The next morning, Drogo, refreshed and in high spirits, summoned all his commanders to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.
His old skin had shed, revealing raw new flesh—ghastly to look at, but it caused him no discomfort.
Missandei stood behind and to the left of his throne, ready to translate or speak at a moment's notice. Queen Daenerys sat nearby, her seat raised almost to the level of the throne.
To Drogo's lower left were his three bloodriders, along with Rommo, a Dothraki "Jaqalan," and Harrys, commander of the Golden Company.
To his lower right sat Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied; his second-in-command, known only as "Hero"; and "Ironshield," captain of the Unsullied elite spearmen.
The rest of the vassals had no right to sit and stood in two lines below the steps.
Drogo looked down from the dais and called out in a commanding voice:
"Have we tracked down the remnants of the Windblown, the Stormcrows, and the Second Sons?"
He hadn't explicitly assigned the task, but he trusted his new commanders would've raced to take it upon themselves.
As expected, the ever-busy and zealous Harrys immediately stepped forward and said:
"Your Grace, the survivors who fled Astapor with the slavers never reached Qarth Bay. They parted ways and boarded ships bound for Tyrosh."
Of course mercenaries would best understand other mercenaries. Drogo figured the Golden Company's leader didn't even need to investigate deeply to predict their behavior.
Tyrosh—one of the Nine Free Cities—was far across the sea.
"Hmph. Lucky bastards," Drogo sneered.
Since Harrys had spoken up, Drogo continued:
"Commander Harrys, how is the naval training coming along?"
The Golden Company's leader had shared drinks with Drogo's closest bloodriders and, in their drunken camaraderie, learned that Drogo was bold, decisive, and valued efficiency above all.
Knowing better than to lie or stall, Harrys took a middle route.
"One month. At most. They'll meet the standards set by the Brotherhood of the Black Opal and be ready to serve as proper sailors."
Drogo nodded thoughtfully. "One month then. But all damaged warships must also be repaired in that time."
Hand over his breastplate, Harrys bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, it shall be done."
Drogo, pleased with both the efficiency and respectful tone, marked him as a trusted man.
The ship repairs, under normal circumstances, would've been completed in half a month given the surplus of craftsmen. Receiving a full month's time felt like a mark of favor. Elated, Harrys couldn't hide a grin and even winked at Ago, warning him that the king's trust might be shifting.
But the simple-minded Ago didn't care. Aside from Grey Worm, no one was closer to Drogo as a bodyguard than he.
Perhaps it was his simplicity that had earned the king's full trust.
After asking a few more questions about pay and supplies, Drogo announced his intent to sail westward by sea.
The room murmured with discussion until a man stepped forward—Bael Grew, a newly arrived maester from Myr.
A war host needed more than warriors; it needed advisors who could plot strategies and fill in gaps in knowledge. Drogo greatly valued such men and listened eagerly.
"Your Grace," said Bael Grew, bowing low. Copper chains clinked around his neck, marking him a maester trained at the Citadel.
"I believe an overland march along the Valyrian Road, with Mantarys as a supply base, would be the safer choice."
Drogo had chosen the sea route after deep consideration, but he was open to reason. He rested his hands on the armrest.
"Let's hear it."
Bael Grew had come to serve Drogo precisely because of his reputation for listening to reason. Most lords acted on impulse. Rare was the ruler who valued counsel.
This was the young maester's moment to shine. He launched into his explanation.
"Your Grace, the Valyrian Road begins at the edge of the Free Cities and stretches all the way to Dragonstone—Her Majesty's cherished homeland.
It's not made of stone or brick but fused black rock, forged by dragonfire itself. It rises half a foot above ground so that water runs off during rain. It's firmer than sand or clay, perfect for cavalry.
Three wagons can ride side by side.
And most importantly, Your Grace's armies are trained for land battles.
Compared to the Summer Sea's tempests, the Valyrian Road is far safer."
He made a strong case. To the untrained ear, it would sound irrefutable.
But Drogo nearly scoffed. This maester was still thinking in theory, not reality.
The Valyrian Road had stood for centuries—long enough to decay.
Entire stretches were buried in sand or reclaimed by wilderness.
Bandits ruled key points. Wild beasts prowled the abandoned sections.
Heavy supply wagons could never pass through. For the weak, the journey would be fatal.
Compared to that, the sea—though unpredictable—was still cleaner, faster, and less hostile.
After explaining his view, Drogo watched Bael Grew's expression shift. The maester realized the flaw in his suggestion.
Still, pride stung him. Red-faced, he gave hollow words of praise and stepped back into line.
One month later...
BWOOOOOOOOOOM.
The deep blast of a warhorn echoed through Qarth's port as soldiers surged aboard ships in long, ordered lines.
In the glittering city—proud, ancient, and steeped in matriarchy—Drogo the invader received no cheers, no warm farewells.
None of the gratitude that had followed him from Slaver's Bay.
But he didn't care.
Qarth had always been, to him, a fattened lamb for slaughter.
The old Drogo would have torched the city on departure.
But now... he left it standing—for those foolish enough to cheer behind his back.
If they grew too bold, Drogo trusted his Free Bay armies would return to slap them into silence.
He had considered gifting Qarth to Free Bay, but now was not the time to provoke more enemies.
Standing aboard the newly rebuilt and grander Dragonfire and Thunder, Drogo turned one last time to look at the golden city. He whispered:
"One day... I will return."
A cold, eerie smile crept onto his face—a silent warning to the princes, governors, consuls, and slavers of the Free Cities who might now covet Qarth.
The Dragonfather and Dragonmother stood tall at the ship's prow, the wind in their faces, hearts surging like the waves.
"The day we land in Westeros... the Seven Kingdoms shall tremble!"
Drogo's thunderous cry stirred Daenerys' blood like the beating of dragon wings.
Dragons roared above the westbound fleet, their cries louder than storm tides—igniting fire in every heart that longed for Westeros.
"SKREEEEE—KRAAAAAH!"
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