Chapter 7 — The Betrayer
After unleashing two blasts of dragonfire, Drogon saw Rhaegal and Viserion swooping in behind him. With his siblings covering his back, he surged past the courtyard walls, wings beating as he sped toward the larger group of Qartheen outside—spitting fire as he flew.
The men beyond the gate had watched their companions shriek and collapse into charred husks.
Most lost all will to fight on the spot.
Only a few guards at the rear dared to raise their spears and hurl them at Drogon—but their aim was wild with panic. Drogon dodged them with ease.
The spears did not so much as graze him.
But they infuriated him.
Of all things in the world, the reborn dragon hated spears most of all.
Abandoning the men beneath him, he snapped his wings open and glided toward the spear-throwers. Hovering above, he rewarded them with a full plume of dragonfire.
He only turned away once he heard their dying screams echo beneath the flames.
Behind him, Rhaegal and Viserion joined the slaughter, roasting several Qartheen alive.
That was all the Dothraki needed.
Realizing the tide had turned, they surged out of the courtyard with their arakhs raised, carving through the terrified Qartheen who tried to flee.
More than fifty of Qarth's Milk Men were burned or hacked down within minutes.
The screams and blazing light drew crowds of horrified onlookers.
Qartheen citizens stared, mouths open, unable to process the nightmare before them—three dragons burning men alive as casually as roasting meat.
Dozens slain in minutes.
Drogon's buried savagery surged free, roaring through his veins.
As he scanned the frightened faces around him, he felt—through Daenerys—the humiliation she had endured since arriving in Qarth. The scorn. The dismissal. The way they had tried to bargain for her, cage her, control her.
It stoked his fury.
"SKREEEEE!"
A roar laced with smoke and sparks tore from his throat.
"SKREEE!"
"SKREEE!"
Rhaegal and Viserion echoed him, their vicious cries rattling the air.
Faced with three dragons staring at them like predators choosing their next meal, the Qartheen spectators broke. Screaming, they fled in all directions, terrified they would be mistaken for the attackers' allies.
Drogon circled overhead once, searching for suspicious figures. Finding none, he finally glided down to the ground.
The surviving Dothraki stared at him with worship in their eyes.
As soon as the dragons had landed, they resumed gathering spears and shields, dragging away charred corpses.
---
A sharp cry cut through the settling dust.
Drogon turned.
A Qartheen woman had backed away in terror—because Viserion stood atop a burnt corpse, snarling at her.
Smoke curled from his throat, embers gathering. One breath more and he would have incinerated her.
She was Dothraki—no delicate flower—yet she trembled like a cornered lamb.
Once she retreated far enough, Viserion snorted and lowered his head… then began clawing at the charred corpse beneath him.
Realizing he meant to eat the body, Drogon's stomach twisted.
And the image triggered a memory—one of the dark futures from the show he'd watched in his past life.
A little three-year-old girl burned to ash by one of Daenerys's dragons.
He would not allow this.
Drogon dropped from the air, landed beside Viserion, and pressed a claw on the golden dragon's paw, pinning it in place.
At the same time, he growled low and firm.
Rhaegal, who had been about to take her own bite of another corpse, froze mid-motion. Hearing the meaning in Drogon's voice, she reluctantly withdrew her claws.
The delicious, crackling meat so close they could smell it—and yet no permission to eat?
Viserion snarled in frustration, yanking his paw free and lifting his head.
He bared his teeth at Drogon in challenge.
Seeing the very same little brother he'd beaten yesterday now baring his teeth at him, Drogon—still riding the high of killing dozens—slammed his claw onto Viserion's golden head and pinned it to the charred corpse beneath them.
Viserion stretched his neck desperately, wings scraping the ground, hind claws digging deep grooves into the dirt as he tried to rise.
But Drogon's strength dwarfed his own, and with his long neck pinned, he could barely move.
A few more frantic struggles only tore open his half-healed wounds.
The sharp sting finally brought back memories of the previous beating.
His resistance collapsed; a pitiful whimper escaped his throat.
That's more like it.
Hearing Viserion yield, Drogon slowly lifted his claw… then casually flicked his gaze toward Rhaegal, who had been inching her paw toward another crisped corpse.
She froze instantly and retracted her claw like a frightened child.
"Not stupid at all," Drogon thought with satisfaction. "Knows how to read the room, this little she-dragon."
Now that both dragons were thoroughly cowed, Drogon swept his eyes over the stunned crowd—until he found Jhiqui, the young handmaid. He tilted his head toward her in a clear gesture.
She blinked at him, round eyes confused.
Drogon was speechless. How are humans duller than dragons?
He gave Rhaegal and the drooping Viserion another glance.
This time Jhiqui understood—he wanted her to roast meat for the younger dragons.
He could discipline them, but he couldn't suppress their instincts forever.
Food still had to be provided.
As for their other instincts… they were still young, and knew nothing.
With the meat served, the two dragons immediately devoured their meal.
Having just been "disciplined," Jhiqui didn't dare let them fight over food again.
Soon enough they were full, sprawled in the sun with their bellies up like pampered lords—completely unrecognizable as the terrified hatchlings Drogon had dominated moments ago.
Across from them, however, Doreah—tied to a pillar—looked nothing like a pampered anything.
Her hair was a tangled mess, her body covered in bruises where nearly every Dothraki had struck her at least once.
She could only wait in despair for Daenerys's judgment.
---
"Drogon! Rhaegal! Vise—!"
Daenerys burst into the charred courtyard, breathless and frantic, tears glistening on her cheeks.
The three dragons, basking lazily, all turned their heads toward her.
"You're… all right?"
She hadn't even finished calling Viserion's name before her eyes registered the lounging trio in their indecently relaxed poses.
Did they burn down the gate? Did they roast those men?
She looked around, confusion rising—until her gaze fell upon Doreah tied to the pillar.
"Jhiqui—what happened?" she demanded, sensing something was very wrong.
"Khaleesi," Jhiqui said, voice trembling, "a group of men stormed in earlier. If not for the dragons—we would all be dead."
The more Daenerys heard, the colder her blood ran.
She rushed forward and threw her arms around Drogon's neck, planting a hard kiss on his scaled cheek.
"Thank the gods for you, Drogon."
With the people she'd left behind, there was no way they could have held off fifty trained Qartheen guards.
The outcome would have been certain: her people slaughtered, her dragons stolen.
She had never expected Drogon and the others to be this strong already.
[A bunch of weaklings, that's all.] Drogon said with casual disdain.
"Skree…"
Hearing Daenerys smothering Drogon with kisses and praise, Rhaegal let out a disgruntled chirp.
Viserion immediately shoved himself closer, trying to wedge into Daenerys's arms too.
[These two little idiots… didn't learn much from training, but they learned jealousy fast enough.] Drogon sighed.
Daenerys heard the complaint and couldn't help laughing.
She gathered Rhaegal and Viserion into her arms as well, kissing each of them on the snout in turn.
Once both dragons were appeased, Daenerys's expression shifted—growing dark and cold.
She strode toward Doreah, the handmaid who had once taught her the arts of love.
Raising her hand, Daenerys struck her across the face.
Then again.
"You traveled with me from Pentos," she said, voice shaking with fury, "crossed the Dothraki Sea with me, survived the Red Waste with me—
why did you betray me?"