Chapter 5 — Dragon-Taming
Drogon knew the captain's news was outdated—the journey from Westeros to Qarth was long, and messages crawled slowly across the sea. By now, the Five Kings were surely tearing the continent apart.
Eddard… dead? And who are the Five Kings?
Daenerys was about to question Qhoro again when Drogon's voice brushed across her thoughts.
Her eyes drifted—intentionally or not—toward Drogon, who pretended to focus on the conversation. She swallowed her doubts and instead said, "Captain, thank you for bringing me such welcome news. When will your ship next sail for Westeros?"
"Not within the year, my queen," Captain Qhoro replied regretfully. "My holds are full, and I must deliver my cargo east, to the Shadow Lands of Asshai."
"I thank you again. May the winds carry you safely to Asshai and back. When next we meet, I shall reward you richly."
In truth, Daenerys hardly possessed anything worthy of gifting.
After Qhoro departed, Daenerys turned to Jorah with burning ambition.
The old king was dead. The new king lacked the loyalty of the realm. His brothers had rebelled.
It was the perfect moment for her to reclaim Westeros.
"King's Landing hasn't changed as much as you imagine," Jorah said, raining on her hopes in his usual sober way. "Even if Robert's brothers battle Joffrey, you cannot take advantage of the chaos. The great houses all covet the Iron Throne."
"I have dragons," Daenerys insisted—but the moment she spoke, she remembered Drogon's earlier prophecy. Her confidence faltered.
Suddenly she asked, "If Eddard Stark is guilty of treason… will they execute him?"
She still refused to believe Drogon's vision of two dragons dying so easily. She sought reassurance, not for Eddard's sake—but for her own dragons.
"If Eddard is imprisoned, his eldest son Robb Stark will act as Lord of Winterfell and command the entire North. Their numbers may be few, but their strength is great. If the new king kills Eddard, he makes a mortal enemy of the North. The wolves will march to King's Landing for vengeance."
"And with both of Robert's brothers already rebelling, another war is certain. The new king cannot afford to provoke yet another powerful foe. With the realm on the brink of civil war, every lord will begin weighing alliances. It will be another Rebellion all over again."
Hearing Jorah's explanation, Daenerys let out a long breath.
So Drogon's prophecy was not absolute. Her dragons would not die—not so easily.
For all her hopes that Drogon could glimpse the future, if the future meant losing her two dragons, then she would rather Drogon be utterly wrong.
"When will I be able to go to King's Landing?" Daenerys asked softly, eyes bright with longing.
"You have nothing yet, Khaleesi," Jorah answered. "Even if the Seven Kingdoms devour one another, you will need soldiers, ships, and allies. Otherwise, the wars of Westeros have nothing to do with us."
"I do have dragons…" she murmured.
"They are hatchlings—too weak to change anything. And who knows how long until they grow."
Jorah kept dismantling her hopes piece by piece.
Daenerys fell silent under the weight of his realism.
Seeing her shoulders droop, Jorah felt a stab of guilt—but she had to face truth. If she could not endure a few harsh words, how could she ever seize the Iron Throne?
"Khaleesi… the other day you wanted Rakharo to ride southeast to find a way out of the Red Waste. But later, you suddenly changed your mind. Why?" Jorah asked, recalling rumors he had heard earlier.
Daenerys stiffened. She couldn't possibly tell him she had heard Drogon's voice foretell Rakharo's death.
After a pause, she lied, "I simply felt that direction wasn't the way out. Why do you ask?"
"I heard people in the streets talking," Jorah said. "A Dothraki khal is raiding northwest of Qarth. Likely one of Khal Drogo's old bloodriders—Khal Pono or Khal Jhaqo."
"If Rakharo had ridden out that day, he might have encountered them. And because he followed a woman's khalasar… that khal would have killed him without hesitation."
Jorah's voice held a faint note of respect—for Rakharo, and perhaps for Daenerys as well.
Daenerys's single moment of hesitation had likely saved Rakharo's life.
"What…?"
She froze. The faint hope she had clung to was shattered in an instant.
Jorah stared at her, baffled.
Losing fewer bloodriders should have been a relief—why did his queen look so terrified?
"Ser… Ser Jorah," Daenerys managed, voice trembling, "keep a close watch on any merchant ships arriving from Westeros. Ask them for all the news they've heard from King's Landing or the Seven Kingdoms. We cannot keep our eyes fixed on Qarth alone."
She added quickly, "And look into any ships sailing west. We must leave here as soon as possible."
Xaro Xhoan Daxos had slit his own hand to summon the warlock Pyat Pree. Daenerys did not know what Xaro wanted—but she only had herself and her dragons, and she could give neither. She had to leave Qarth before he forced her hand.
"Yes, Khaleesi."
Seeing Daenerys slowly regain her composure, Jorah relaxed. But the questions in his mind only grew deeper.
Daenerys glanced toward Drogon, still diligently roasting meat in the distance, and her heart remained unsettled.
"Khiqu, Irri," she said softly, "if there's nothing else to tend to, let my dragons practice flying and breathing fire. Don't keep them locked in cages."
Drogon had said he would train Rhaegal and Viserion. She had no idea how he planned to do it—but the least she could do was give him more time.
--
The next day, while Daenerys and Jorah attended the welcome feast Xaro held in her honor, Drogon officially began his training plan.
His appetite was three times that of the other two, and he had already grown nearly twice their size.
In his previous life, he had never paid attention to whether the three dragons were male or female—nor had he ever seen them mate. Only after waking in Drogon's body did the question finally strike him.
A quick confirmation relieved him greatly: he was still male.
But the green dragon, Rhaegal—named after Daenerys's brother Rhaegar—turned out to be a female.
As a thoroughly steel-willed, straight-as-a-spear male dragon, Drogon felt nothing toward the petite she-dragon.
If anything, he preferred admiring the toned, graceful bodies of Daenerys's handmaids, Irri and Jhiqui, as they roasted meat for him.
Admiration, though—nothing more. There was no stirring of instinct, perhaps simply because he was too young and his body not fully developed.
Still, he couldn't help feeling vaguely anxious about his future orientation.
But when it came to training, Drogon made no distinction between male and female.
Enemy dragons would never show mercy—and if he wanted Viserion and Rhaegal to live long enough to grow strong, he could not afford to be gentle.
After two days of following Drogon around, mimicking his movements, the other two dragons still couldn't fly as high, nor breathe flames as far or as hot as he could.
But to ordinary men, killing them was already almost impossible.
Drogon's training methods were simple:
flying, fire-breathing, and fighting.
They already practiced the first two daily. As for fighting—whenever meat was involved, Viserion and Rhaegal would inevitably quarrel. They even tried challenging Drogon before, but he sent them tumbling with two casual swipes of his claws. Since then, they only dared fight each other.
Right now, the two younger dragons were locked in a fierce struggle over a single chunk of meat.
Jhiqui and Irri stood nearby watching them tussle, making no move to intervene or offer more food.
Daenerys had instructed them the day before:
"Other than Drogon, never feed Viserion and Rhaegal separately. Whoever wins the food keeps it.
If they fight, ignore them—unless they set the house on fire or injure each other too badly."
With those orders, the handmaids simply watched the squabbling dragons in silence.