Chapter 6 — The Might of Dragonfire
The handmaids had been watching Rhaegal and Viserion wrestle when something unbelievable happened—
Drogon, who normally ignored their squabbles and focused on his roasted meat, suddenly joined the fight.
Without warning, he swiped a claw across Viserion's chest.
The golden dragonlet tumbled backward, landing flat on his rump. The chunk of meat he'd been holding flew out of his jaws.
Green Rhaegal, who had also failed to snatch meat earlier, lunged for the fallen piece and lifted her head to swallow it—
—but Drogon struck again, slapping her square in the breastbone.
The meat flew free a second time.
Both younger dragons sat stunned, dazed from the blows.
Then outrage hit them at once.
With angry screeches, they pounced—biting, clawing, tugging at Drogon's wings.
It was Drogon's first time taking on the two together, and the chaos almost overwhelmed him.
His wings and tail flailed, dodging one swipe only to be bitten somewhere else. His snarls of pain echoed across the courtyard.
Fortunately, his hide and scales were thicker than theirs, and he weathered their attacks while countering with sharp, well-timed blows.
Seeing Drogon start a fight—actually instigating it—the three dragons tumbled into a rolling knot of claws, jaws, and wings.
The two handmaids stared at each other, bewildered.
Should they intervene?
They had never seen such a violent dragon brawl—wings torn, scales ripping loose, hatchlings hissing with real fury.
Thank the gods none of them breathed fire; otherwise the manor would already be burning.
The handmaids hesitated too long.
Drogon suddenly broke free, beating his wings and launching himself into the air. He could now manage low, short flights—but before he gained even twice a man's height, Rhaegal leapt up, tackled him midair, and dragged them both crashing back down.
Didn't think the little she-dragon packed such force, Drogon thought with grudging admiration.
He hadn't taken flight to flee.
He was training—practicing aerial combat, forcing his reflexes to sharpen.
No sooner had he hit the ground than Viserion pounced again, jaws snapping viciously.
In the past, Viserion alone could never beat Drogon.
But two against one? He intended to vent every frustration he'd ever had.
Drogon had realized over the past two days that he wasn't just bigger—
his fangs were sharper, his claws harder, his scales thicker.
Even after countless bites and scratches, his injuries were shallow.
The other two looked far more battered, though Drogon never struck deep enough to cause permanent harm. That was the only reason they could keep fighting.
But while the dragons could continue endlessly, the handmaids could not.
If Daenerys returned and found one of her precious hatchlings gravely injured, even her gentleness wouldn't spare them punishment.
Sharing the same fear, Jhiqui and Irri seized long sticks and plunged them between the fighting dragons to force them apart.
But the young dragons were already seeing red.
They didn't budge.
Viserion even snapped at Jhiqui, nearly sinking his teeth into her hand.
She shrieked, dropping the stick.
They might be small, but they were still dragons—
and dragons were dangerous.
Seeing Jhiqui almost bitten, Drogon let out a deep, guttural roar—
a clear warning: don't touch her.
Though none of the hatchlings could speak High Valyrian, they understood simple meanings through tone and instinct.
Having issued his warning, Drogon acted.
He lunged and clamped his jaws around Viserion's neck, his fangs piercing flesh—not enough to maim, but more than enough to freeze the golden dragon in terror.
At the same instant, Drogon hooked his right wing-claw beneath Rhaegal's jaw, the talon pressing into the soft flesh, locking her in place.
The savage battle came to an abrupt, shocking halt.
The two handmaids, and the Dothraki who rushed in after hearing the commotion, stood frozen—
staring, wide-eyed, at the little black dragon effortlessly subduing his siblings.
Once Drogon felt both dragons go rigid with fear, he released his hold, withdrawing his wing-claw and jaws. Then he slumped back onto the ground, neck stretched, panting heavily. Even he was exhausted after fighting two at once.
With the battle finally over, the handmaids hurried in to inspect the hatchlings' injuries. Doreah, who normally tended to Daenerys's needs, joined them, helping clean wounds and apply salves.
