"The lonely conqueror... with no one at his side!"
Drogo scoffed at Quaithe's curse. He was the son of Balbo, born to conquer. Only through conquest could he find meaning in life.
Otherwise, he could've roamed the familiar Dothraki Sea, reliving his past glories. Why else endure countless hardships to cross the black saltwater?
As for loneliness—at least for now, he didn't feel it. He had Daenerys, the three hatchlings, and even Snowball, in his own way, counted as family.
Besides, with so many khalasar members respecting and admiring him, Drogo felt more fulfilled than empty. The more he conquered, the more admiration he would earn.
Even if some of it was hollow flattery, as long as he had power, few would dare abandon him openly. That was his belief.
In his past life, he was a bedridden failure. In this one, a brute still learning. Though two lifetimes overlapped, Drogo knew he still had room to grow.
As for Quaithe's prophecy—he would face that future when the time came.
With the dragonfire gone, Quaithe had left no trace behind. Pyat Pree had vanished as well.
Only Xaro Xhoan Daxos remained—a fat pig surrounded by warriors, ripe for slaughter.
Knowing their Khal held a grudge, no one struck the merchant down. Instead, they dragged him off his camel, bound him with old horse rope, and took turns beating him.
The most vicious among them was Ser Jorah Mormont. His reason was simple—Xaro had disrespected the woman he worshiped. Jealousy burned in him like wildfire.
Jorah hadn't dared cross Drogo, the man who shared Daenerys's bed. The warrior was too formidable. And truthfully, Jorah had come to grudgingly admire him.
A beauty deserved a hero—Jorah's way of coping with his own failure.
No one had expected to face death in a seemingly abandoned ruin. Now that they'd survived, Drogo let out a long breath as he watched his men pummel the merchant.
Daenerys, who had once held a good impression of Xaro, now only felt awkward under Drogo's gaze. She would not plead for a man who had dared speak to her so brazenly.
Xaro, one of Qarth's vaunted Thirteen, tried to maintain some dignity. His thick flesh absorbed the first blows, and he refused to beg, instead shouting his name, wealth, and status—hoping to intimidate or bribe the "savages."
But Drogo wasn't moved. The man reeked of fear. A seasoned merchant wouldn't ramble so desperately unless he was already broken.
Drogo knew his people too well. His khalasar wasn't swayed by status or words. Soon enough, Xaro was howling like a butchered pig.
It was enough. Though Xaro had offended Daenerys, he wasn't worth killing. Drogo wasn't needlessly cruel—and besides, the man still had his uses.
"Enough," Drogo ordered. "Don't waste your strength on a pig full of lies. Bloodriders, bring him. The rest of you—rest as you please. This city has what you need. Choose a house to sleep in, drink the sweet springwater, pick all the fruit you like!"
At his command, the warriors dragged Xaro along. Drogo turned to Daenerys, took her hand, and led her away—toward the mysterious trail they'd mistaken for hoofprints, toward the unknown.
Romantic in his own barbaric way, Drogo made Jorah's chest tighten with jealousy.
Maybe now that they were near civilization, it was time to rekindle the mission he'd once abandoned—for her, or perhaps because of him.
Demon grass grew everywhere. The buildings had no front-facing windows. All was pale and scarred with soot.
To Drogo, it was clear a terrible war had once raged here. Firestones had likely rained from siege engines into the city's heart.
They passed an empty square filled with marble pedestals. Drogo guessed Dothraki had once looted the statues, sending them to Vaes Dothrak to join the other stolen gods.
After fifteen minutes of walking, they reached their destination: the grandest palace in the city.
It still bore the marks of opulence, and the surroundings were surprisingly pleasant. This, Drogo assumed, had once been the residence of ancient kings.
"Lived well, didn't they," he muttered, glaring at the bloodied, pig-faced Xaro. He led the way inside.
The moldy carpet still hinted at its former beauty. Broken furniture lay strewn everywhere—except for a single large oak table in the center, free of dust.
On it were spice-soaked jerky, syrupy figs, half-drunk bottles of juice and wine, and golden utensils.
Clearly, this had been a recent meal—perhaps supper, or a midnight snack—for Xaro and his companions.
Drogo thought it was a stroke of fortune. Had they arrived any later, this would've gone cold.
"Eat," he said. "My moon, sit here."
He acted as if it were his own tent—utterly unbothered, raw Dothraki through and through.
They devoured everything. Once sated and resting, Drogo turned to his wife.
"Xaro Xhoan Daxos is one of Qarth's Thirteen. He trades with the far west. He probably knows what's going on in Westeros. If you want answers—ask."
Daenerys, weary but now clear-minded, turned her gaze to the bruised merchant and said,
"Prince of Qarth. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of Aerys Targaryen. I'm sure you'll be happy to tell me what has become of the Seven Kingdoms."
Xaro's eyes widened. Recognition dawned across his bruised face.
"The Mad King's daughter?! No wonder you can command dragons! I should've believed those bastards from Pentos... they said you'd married the strongest Khal in the Dothraki Sea. So it was true!
But tell me—how can your husband ride dragons, too? I thought only Aegon the Conqueror's direct heirs could—"
Drogo's face darkened.
"Fat swine of Qarth! Is that the question you should ask?! The Khaleesi's question is the only one that matters!"
Xaro paled, stammering to correct himself.
"W-Westeros… has changed. The ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—King Robert Baratheon—is dead!"
Daenerys collapsed into her chair.
"The Usurper… is dead."
.
.
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