Carey had been thoroughly punished, and those who dared to speak out for him had been mercilessly slaughtered.
Yet Missandei felt more fear than gratitude. She understood that only a small part of the King's actions had been for her sake. The real reason behind such a drastic display was to use the ripple effect to eliminate dissent.
Once a bedslave of the Great Masters of Astapor, the girl from Naath had some understanding of power games driven by nobles.
In her mind, Drogon was a master of manipulation. Decisive in slaughter, he would stop at nothing to eliminate anything that might threaten him—even if that meant removing the woman he loved most from his sight.
Such a man could make rival power players wary, but he instilled terror in those at the bottom, for they were mere cannon fodder in the game of thrones—sacrifices.
Missandei imagined: if His Grace had known earlier of Carey's ambition and closeness to the Queen, perhaps he wouldn't have even needed Daenerys to push events forward. Drogon might have personally delivered her to Carey's chambers, just to provoke today's outcome.
Her chilling suspicion was soon confirmed. Alone with her on the command deck, Drogon spoke in a low voice no one else could hear.
"Missandei, the Queen is special. You must remain loyal to her, as you always have. During her confinement, see to her needs well. Remember, your life belongs to her."
With his cold face speaking gently, he was even more terrifying. Terrified, Missandei bowed her head. "Yes, Your Grace. I shall obey."
"Good."
Drogon nodded and left the deck, disembarking from the flagship. His next priority was to stabilize the weakened Golden Company.
As his figure shrank into the distance, Missandei—now wearing invisible chains of her own—murmured to herself in anguish, "What is freedom? What is equality? Am I truly… free?"
Drogon knew well how highly Daenerys was regarded among the Dothraki—her influence rivaled his own. So when it came time to chain the Khaleesi, he didn't entrust the task to the Khalasar.
Instead, he delegated it to "Hero," the stiffly obedient deputy commander of the Unsullied, and "Ironshield," the elite spear captain. They forced the heavy shackles upon Daenerys.
To the outside world, Drogon appeared ruthless—locking up the woman he loved most—but inside, it tore him apart. He had no choice.
Two days later, Drogon came alone to peer into the dark cell where his wife was held.
The Mother of Dragons had stopped crying and struggling. She said nothing. Bent over from the weight of her chains, she nonetheless raised her face, staring up at him with eyes full of hate, as if asking: Why?
Drogon gazed back in disappointment and offered an explanation.
"My moon… when you first came to the Khalasar, you were docile, you even swallowed a raw horse's heart just to catch my eye. But as your prestige grew, as you became a dragonrider, you changed. You began to test my authority. Your behavior lost its discipline. You know full well who I am—Drogon. I raise people up… but I can also throw them down."
"Heh."
Daenerys let out a cold scoff. The blood of Aegon the Conqueror ran in her veins—she would never yield.
Drogon's tone softened, though his meaning remained domineering. "I could have any woman in the world. But only you reached my heart. I know you want to be above all others. Haven't you realized? I am the conqueror—you are meant to rule. If you try to overshadow me, to place me beneath your feet… then I will lock you away until death."
He made himself clear: he would fight and conquer, and she would rule. But if the Mother of Dragons tried to eclipse him completely, she would pay the price.
Her outward ambition might seem small to the world—but Drogon saw the signs. Ever since she began riding dragons, she looked down on everyone. She tried to captivate every man, to be the unchallenged center of attention. It was clear—her thirst for control and power burned hotter than his own.
The Unsullied were no saints. Their lives revolved around eating, sleeping, training, and fighting. By imprisoning a woman brimming with springtime desire among such soldiers, Drogon believed her wildness would soon be tamed.
"My moon, this is a good place. Take time to reflect. Think about how to be a proper queen—how to be the Khaleesi at a Khal's side."
With that, Drogon turned and left.
Petite in stature, Daenerys rose on tiptoes and jeered after him: "Hahaha! My sun and stars… your ambition is no match for your pride!"
Drogon's face darkened. After a moment's reflection, he shook his head and muttered, "A true king has no tolerance for hidden threats."
That night, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Perhaps it was because Daenerys wasn't beside him… because he hadn't fulfilled one of his nightly rituals.
Frustrated, he stepped onto the deck to breathe the sea air and gaze at the stars.
The sky over the Dothraki Sea was stunning—clear, bright, far more vivid than anywhere else. Not much, but better than nothing.
The Summer Sea's nights were cold. The sentries huddled around the brazier at the center of the ship, seeking warmth. But tonight, their eyes weren't on the fire—they were on the horizon.
The entire western sky was starless, lit only by a massive red moon. A streak of dark crimson light sliced across the heavens, illuminating the northeast. The hue was unmistakable—fire. Its reflection shimmered on the ocean ahead, rippling across the waves like blood.
Drogon stood in awe, then turned to the saluting Captain Collensa and asked, "It's too early for sunrise. The sky shouldn't be this red. Have we reached the ruins of Valyria? Are those the Fourteen Flames, blazing through the clouds?"
Collensa answered respectfully, "Yes, Your Grace. The sky above Valyria always burns red. We are nearing the Smoking Sea. 'Fourteen Flames' is just a name. In truth, there are over ten thousand active volcanoes. No one dares venture deep enough to count. That fire… is the wrath of gods. It's far hotter than any flame known to man. Under it, we are but ants."
Drogon shuddered. "It's one of the most terrifying places in the world."
He'd read of it: on the day of the Doom, the Valyrian Freehold split apart—mountains shattered, lava, smoke, and flames burst into the sky. The heat was so fierce, even dragons were consumed and incinerated.
The earth cracked open, devouring palaces, temples, and towns. Lakes boiled or turned acidic. Mountains collapsed. Blood-red geysers painted the sky. Dragon glass and dragon blood rained down from crimson clouds. The devastation reached far north, the ground breaking and collapsing, letting in the raging sea to flood what was left.
The world's greatest empire vanished overnight. The promised Land of Long Summer turned into scorched swampland and barren waste.
An empire built on blood and fire… devoured by the bitter fruit of its own making.
Even dragons of flame could not withstand the curse. Drogon's heart trembled. "This is a cursed land. Wake every sailor—we must turn back!"
Hisss! Shriek!
The three dragons—who had been circling Daenerys's ship for days, never straying—suddenly took off.
Watching his "children" fly straight toward the cursed land, Drogon's heart nearly leapt from his chest.
"Drogon! Rhaegal! Viserion! Come back!"
No matter how loudly he screamed, the three dragons would not return.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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