Aside from a few deeper cuts, most of the injuries were only scratches.
Only when they confirmed this did the women finally relax.
---
That Night
A weary Daenerys returned and immediately summoned Jorah to her chambers.
Earlier that day, she had gone to the Qartheen ruling families, hoping to borrow ships. Not a single one had agreed. Meanwhile, Xaro Xhoan Daxos's intentions had become unmistakable—he wanted her, and what he offered in return was not without cost.
Daenerys hadn't rejected him, but she certainly hadn't agreed either. She wanted Jorah's counsel before making any decision.
"You cannot marry him," Jorah said immediately, voice firm with conviction.
"But we need an army! We need ships!" Daenerys snapped, her frustration breaking through.
"Xaro may offer these things, but—"
[Enough arguing! Your 'prince on a white horse' hasn't shown up yet—why are you rushing?]
From his cage, still resting after the day's fight, Drogon's irritable voice echoed in her mind.
Daenerys: "???"
A prince on a white horse?
Did Drogon foresee something?
Her thoughts spiraled immediately to the dream she never dared describe—the dream of herself entwined with a handsome young man whose face she could never quite see.
Is he the one? Is that my prince?
The idea left her flustered… and hopeful.
"Tomorrow I'll speak with the other members of the Thirteen," Daenerys said decisively. "I won't marry Xaro. You go to the docks—see if there are any ships preparing to sail west. We must leave Qarth as soon as possible."
She had no heart to think about princes now—but if Drogon didn't want her near Xaro, then she would follow Jorah's advice.
Jorah, who had been preparing a long argument, blinked in surprise when Daenerys abruptly relented. Confused but relieved, he bowed and left.
---
The Next Morning
Daenerys and Jorah continued their search for a ship.
Drogon, meanwhile, did not resume training the other two dragons. His own wounds had mostly healed after a night of deep sleep, but Rhaegal and Viserion were recovering far slower—they needed another day of rest.
The three dragons basked in the sun, munching on roasted meat while two shapely handmaids doted on them. It was a leisurely scene.
But the Dothraki left behind to guard the manor were miserable.
Being confined inside walls was torture; they paced restlessly, listless and irritable.
---
The Knock on the Gate
Thump thump thump… thump-thump… thump thump thump… thump-thump.
A rhythmic knocking broke the courtyard's quiet.
The two Dothraki guards straightened instantly, hands on their arakhs.
"Who knocks?" one barked sharply.
Thump thump thump… thump-thump.
The knocking continued, precise and patterned, yet no one replied.
The other Dothraki braced himself. Others in the courtyard noticed the strange silence and tensed in readiness.
Drogon, sunning himself, lifted his head. Something felt wrong.
"Khaleesi must be back!" one guard said, stepping toward the gate.
But before he could ask again, Doreah burst from the manor, skirts in hand, rushing toward the door.
"Wait—don't open it—!" the guard shouted.
Too late.
Doreah had already pulled the wooden bar free.
A hiss ripped from Drogon's throat—a warning aimed at Rhaegal and Viserion—and then he sprinted toward the gate, wings beating rapidly. By the time he reached it, he was already airborne, clearing the courtyard wall.
The gate swung open.
A group of Qartheen "Milk Men" surged inside—spears raised, curved blades flashing.
Drogon didn't hesitate.
Fwoom—!
A blast of black-reddish dragonfire erupted from his jaws, engulfing the three men in front.
"AAAAH—!! AH—!!"
Their screams tore through the courtyard as flames devoured skin and silk alike. The men behind them, unable to stop in time, were splashed by fire, shrieking as they flung away spears and slapped desperately at the flames consuming them.
The first three collapsed, twitching and wailing, scorched beyond recognition.
The rear ranks froze for a heartbeat—
and that heartbeat killed them.
A second wave of dragonfire swept forward.
Four more Qartheen were swallowed whole by the inferno.
The manor courtyard erupted into chaos.