.
The bone spike responded.
Guided by his will, it extended outward from his chest cavity, slowly unfolding—
Claws…? Claws?!
Staring at the soft, pinkish fingers stretching out in front of him, Drogon was utterly stunned.
He had grown two more limbs.
Earlier, overwhelmed by pain, he hadn't noticed that the blood-slick bone spikes weren't just spikes at all—they were half-formed forelimbs tearing their way out.
And stranger still:
these new foreclaws didn't have four digits like his hind claws.
They had five.
That realization sparked a thought. Drogon glanced at his original claws—and sure enough, they had changed too.
Five digits.
There had been too much pain everywhere else for him to notice the ache in his claws. Somewhere along the way, without him realizing it, an extra digit had grown in.
So what was he now?
A four-legged dragon?
No—a four-legged dragon with five-fingered claws.
He tried moving the new forelimbs. Then the wings.
It felt wrong.
When he moved the forelimbs, the wings trembled.
When he flexed the wings, the forelimbs swayed.
They interfered with each other, awkward and uncoordinated.
He'd always used his wings like hands, and his claws as both hands and feet. Suddenly gaining a whole new pair of forelimbs felt like having four arms—he had no idea how to divide the labor between wings and claws anymore.
Wiggling the tender new foreclaws, one thought struck him with absolute certainty:
Dragon-Mom was going to make him relearn writing again.
And this time…
would it be the right hand—no, the right foreclaw?
Or the left?
After the initial violent transformation, the changes finally began to slow. His body was coated in sticky blood and residue, horribly uncomfortable. Drogon struggled to move toward the river, determined to wash himself off.
The new forelimbs were too weak to support weight, so he relied on his hind legs and wings to drag himself forward.
The river was deep, but even standing upright, the water barely reached his upper thighs.
The moment the icy water touched his body, it exploded into thick steam. Anyone watching would've thought he was bathing in a hot spring.
He tried scooping water over himself with his wings—and immediately hissed in pain.
His wings had changed just as drastically as the rest of him. Once bat-like, they now folded behind him like a dark crimson cloak. Jagged bone spines of varying lengths jutted from the wing bones.
As he debated whether to roll into the water or keep splashing cautiously, a sharp dragon cry echoed from afar.
Looking up, he saw Rhaegal's broad silhouette soaring toward him.
Rhaegal clutched a whole golden roasted sheep in her jaws, with two massive slabs of meat dangling from her claws.
She landed by the river, dropped the saliva-soaked feast onto the grass, spotted Drogon bathing—and happily leapt into the water herself, splashing about in delight.
Drogon had been worrying about how to clean himself properly. After Rhaegal splashed around a bit, he gestured for her to scoop water with her wings and pour it over him.
Rhaegal had never washed another dragon before—but she clearly found it fascinating.
She spread her massive wings, gathered a great sheet of river water, and poured it over Drogon's back.
When blood, scales, or flesh clung stubbornly, she even carefully nudged them loose with her wing before rinsing again.
For just a moment, Drogon looked at her with an unsettling thought:
She looks like a virtuous wife and mother.
He immediately shuddered and forcefully banished that idea from his mind.
After the bath, he was still in pain—but far more comfortable.
He turned toward the roasted meat, ready to devour it, when Rhaegal suddenly flew in front of him. She stared blankly at the two soft pink forelimbs protruding from his chest, then glanced down at her own chest bulges, utterly confused as to why Drogon had two more legs than she did.
She wanted to reach out and touch them—but didn't dare.
Partly because Drogon was always strict.
Partly because she feared hurting him.
And partly because she felt something else.
A deep, instinctive awe.
Not the usual authority Drogon carried when training them—but something that rose from the core of her being, telling her not to approach.
The new limbs were tender, the chest still torn open, rotting flesh lingering near the base. Remembering how those legs had burst violently from his chest, Rhaegal—despite a flicker of envy—decided that staying exactly as she was seemed much safer.
Drogon ignored her curiosity.
He strode to the roasted sheep and, without caring about Rhaegal's drool, swallowed the entire thing—meat and bones—in a few massive gulps.
It barely felt like a snack.
Rhaegal knew how much Drogon could eat. Seeing him finish so quickly, she took off again toward the grasslands.
Moments later, Viserion returned as well, a sheep dangling from his jaws.
He dropped the meat, immediately noticed Drogon's new forelimbs, and froze.
He'd always known Boss was different—bigger, stronger, better-looking.
But now?
Two extra legs.
Viserion could only sigh inwardly.
The boss really is the boss… even his legs outnumber ours.
After staring for a while, and once Drogon finished eating, Viserion followed Rhaegal back toward the plains.
Rhaegal, flying low over the khalasar she'd just robbed, spotted something unexpected.
Another golden roasted sheep.
More meat on the racks.
Without hesitation, she dove again.