"The Man of Regret" was the name of an ancient assassin guild in Qarth, one with a quasi-religious structure. Before killing a target, they
"The Man of Regret" was the name of an ancient assassin guild in Qarth, one with a quasi-religious structure. Before killing a target, they would always whisper softly, "I regret this," thus earning their name.
These killers would do anything for coin, and Drogo knew it was only a matter of time before they came for him. He didn't need Quaithe to warn him—every powerful figure in Qarth wanted him dead now.
Let them come. His Bloodriders guarded him like nightingales. When the time came, who would be left to regret?
Sneering to himself, Drogo climbed out of the bath and dressed—only to hear a familiar whimpering and the sharp scraping of claws at the door.
"You clingy little beast."
The Khal chuckled as he opened the door. Snowball immediately raised his front paws to Drogo's leg, affectionately rubbing against him as always.
Seeing the lion's fur standing on end, Drogo guessed the beast hadn't been brought from the ship. He'd swum here on his own.
Able to climb trees, swim long distances, and possessing a nose keener than any dog's, Snowball seemed more and more like the perfect companion. Since forming their spiritual bond, he had become the best scout Drogo could imagine.
Their similar tastes had already embarrassed Quaithe once.
Normally, Drogo would squat and rub the beast's head in greeting. But this time, he froze. Snowball was chewing on a strip of fire-red gauze.
Drogo looked at the piece in his own hand, then at the one in Snowball's mouth. He compared them closely, then yanked the cloth from the lion's jaws and sniffed it. He immediately recognized it as a piece of Quaithe's robe.
"No wonder you're the fastest creature in the Great Grass Sea. You even managed to tail that phantom witch. I tore off one piece, and you bit off another. I wonder if she has the shamelessness to walk around the island half-naked now."
The thought was too amusing. Drogo chuckled to himself, grateful he hadn't thrown Snowball into the sky like a projectile, but had instead kept the clingy beast.
Now, however, he had to face his wife. He couldn't bear to discard the fragrant gauze, but he also couldn't let Daenerys see it.
After a moment of thought, he untied one of the bells from his braid, threaded the gauze through it, and fastened it around Snowball's neck.
In his past life, he had been a dragon's heir. Even now, despite having a true dragon as his wife, he still felt a twinge of regret—he'd always preferred Eastern features.
Quaithe was the only woman in this world who matched that classical beauty. It was only natural to fantasize about her.
Drogo had never pretended to be a good man. Before his rebirth, his life was drenched in decadence. He'd had more lovers than he could count. If not for the monogamous values carried over from his past life, he would've long since taken the beautiful Missandei of Naath.
Women always took their time getting ready. While Drogo and his Bloodriders waited outside the bathhouse, Daenerys finally emerged, fragrant with flower petals and radiant with beauty.
A wife's instincts are sharp. The moment she saw the gauze tied around Snowball's neck, her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed with quiet grievance, and she said pointedly, "I heard the massage girls here are stunning, all dressed in gaudy silks. Snowball's really lucky—getting such a thoughtful little gift from his master."
Drogo felt no shame or panic. With a face thicker than stone, he replied calmly, "No blossom, no matter how lovely, can rival my Khaleesi. She is the most beautiful woman in the world—brighter than the stars. With her in my life, no one else catches my eye."
The Bloodriders exchanged strange glances, and Daenerys blushed, pouting, "Ugh, such a smooth-talking liar."
She might scold him with her lips, but in her heart, the words were like honey.
"Snowball is your companion. He'd look plain without a little decoration. I thought the bathhouse curtains looked nice, so I tore off a piece to dress him up. Now that he's wearing a collar, he looks just like a lovely lioness."
To Snowball, that wasn't a compliment—it was an insult. The white lion growled and bit at Drogo's trouser leg.
So expressive it was almost frightening. Drogo nervously kicked him away.
Seeing Daenerys break into laughter, Drogo let out a silent sigh of relief. His indiscretion was safe... for now.
Daenerys chose a respectable inn where they planned to spend the night.
Drogo didn't want to stay—this place was crawling with shady types, and the Man of Regret could be anywhere. But he couldn't refuse his wife, weary of tossing ships and endless waves.
Though she lay beside him, Drogo couldn't stop thinking of Quaithe's face. Even when he tried not to, it surfaced again.
Three Bloodriders stood guard in the narrow hallway, arakhs at the ready, alert to every noise. It was their duty.
Snowball, by contrast, was carefree. After playing under the bed for a while, he grew bored and climbed the pillar up to the rooftop.
Tonight, the blood moon hung especially large and bright. A pale silver glow bathed every inch of sky.
Snowball seemed entranced. He raised his head and gazed at the moon, then suddenly let out an excited howl: "Awoo!"
The sudden roar didn't wake many. The inn was in a remote corner, and most guests were already... otherwise engaged.
After all, Banner Isle was home to many women who preferred shortcuts over honest labor.
But one figure hidden in the shadows wasn't caught in passion—Quaithe.
Like a ghost, she climbed onto Drogo's rooftop. Her steps were utterly silent as she crept slowly toward Snowball.
Her mask had been torn away earlier. Now she covered her face with a black silk veil. Her pale calves bore twin bite marks—proof of why she had pursued the white lion all night.
From her waist, she drew a dagger that gleamed coldly in the moonlight. Just as she raised it to stab Snowball from behind, a sudden gust of wind blew past—lifting her robes and revealing her graceful figure.
She never imagined that this wind would save the white lion's life.
Snowball caught her scent and immediately turned, snarling and leaping at her with claws extended.
Startled, Quaithe slashed with the dagger, aiming to cut his paws. But this only enraged the beast. It lunged—teeth ahead of claws—and bit down on the dagger's tip.
A blast of hot, foul breath blew across her hand. Panicked, Quaithe immediately cast a secret spell, dropped the dagger, and vanished into the shadows.
She trusted her concealment technique and didn't leave the area. Instead, she hid in a sandalwood tree beside the inn, cloaked by its shadow, silently observing Snowball and waiting for another chance.
Snowball looked around, then fixed his gaze directly on her hiding spot, baring his fangs and growling low.
Quaithe trembled. The white lion had found her.
The sandalwood tree stood far from the rooftop—Snowball couldn't possibly leap across. But what terrified her most was the bloody scar on his forehead, which had split open to reveal a third eye—blood-red, vertical, and luminous.
She was certain: even if someone were lying beside her, they wouldn't have noticed her presence. Her body was fully merged with the shadows.
Yet in the beast's third eye, she saw her own figure reflected—clear as day.
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