After the Bloodriders left, Drogo summoned Kerry, commander of the Golden Company.
Kerry carried himself like a proper military officer. Upon entering the hall and reaching the designated spot, he dropped to one knee and respectfully said, "Your Grace, I await your command."
Drogo remained silent, his expression grim, testing the man's patience through deliberate observation.
Though Qarth was only a single great city, it was effectively a kingdom. Its trade network was vast, and its maritime territory extensive.
The royal family held little real power; most of Qarth's maritime control had long been usurped by the pirates of the Tourmaline Brotherhood, who acted with impunity under royal pretense.
Though most guild members were scoundrels, Drogo had no intention of wiping them out—he intended to put them to use.
Since he had no plans to remain in Qarth, he meant to take everything of value with him—true to the Dothraki tradition of spoils and conquest.
Kerry, reputed to be the most charismatic leader of men since Jon Connington, understood his role well. Since Drogo remained silent, so did he—kneeling motionless, the image of disciplined humility.
A king did not always need complete devotion—just a subordinate who knew how to behave.
In this, Drogo felt Kerry surpassed even his fiercely loyal but undisciplined Bloodriders.
Having decided how to use the Golden Company, Drogo allowed his expression to ease and said, "Commander Kerry, you've worked hard. Rise, and take a seat."
Feigning humbled surprise, Kerry offered a stiff smile and cautiously sat on a tall chair a level below the throne. "I thank Your Grace for the honor."
Drogo sneered inwardly. How fake. The Golden Company is the largest sellsword force in the world, and its commander holds sway on par with governors of the Free Cities. Kerry may be newly promoted, but he once stood on par with the Right Hand of Glory. He's faced nobles far more arrogant than me.
Perhaps he'd misjudged Kerry—but it didn't matter. In his eyes, a king's word was always right.
He raised his goblet, and ever-attentive Missandei refilled it without a word.
After a few sips, Drogo asked casually, "Commander, do you know the Golden Company's greatest weakness when employed by the Free Cities?"
Kerry seized the moment to flatter him. "Your Grace, most of the Free Cities are coastal. The Golden Company's weakness lies in naval warfare. Yet your Unsullied, with less than six months of maritime training, already fight like seasoned marines. Your leadership is extraordinary!"
Drogo remained impassive. "Men fight best when they have no choice. Real combat is better than any drill."
"Of course, Your Grace," Kerry said quickly.
"I assume you now understand why I summoned you?"
Kerry hesitated, then ventured, "Your Grace intends for the Golden Company to become a proper navy?"
Drogo nodded, then shook his head. "I already have the finest infantry and cavalry. I have dragons to strike from the sky. To dominate land, sea, and air in unity, the Golden Company must master naval warfare. Your instructors will be the seasoned pirates of the Tourmaline Brotherhood."
Drogo's overwhelming strength was the true reason the defiant Golden Company had submitted.
But Kerry clearly disliked the idea of pirates training his men.
He protested, "Your Grace, letting pirates train the world's premier mercenary company could bring ridicule and damage your prestige."
A warlord from humble beginnings, Drogo cared only for results—not reputation. Mercenaries and pirates were equally disreputable. And Kerry had the nerve to object?
With a flash of anger, he barked, "Remember this well. Under my command, you may retain your name, but you will no longer act as mercenaries. If the pirates of the Tourmaline Brotherhood submit, then they are my soldiers—just like the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Golden Company. Rank means nothing. Skill is what matters. Anyone with ability can be a teacher!"
Sensing his fury, Kerry dropped to his knees, trembling. "Your Grace is right—my thinking was outdated."
To most rulers, the Golden Company was a coveted prize. To Drogo, they were a bonus—useful, but expendable.
He would not coddle Kerry. If the man dared defy him, he'd bury the entire Golden Company with him.
"Go now," Drogo commanded, "and speak with the remaining leaders of the Tourmaline Brotherhood. Integrate their pirates into your ranks. Forge me a navy worthy of conquest."
That last instruction—putting pirates under Kerry's command—eased his resentment. "As you command, Your Grace."
"Then go."
Kerry rose, bowing the entire way as he backed out of the hall. Only when out of sight did he straighten and exhale deeply.
The main affairs handled, Drogo felt no urge to rest. He intended to lead a raid himself—seeking out the Great Masters, Wise Masters, and Good Masters being sheltered by Qarth's remaining elites.
His safety came first. A thousand Unsullied stood ready outside the palace.
Clad in golden armor, Drogo mounted his crimson warhorse. With a few captured nobles as guides, he led the Unsullied in search of the slavers' hiding places.
They returned to the market district. All the shuttered shops had been smashed open. Inside was wreckage—nothing of value remained. The Bloodriders had clearly been here.
Beyond the market lay a great square, its center adorned with statues of Qarth's ancient heroes.
As Drogo reached the square's edge, a familiar face caught his eye.
A young girl stood by the central fountain—a black cloak over her black hair and dusky skin, large almond eyes shining beneath delicate brows. She held a coin between her fingers.
Drogo's eyes narrowed. Jhiqui? Why is she here in Qarth?
Jhiqui and Irri had once served Daenerys well. He'd made them leaders of the Women's Guild in the Free Bay. But the city was still in ruins—her absence now seemed negligent.
Still, he couldn't blame her. He had long harbored feelings for her. If not for Dany's watchful eye, he'd have taken her already.
As he approached, Jhiqui's smile brightened. She bowed. "Khal."
Drogo nodded, then dismounted, frowning. "Jhiqui, why are you here? Did Daenerys permit you to leave the Free Bay?"
"Khal, I missed you so much!"
Abandoning all propriety, she threw herself into his arms.
Startled, Drogo froze. Only when her head nestled against him did he stammer, "You… you can't do this!"
She clung to him so tightly that he couldn't push her away without force.
The Unsullied, recognizing her, stood still. Missandei looked conflicted, but dared not interfere.
Jhiqui clung to him like a woman possessed, pouring out honeyed words:
"Khal, your light is like the sun above, warming and brightening my life. I've loved you for so long. I was afraid I'd never see you again, so I came looking for you. Just now, I stood by this fountain and made a wish—and the Great Stallion heard me. He brought you to me!"
Drogo glanced at the statue in the fountain. A manticore. The Great Stallion? That's a manticore, not a god.
Soft curves in his arms might have tempted another man. But Drogo—battle-hardened Khal—felt a shiver.
Something was wrong.
Jhiqui had always been shy, cautious. Even after rising in status, she remained reserved. No way she'd become so bold in just over a month.
Then he noticed more.
She claimed to have just arrived—but her cloak bore no dust. She didn't smell of sweat. Instead, she reeked of perfume, like someone fresh from a bath.
And the coin in her fingers—it bore the mark of the Faceless Men.
Drogo's heart clenched.
"You're not Jhiqui!" he shouted, shoving her away with all his strength.
As they separated, he saw her sneer—and a glint of metal flashing toward his stomach.
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