Quaithe had once believed she understood Drogo well—so much so that she had dared to offer prophetic guidance to shape his destiny. But now,
Quaithe had once believed she understood Drogo well—so much so that she had dared to offer prophetic guidance to shape his destiny. But now, she wasn't so sure.
Because that man's beast companion terrified her.
"A blood-red eye that sees through shadows!"
Murderous intent surged from the creature, yet Quaithe didn't dare meet Snowball's gaze. Each time their eyes met, a dizzying, soul-sucking sensation overwhelmed her—as if her very essence would be devoured.
Just as she considered retreating, whoosh!—an arrow shot past her ear and embedded deeply into the trunk of the sandalwood tree.
Startled, Quaithe slipped down the tree like a lynx, her body exposed to the moonlight as she darted toward the dense quarters of the city.
Drogo had fired that arrow. He had seen movement in the tree outside his wide-open window and assumed it was a "Man of Regret" assassin from Qarth. Without hesitation, he loosed a deadly shot.
Quaithe's trembling had given her away. Though Drogo had only acted on the shaking of branches, his arrow came perilously close.
Watching the nearly unclothed sorceress flee into the shadows, Drogo laughed mockingly. "Hahaha! Witch! You're welcome to come die anytime you like!"
Quaithe turned back, her beautiful eyes filled with complicated emotion, and gave him a deep glare before quickening her pace and vanishing into the alleys.
She thought the Khal was threatening her. Little did she know Drogo had spoken harshly not to warn her off—but to keep Daenerys from suspecting anything.
And it worked. Rather than picking up on the hidden meaning, Daenerys was simply overcome with worry.
Frightened, she asked, "Husband, you called her a witch—who was that?"
Drogo, uneasy at having seen Quaithe in her sheer red gauze and feeling guilty, stammered, "Th-that was a member of Qarth's assassin guild—the infamous Men of Regret. They can hide in shadow. If that's not a sorceress, what is?"
Daenerys was so shaken that she didn't even register the woman's clothing. She murmured anxiously, "The Men of Regret won't stop until they've claimed a life. This island is far too dangerous—we should leave at once."
Judging by the sky, Drogo guessed it was around four in the morning. He nodded. "Alright."
Snowball's angry growling was unmistakable—Drogo had already guessed he was on the roof. "Snowball, down."
At the Khal's command, the blood-red vertical eye on Snowball's forehead slowly closed, once again hidden beneath fur. The beast's savage aura faded, and the white lion, looking harmless once more, slid down the pillar like a housecat and ran to his master, tail swaying.
It was clear the beast had been facing off with Quaithe. Drogo wondered how it had sensed her—did it see her, or smell her scent? But not knowing the language of beasts, his questions would remain unanswered.
The group ignored the innkeeper's questions, tossed him enough coin to make him grin like a fool, and hurried toward the docks.
Though they were unfamiliar with the area, they had someone watching. The short Lyseni who had earlier been frightened off by Aggo was now hiding atop a banana tree by the pier, glaring murderously as they rejoined their fleet in the distance.
Once aboard the Dragonstorm Stallion, Rakharo made a proposal. "Blood of my blood, our fleet could devour Banner Isle whole. Should we surround it, control all the ships, and send in the khalasar to flush out that elusive assassin?"
Drogo flinched inwardly, silently sweating at his Bloodrider's keen instincts. He waved a hand and replied nonchalantly, "Blood of my blood, our target is the heart of their guild. No need to waste time and strength on one skulking figure."
Rakharo wanted to argue—it would be easy, and a good way for the riders to stretch their legs—but the Khal had spoken. That was that.
Grey Worm had a chest brought up—filled with the local Qarthian golden coins—and informed His Grace of its origin.
Drogo didn't pay it much mind. He waved it away to be stored below deck, then glanced one last time at Banner Isle, his thoughts lingering. At last, he gave the command:
"Send word—full speed ahead. We sail for Qarth!"
"Yes, blood of my blood."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The commanders relayed the order, and the war horns blared.
Bwooohh!
Horn calls rang out, oars churned through the sea, voices cried orders across the decks. Gulls shrieked in alarm, and dragons screeched overhead, hunting. The ruckus finally roused Banner Isle from its slumber—the people realizing, with dread, just how close the fearsome fleet of Free Bay had come.
Dragons were living miracles. Many bold souls ran straight to the docks to see them, hearts pounding in awe.
Though the fleet hadn't docked yet, the island's lookouts had already spotted them. To avoid panic, the island's governor made no announcement. Instead, he quietly sent a chest of gold as tribute.
And then, with trembling heart, he prayed that these fierce warriors—led by Drogo, the butcher of the Sons of the Harpy, the one whose wake left nothing but scorched earth—would leave quickly.
Ten days later, the shining port of Qarth came into view.
One of the largest ports in the world, Qarth was normally a spectacle: beneath its massive awnings, there would be colors, crowds, noise, and scents of every kind—salt, fried fish, incense, and honey.
But today, the air reeked of pitch. The crowds were gone. The docks no longer bustled with merchants, but bristled with soldiers in golden plate armor—bows, spears, and swords in hand, arrayed in perfect ranks of a hundred.
And at sea, a fleet as large as Free Bay's was anchored close, ships drawn together. Onboard were archers and stone-throwers, all clad in that same golden armor.
Land and sea—clearly, one unified army.
Drogo didn't need anyone to explain. The banners bearing golden skulls told him everything. This was the legendary Golden Company.
The Golden Company—largest, most prestigious, and most expensive mercenary force in the Free Cities. Formed by exiles and their descendants, their most prized trait wasn't their strength—it was their honor.
Their motto: "Our word is as good as gold."
Unlike the infamous and fickle Second Sons, the Golden Company never broke a contract. That alone made Drogo uneasy.
He would've preferred the Second Sons.
The Company had been founded by noble blood—Aegor Rivers, also known as Bittersteel, the legitimized bastard of King Aegon IV Targaryen. But over the centuries, that bloodline had long faded from power within the company.
Daenerys's brother, Viserys Targaryen, had once feasted the Company's commanders and begged their support to reclaim the Iron Throne. But they had laughed at him. To them, he was just the "Beggar King."
Drogo didn't fear many mercenaries. But with thirty thousand strong—skilled cavalry, infantry, archers, even war elephants—the Golden Company was a force he did not take lightly.
He had once encountered their current commander, Harry Strickland, when leading thirty thousand Dothraki to raid the neighboring Kingdom of Ober. But Harry had intervened—through diplomacy.
Instead of blood, he had offered riches and ten noble maidens. The price pleased Drogo, and he withdrew. He'd come to respect Harry for his tact.
So now, Drogo expected to see Harry at the front of this massive deployment.
But after scanning the ranks, he couldn't find him.
Instead, he saw a tall old man riding a white elephant—his armor black, his cloak red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his chest.
Even from afar, Drogo could see his weathered face, hard and resolute, with tangled gray-red hair.
Beside him rode a young man with sharp features and a sword at his waist. His eyes were violet—just like Daenerys's. Around his neck hung three large square rubies strung with black iron. A black cloak with blood-red trim concealed his hair, making it hard to tell where he was from.
But when Daenerys saw the family sigil... and the eyes so like her brother's... her breath caught in her throat.
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