Drogo had fallen ill. Not only could those who saw him as an omnipotent god hardly believe it—Drogo himself couldn't believe it either. He was the Unburnt, and his constitution was increasingly aligning with that of the blood of the dragon.
But the maester diagnosed him with absolute seriousness. Combined with the symptoms he was showing, it was confirmed: the Khal had come down with scurvy.
Scurvy wasn't a terminal illness—far from it. As long as one could replenish the missing nutrients, it was easily curable. But with endless seas on all sides and only barren, weed-covered islands here and there, finding limes, oranges, carrots, or other natural nutrient sources was impossible.
Daenerys, as the mother of dragons and someone whose body had also changed due to her draconic blood, understood best whether the Unburnt were truly immune to all disease and injury.
She remembered clearly: after her wedding to Drogo in Pentos, the Khalasar broke camp the very next day and set off for the sacred Dothraki city of Vaes Dothrak.
By the third day of travel, the frail Daenerys was already suffering terribly. Riding day after day had left the area between her thighs raw and bloodied. Her moon's blood had become irregular. Her hands were blistered from the reins, and her legs and back ached so badly that she couldn't sit upright. When the Khalasar stopped each day, she needed her handmaidens to help her dismount.
Even at night she found no rest. Before dawn each day, the beast-king Drogo would barge into her tent, wake her roughly, and ravage her without mercy. Daenerys often lay beside him afterward, covered in bruises and unable to sleep.
Day after day, night after night, the torture was unrelenting. One night, so overcome with despair, she even contemplated suicide.
But that night, after finally falling into a deep sleep, she had a dragon dream.
In the dream, it was just her and a massive black dragon. Its scales were dark as midnight, slick and wet with blood—her blood, she thought.
The dragon's eyes blazed like twin pools of molten lava. It opened its jaws, and flames poured out. Strangely, she felt warmth from the dragon—not fear. So she spread her arms, embraced the fire, and let the dragonflame consume her, cleanse her, and refine her.
In the haze of the dream, she felt her muscles char, her skin blacken and peel away, and her blood boil and evaporate. It should have been agony—but instead, she felt stronger, renewed, reborn.
The next morning, her pain seemed much more bearable. Daenerys believed the gods had finally heard her cries and taken pity on her.
From then on, she improved day by day. Her legs grew stronger, her hands grew calloused instead of blistered, her soft thighs became firm and flexible like well-cured leather. Riding no longer felt like torture—it became something she almost… enjoyed.
This miraculous transformation was her secret. Drogo never knew. If he had, he would've found it both unbelievable and completely fitting.
For this metamorphosis echoed the teachings of the Undying Ones—the very method they had taught Drogo to tame dragons: rebirth through fire. Strengthening the body. Deepening the bond with dragons.
Because of that experience, Daenerys didn't believe Drogo would be like other dragon-blooded and automatically burn away all illness and pain. So she insisted he rest and recover fully while she personally took on the burdens of running the fleet.
Confined to bed, Drogo would ask the maester daily, "Have we reached the Ghiscar Strait yet?"
"Soon, Your Grace. Please focus on healing."
That was all the parched-lipped maester could say to soothe his desperation.
After surviving the chaos brought by the sea witch Haixi and the sea dragon Naga, fate played another cruel joke: just when they needed wind to speed their ships westward, the seas turned deathly calm.
With no wind, rowing was their only option—and painfully slow. What once took a day's sail now took more than five. The sails had been lowered; they were useless decorations.
"We've angered the Sea King. He and the Storm God are punishing us."
So muttered the superstitious Dothraki, who began praying and sacrificing horses, begging the Storm God to send wind and guide them to the supply haven of New Ghis.
Days passed, filled with the stench of salty air and monotony. Food supplies grew increasingly limited. Water shortages followed. Though they all knew seawater was poison, some succumbed to temptation—and paid with their lives.
Eventually, a faction within the Golden Company—pirates from Qohor—rebelled. Unable to bear the slow death aboard the fleet, they killed loyal men, seized several ships, launched lifeboats, and attempted to flee toward salvation.
To avoid stressing the ailing king or stoking his wrath, Daenerys revealed a cold, ruthless side unknown to most. She commanded the dragons to burn the traitors alive at sea.
The swift and brutal response crushed the mutiny before it spread.
This show of iron will proved that even if Drogo was down, his queen was more than capable of ruling. Her authority was no less fierce than his. Both husband and wife were equally merciless to their enemies.
Two more agonizing weeks passed. The survivors, now wrapping the weak in canvas for sea burials, finally sighted the coastal walls of New Ghis.
Drogo, barely able to sit, insisted on rising. For the first time in over a month, he climbed to the deck and sat upon his pure-gold throne. From there, he gazed upon the towering stronghold—and the long-lost harpy colossus.
New Ghis bore architectural similarities to Meereen, with multi-colored structures and impossibly high walls meant to withstand ocean surges. No homes were visible from outside the gates.
As the battered fleet approached the dock, even those blinded by scurvy were dazzled by the reflected light from crates of jewels piled outside the city gate.
Strangely, no guards were posted by the treasure. Instead, plumed officers in feathered half-helms stood atop the walls alongside Ghis noblemen in tokar robes and horned hairstyles.
Creaaak...
When the king's bloodriders descended the boarding ramp as representatives, the heavy city gates opened. Hundreds of exotic beauties from all corners of the world, driven by whips, walked single-file toward the docks.
Their handler was a short Ghis officer, flashy with bronze plates sewn into his cloak and a high, polished helm.
He spotted the tall, pale-lipped man seated on the throne—clearly the fleet's leader. Standing before the flagship, he shouted confidently:
"Khal Drogo, the treasure outside the gates and these lovely women are gifts from the Governor of New Ghis! May you accept them as tokens of goodwill, and then continue westward to expand the glory of the mightiest Khal of the Dothraki Sea!"
The riches, and the beauties pleasing to all tastes, were tempting indeed.
But Daenerys, managing affairs in Drogo's stead, refused. She sternly replied:
"We don't want wealth or women. We want water and food—enough to survive."
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