The shadow of death cast by the usurper stretched like twilight across the ruined city, enveloping Daenerys.
But the moon hanging in the western sky seemed to pierce that gloom and reach into her heart. With a dazed murmur, she whispered,
"He's dead? The Usurper… he's really dead?"
Fearing for his life, Xaro didn't dare lie. Uneasy, he replied,
"I would never deceive the blood of the dragon. The news of Robert's death is absolutely true. In Qarth, in the Summer Isles, in every trade port where ships dock—everyone is saying the same thing."
With this news, a major plotline of the Westeros story was now confirmed. Drogo gave a subtle nod and glanced at his wife with concern.
Born into death and storm—the fiercest tempest the Narrow Sea had ever seen—Daenerys had spent her life fleeing the Usurper's wrath, never safe for even a moment. Now that shadow had vanished... and she felt lost.
Before she realized it, tears welled in her now-vacant violet eyes.
No one else could truly comprehend the crushing weight she'd carried—the pain, the hatred.
Her husband had once told her he'd received a divine vision: that Robert Baratheon, crowned with a stag's antlers, could not withstand the light of the trueborn Targaryen, and would fall from the Iron Throne. She'd dismissed it at the time, thinking he only meant to comfort her.
But now, it had come to pass.
"Wuuu... hahaha!"
Daenerys broke down completely—laughing and sobbing at once.
Her madness startled the three baby dragons lounging on the dining table. They hissed, flapped their wings, and released thin streams of white vapor into the air like mist rolling off the lakes of the North. The entire hall filled with a strange, tense chill.
Xaro's terror deepened. He bitterly regretted his choices.
If Drogo ordered his bonds removed right now, he swore he would slap himself for ever opening his mouth.
Back when Pyat Pree received the vision from the Undying Ones, he had guessed the dragons had returned. In hopes of controlling their terrible power, he had led the effort to woo the blood of the dragon.
He had carefully chosen two companions: Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the richest man in Qarth, and Quaithe of Asshai, a true shadowbinder who could kill without effort.
Together, they had embarked on the quest to find the dragons.
But now Xaro cursed his greed. Blinded by ambition, he had lost his usual shrewdness and foolishly come without guards or soldiers.
He had found the dragons… and their mistress. But he was now a prisoner of wild barbarians. The goal seemed meaningless now.
While Daenerys was still adrift in emotion, Drogo didn't know how to comfort her.
There were things he couldn't yet reveal. So instead, he offered a question meant to shift her thoughts—perhaps even soothe her:
"So, how did that debauched king die?"
It was a matter of court politics, and Xaro dared not state anything as fact.
Cautiously, he said,
"They say he was gored by a wild boar while hunting near King's Landing. But there are other rumors… that Queen Cersei had him killed, or perhaps one of his brothers. Some even suspect his newly appointed Hand, Lord Eddard Stark."
From the doorway, Ser Jorah scoffed and shook his head.
The Northern duke, more loyal than any hound, betray his king and friend? Impossible.
Daenerys bared her teeth.
"Good. He deserved to die. But not like that. Not so easily. He should've died by my hand!"
Clearly, even in her madness, she still burned with hatred.
Drogo knew this too well. That's why he had dared bring it up.
He knew Robert had died miserably—and that knowledge might comfort her.
Xaro wished desperately to stay silent. But if he didn't agree now, her wrath might turn on him.
"Khaleesi, you are absolutely right! A thousand deaths would not atone for his crimes. It should've been you who reduced him to ash—so that his soul would tremble before the blood of the true dragon!"
Daenerys had suffered too much to ignore flattery.
She said coldly,
"Prince of Qarth, had you pursued power instead of commerce, you might've been king of Qarth by now."
The chill in her words sent a shiver down Drogo's spine.
He had no desire to play the domineering husband now.
"Irri, Jhiqui!" he shouted toward the door. "The Khaleesi is exhausted. Take her to this so-called prince's quarters—help her bathe and rest!"
The handmaids flinched. Daenerys was like a loaded crossbow—one wrong move, and she might explode.
But she defied Drogo's order.
"No. Stay. I still have questions for Xaro."
She needed to understand what had become of Westeros after Robert's death.
In her mind, the Seven Kingdoms probably resembled Drogo's old khalasar—once unified under sheer dominance, now broken apart.
Even if Drogo had returned from death, the other khals—Jhaqo, Pono, and the rest—had no intention of returning what they had claimed.
If anything, they would try to kill him.
She asked,
"What changed in Westeros after Robert died?"
Xaro replied,
"His eldest son, Joffrey, took the throne. But power lies with the queen's family—the Lannisters.
Both of Robert's brothers declared themselves kings and are preparing to march on King's Landing.
As for Lord Eddard Stark, he was condemned for treason and executed. His son Robb proclaimed himself King in the North. He's rallied his bannermen and is currently fighting Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
Word is, he keeps winning—and now seeks to ally with Renly Baratheon, King of the South."
"The Kingslayer… the one who killed my father…"
Daenerys muttered darkly, her eyes sharp.
Then suddenly she turned to Drogo and declared,
"They're turning on each other. The kingdom is splintered—this is our moment, isn't it, my sun and stars? Hahaha!"
With a wild laugh, she stood and called her handmaids.
"Come. Help me bathe. A moment like this deserves celebration!"
She glanced over her shoulder, voice low and sultry,
"My sun and stars, I'll wait for you beneath the stars… like the night Rhaego was conceived—blessed by the gods above."
Drogo said nothing, watching her disappear into the inner chambers with her maids.
He thought grimly: She's too reckless. Too naive.
Right now, his khalasar was like a stream flowing eastward.
But once it met the ocean—it would be swallowed whole.
He needed ships. He needed armies. He needed gold. He needed allies.
Only then could he contend with the great houses in the game of thrones.
.
.-
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