Chapter 3 – I Want Extra Seasoning
After devouring three times his own weight in roast meat, Rhaegal and Viserion finally stopped eating. Only Drogon continued chewing slowly and steadily.
Now that the other two were no longer fighting him for food, Drogon wondered why they ate so little. He was only about a third full.
He was no longer frantically gulping down meat as before. Instead, he savored the flavor—though it was nothing impressive. Just the smell of roasted horseflesh. No seasoning, no spices. Rather bland.
Sniffing around, he hopped onto the horse carcass where the supplies were stored. He tapped at a specific spot with his wing. The young handmaid Irri immediately understood.
He wanted seasoning added.
A dragon eating roasted meat was already strange enough—but seasoning it like a human? That was unheard of.
Still, she fetched the spice pouch. She brushed honey over the meat, sprinkled coarse salt, black pepper, and a pinch of herbs. At once, the aroma spread, making several tired riders watching Drogon unconsciously swallow, wishing they could sneak a bite.
With the spices added, Drogon's appetite exploded. He ended up eating twice as much as he had before—more than both Rhaegal and Viserion combined.
Not just the people around him—even the two little dragons beside him were stunned into silence.
Full and satisfied, Drogon suddenly understood why he could consume so much. It stemmed from his inherited talent—Devour, a gift that let him eat and digest endlessly.
In his previous life, Drogon had grown far larger and stronger than his brothers… perhaps this talent was the reason.
Stomach full and energy overflowing, Drogon felt alive again. The blazing heat of the Red Waste meant nothing to a fire dragon.
He broke the previous routine where the three dragons took turns riding on Daenerys's shoulder. He refused to return to the cramped wooden cage. He had wings now—he was no longer the corporate drone chained to the ground as he had been in his past life.
He perched on Daenerys's shoulder and began flapping his thin wings hard, training their strength, eager for the day he could finally soar through the skies.
As he slowly adapted to the feeling of his human arms replaced by wings, he decided to practice by leaping off Daenerys's shoulder. She nearly fell over trying to catch him.
[I did that on purpose! Heh heh…]
Seeing Daenerys flustered and scrambling, Drogon snickered internally.
Realizing he had only been teasing her, Daenerys felt both exasperated and amused. The terror of possibly losing her dragons—a fear that had consumed her heart moments ago—eased slightly.
Again and again, Drogon leaped from her shoulder, learning to read the air, gauging its direction and force. When he grew tired, he perched back on her shoulder, stretching his long neck and attempting to breathe fire.
Most of the time, only faint smoke puffed out. Occasionally, sparks flickered—tiny, but to Drogon, they were a tremendous achievement.
His energetic antics brought vitality back to the once-dreary caravan. The undead exhaustion of the Red Waste lightened. Daenerys herself brightened, her spirits lifted. She no longer feared her dragons starving to death—and Drogon's unexpected tricks even filled her with a mischievous joy, like a young girl secretly stealing sweets behind her parents' backs.
Daenerys felt a twinge of disappointment—she still couldn't hear the thoughts of Rhaegal and Viserion. Only Drogon's mind was open to her.
Seeing Drogon bounding around restlessly, the other two dragons also refused to stay quietly in their cages. They mimicked him, burning off their overflowing energy in their own clumsy ways.
After a long day of waiting, Aggo finally returned from scouting ahead. But the news he brought was not what anyone had hoped for, and the already exhausted caravan sank even deeper into despair.
At dusk, Daenerys leaned weakly against her tent, half-asleep, gazing through the rippling heat of the Red Waste. A blurry figure grew larger in the distance.
Forcing herself upright, she recognized Kovarro returning—several water skins hanging from his saddle.
"Khaleesi," Kovarro said, reinvigorated despite two days alone in the desert, "I found a great and beautiful city to the east—Qarth. Ruled by the Thirteen. Their ancient ones even granted me an audience."
Daenerys asked the only question that mattered: "Will they allow us to enter?"
"They said the Mother of Dragons is most welcome," Kovarro said cheerfully as he unfastened the water skins.
Daenerys turned to Jorah. "Have you heard of this place?"
Jorah frowned. "Only that Qarth does not open its gates to just anyone. Entry comes with conditions."
Daenerys's expression darkened, her fists tightening. Even so, the water Kovarro brought relieved the caravan's immediate suffering, and his news sparked new hope among the desperate Dothraki. By the next afternoon, they finally reached Qarth.
The city walls were enormous, carved with intricate reliefs—myths, beasts, heroes, and even shameless scenes of men and women in passionate embrace. The Qartheen had never been known for modesty.
When they arrived, the Thirteen were already waiting by the gates. They varied in skin tone and height, most draped in silks and jewels—radiant displays of wealth. Only one figure stood out: tall, gaunt, bald, with protruding brow bones, sunken eyes, and bluish lips. Drogon thought he resembled an alien from the dramas of his previous life.
A thirty-man guard unit stood behind them, shields and spears gleaming.
Drogon lay inside his cage, covered by a coarse brown cloth. Daenerys didn't want the Thirteen to glimpse a real dragon yet—not before she knew their intentions. Drogon lifted the cloth with his wing, peeking out from the shadows. Compared to his stillness, the other two young dragons were furious, hissing and thrashing inside their cages. After spending the day playing freely, they had no wish to be confined again.
As Daenerys approached, a well-dressed plump man stepped forward from the Qartheen delegation, gold ornaments gleaming around his neck. Though corpulent, he carried himself with surprising grace.
Seeing the man approach, the weary Daenerys inhaled sharply, straightening her small, not-yet-grown chest.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn—"
"Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen," the fat man cut in smoothly. "Might I have the honor of seeing your little dragons?"
Interrupted mid-introduction, Daenerys forced herself to smile. "May I know your name, my lord?"
"I am no lord—merely a humble spice merchant. My name is long, and foreign tongues rarely pronounce it well."
Daenerys tried again. "My people and I have crossed the Red Waste. Will you grant us entry to replenish our water and—"
"Mother of Dragons," he interrupted a second time, "my friends and I have never seen dragons. Will you not let us witness them?"
[Oh, how I'd love to rake that fat face with my claws!]
Drogon's irritated voice echoed in Daenerys's mind.
She turned reflexively toward him and caught him in the act—peeking out from under the cloth with his snout pressed forward. When he saw her looking, he quickly dropped the fabric as if he hadn't been doing anything at all.
The sight almost made Daenerys laugh. Her anger at the spice merchant dissolved.
Even if they refuse me entry, I have dragons. I have Drogon. If I can survive the Red Waste, what else do I need fear? Just give them time to grow, and I will make the world kneel beneath dragonfire.
Bolstering her confidence, Daenerys softened her expression and said:
"As long as you allow us entry, you will one day see my dragons. Will you truly reject the friendship of the Mother of Dragons?"
---