The dragonflame consuming the pyramids would take at least two or even three days to extinguish. Fortunately, the iconic structures of New Ghis were spaced far enough apart that the fires didn't spread extensively. The vast city could easily accommodate the entirety of the Dragon Horse army.
Though Drogo didn't know New Ghis's governor personally, his forces had sealed the city so tightly that, after two days of investigation, he was certain the man had perished inside the tallest, grandest pyramid.
His campaign had eradicated them root and branch—such ruthless and thorough tactics left the newly joined Golden Company warriors deeply unnerved. They prided themselves on their own brutality, yet found themselves outmatched by a true master of devastation.
Though murmurs of disapproval reached the Khal's ears, he issued no reprimand. What he cared for were the Unsullied and his khalasar. And in truth, his methods suited both these armies to perfection.
Thus, the three armies began to form two distinct camps: the Golden Company gradually aligned themselves with the dragon queen who radiated regal charisma, while the Unsullied and braid-wearing warriors offered their unreserved support to Drogo.
But no matter how their loyalties shifted, everything remained firmly in Drogo's grasp—he and his wife were inseparable, like the moon and stars.
Coastal cities often flourished economically, and New Ghis was no exception. The city's stores could easily meet the army's needs.
With fresh fruits and vegetables to balance their diets and an increasingly skilled corps of military physicians tending to them, the majority of those stricken with scurvy made full recoveries in under a month.
Of all the patients, Drogo recovered the fastest—just as everyone expected. Their king outclassed the entire army in every conceivable way, especially in strength and endurance.
They stayed in New Ghis for some time. Just as Drogo had predicted, with his forces entrenched in the city, no foreign power dared to provoke them. Instead, surrounding factions began sending tributes.
It was a long-standing tradition—many a Dothraki khal had swept across the lands these rulers governed. These lords knew better than to resist. Offering treasure to avert destruction was the wiser path. Standing firm only led to total annihilation.
The amassed wealth grew immense, but Drogo had become numb to gold and jewels. The surplus he awarded to his most meritorious warriors.
As for the many beauties offered to him, Drogo accepted them all—but kept none at his side. Instead, he gave them posts and let his warriors mingle with the opposite sex, hoping to divert their attention from less… human interests.
The next leg of their journey would take them from New Ghis past the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold, across the Smoking Sea, and finally to Old Volantis, the eldest daughter of Valyria.
Once they reached the massive Rhoyne River delta and the city of Volantis, more settlements would follow. From there, they could either travel up the Dragonroad to Dragonstone, the staging post for Westeros, or continue via sea to Pentos—one of the Nine Free Cities—and thence to the Sunset Lands. Their route would become clearer as they progressed.
Having only just recovered from serious illness, Drogo felt no need to rush. But Daenerys, freshly exhilarated from her experience as a dragonrider, was far less patient.
Each day, after making fierce love like a she-wolf, she would curl up beside her husband and beg him to depart at once. Drogo refused.
After nearly half a year adrift at sea, with no cities before or behind, the men were still haunted by the isolation. He wanted time to properly regroup—allow his warriors and sailors to recover in body and spirit before they resumed the march.
Besides, the great storm that had accompanied their battle with Naga had damaged every ship in the fleet to varying degrees. Repairs were essential. And to create more living space aboard, new vessels needed to be built—a pressing concern. Rushing forward now would be reckless and endanger the health and stamina of his men.
Drogo was merciless with his enemies, but ruled with benevolence over his loyal warriors.
Of course, Daenerys understood all of this. But her thirst for revenge and her hunger for the Iron Throne made her willing to risk everything.
When pleading and pouting failed to move her stubborn husband, she grew sullen. Eventually, she stopped visiting his luxurious temporary palace entirely, forcing Drogo to taste the bitterness of a "living widowhood."
Her temperament grew wild again; her life, untamed. She returned to her old, minimalist attire and began parading openly through the streets atop her dragons, flaunting her once-private side to the masses who worshipped her as a goddess.
She had hoped this would provoke Drogo into relenting. She underestimated him.
He continued eating, drinking, and playing war-chess with the scribes—treating her absence with the same indifference he would a passing breeze. After all, her many fiery ascensions had already fed the voyeuristic hunger of her followers.
As long as her displays remained suggestive rather than explicit, the beast-king of the Dothraki could tolerate them. But if she ever truly crossed the line, Drogo would not hesitate to cast her aside—divorce her, strip her of her queenly dignity, and leave her to rot like a discarded flower among the idle and the weak.
He understood the root of her tantrum. Anyone would feel invincible after becoming a dragonrider. Her behavior, in fact, was quite restrained.
And he wasn't worried. The dragons didn't answer only to her—he had already mastered the purest methods of dragon-taming.
Time passed as the couple waged their cold war. Eventually, after making inspections, Drogo saw that the troops were rejuvenated and ready. Only then did relations between him and Daenerys begin to thaw.
Women are simple creatures—give them what they want, and every grievance melts away.
Drogo, ever the Breaker of Chains, and Daenerys, with her soft heart and boundless compassion, had gathered another wave of freed slaves. But he only kept the useful ones. The rest he gave supplies and coin, urging them to forge their own futures.
Once fully prepared for the journey to Volantis, the Dragon Horse army set forth once more on their westward march.
They had grown accustomed to life at sea. Despite an initial adjustment period, they soon found joy in the voyage.
This time, having learned from experience, Drogo hired several troupes of acrobats to perform aboard the warships, lifting morale and staving off boredom.
Life on the ocean grew lively. Drogo took great pleasure in it, drinking with his bloodriders and watching performances each night. The sense of oppression vanished.
The only thing that gnawed at him was his inability to ride a dragon like Daenerys. Each time he saw her circling above aboard her children, landing occasionally on the ships of the Golden Company and basking in their adoration, he felt a twinge of envy.
"When I set foot on Westeros, surely the dragons will be strong enough to bear my weight," he mused daily. For what ruler doesn't dream of becoming a true Dragon King?
He couldn't help but wonder: now that they were marching west ahead of the Game of Thrones timeline, what role would he play in the still-uncertain wars of Westeros?
Would he shatter his foes like dead branches underfoot, seize the Iron Throne, and fulfill Daenerys's long-cherished dream? Or would fate twist against him, turning his conquest into a journey fraught with peril and splendor alike?
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