Illyrio applauded, smiling.
But inside, something had broken.
As he stared at Drogo's inert body on the ground, a drop of cold sweat slowly ran down his temple. It was not death that unsettled him; in Essos he had seen stronger and more famous men die.
It was the ease.
Kerse was not breathing heavily. He showed no excitement or pride. He did not even seem satisfied. He had killed a khal as one crushes an insect… and then had lost interest.
This is not a dothraki, Illyrio thought, swallowing.
Nor is he a mere warrior.
He had believed he controlled the situation. That Kerse was just another piece on his board—yes, a powerful weapon, but still manageable. A barbarian with ambition, manipulable with promises of power, women, and dragons.
Now he was no longer so sure.
When Kerse's eyes lifted and briefly met his, Illyrio felt a chill run down his spine. There was no anger in that gaze. No madness either.
There was calculation.
There was hunger.
And that was far worse.
If one day he decides he no longer needs me…
Illyrio did not finish the thought.
He smiled more broadly, exaggerated his enthusiasm, and slightly lowered his head in a gesture of respect.
"A true chosen of the gods," he repeated, this time in a lower voice.
But in his heart, one truth settled with terrifying clarity:
Kerse was not a king he could crown.
He was a calamity…
and he could only hope not to be in his path when he decided to ravage the world.