Chapter 33 – A Shocking Conspiracy
Hodor? Bran?
The moment Drogon registered the familiar scene—and the giant, broad-shouldered figure dragging a wooden plank—he immediately recognized them.
He hadn't expected to encounter them here of all places.
The North was enormous; the odds of meeting them in this vast wilderness were nearly nonexistent.
Yet here they were.
When Drogon noticed them, they had already spotted the fire first—then the small black creature beside it, holding an oversized chunk of roasted venison in his claws.
The entire group froze.
Even Hodor, the gentle giant with a slow mind, halted mid-step at the sight of the tiny dragon munching meat beside a campfire.
Laid on the plank behind him, Bran struggled upright, alarmed by the sudden stop.
Seeing the strange expressions on Osha and the Reed siblings' faces, he turned—and his wide blue eyes flew open in shock.
They had been traveling north for days, deliberately avoiding towns and villages—terrified that someone might report them, or worse, hand them to the Bolton men still hunting them on Theon's behalf.
Yet the moment they crested a hill… they stumbled straight into Drogon.
"Grrr…"
Both direwolves immediately lowered their heads, issuing uneasy growls.
"What's that?" little Rickon asked, one hand gripping Shaggydog's fur to steady the restless wolf.
"That," Osha the wildling breathed, eyes shining with excitement, "is a dragon. A real dragon."
"A dragon?"
Rickon's jaw dropped, his eyes going round.
"But… dragons disappeared more than a hundred years ago. How can one be here?" Bran whispered from the plank.
"Remember the red comet a while back?" Osha said eagerly.
"That was a sign—a sign of dragons. I knew it couldn't have appeared just for men."
Jojen and Meera Reed said nothing, both staring in stunned fascination at the tiny dragon who had paused mid-bite only for a moment before returning to his roasted meat as if nothing in the world concerned him.
"Is he… cooking his own food?" Rickon glanced around, baffled by the fire and the setup.
"Dragons are clever creatures," Osha said reverently. "Very clever. Roasting meat wouldn't be hard for one."
"Wait—he's sprinkling something on top… is that seasoning?"
Rickon gaped as Drogon fluttered over the spit and sprinkled herbs and salt onto the meat like an experienced chef.
Even Osha fell silent.
A dragon that could cook was amazing enough…
A dragon that seasoned his food?
Such a thing had never crossed her imagination.
"Gulp…"
Rickon swallowed loudly.
A moment later, two more identical gulps came from somewhere behind him.
They had survived on whatever scraps Osha could steal or whatever small game she managed to hunt.
They rarely dared to light a proper fire—only charred meat quickly and shoved it down before moving on.
A few times, they even got sick from it.
But never had they seen someone roasting meat leisurely…
with spices.
When Drogon finished the last piece of venison, he extinguished the fire with a sweep of his wings.
Instead of eating more, he lifted himself into the air and glided forward—landing right in front of Bran and the others.
Staring at the boy lying weakly on the wooden sled—auburn hair, youthful face, quiet eyes—
Drogon found it almost impossible to reconcile this fragile figure with the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, the one who would become Protector of the Realm.
Seeing Bran triggered the memory of the vision he had witnessed in the House of the Undying.
Looking back now, Drogon realized something chilling:
In all of Westeros, the only person capable of commanding that many scorpions and Valyrian-steel nets was the King of the Seven Kingdoms—Bran Stark.
He remembered clearly—those nets could hardly be burned even by dragonfire hot enough to melt metal.
It had been only a prophecy, perhaps symbolic, but the meaning was unmistakable.
Even if Bran was suspicious, Drogon couldn't understand:
Why would the future king kill the last dragon in the world?
Especially when Jon—another hidden Targaryen heir—was still alive.
Shouldn't Bran have protected him? Worshipped him even?
He recalled what Bran would become in the future—nothing like this innocent child.
The older Bran hugged Jon and Arya after years apart with all the warmth of a stone statue.
He spoke calmly—even indifferently—about Sansa's torment under Ramsay, as though it were a trivial fact.
He even admired her white wedding gown worn on the very night she was assaulted.
That Bran… felt less and less human.
Drogon couldn't tell whether placing such a person on the Iron Throne was a blessing or a curse.
Then came the flashes of the House of the Undying:
The Dance of Dragons, drenched in blood
Viserion turning into an ice dragon
Rhaegal falling into the sea
Drogon himself dying under a rain of scorpion bolts
The Red Priestess killing false kings
The Undying draining life
Bran's cold, emotionless gaze
Piece by piece, the events aligned in Drogon's mind:
The Doom of Valyria.
The madness of House Targaryen.
The dragon purge during the Dance of Dragons.
Viserion and Rhaegal's tragic ends.
Jon betraying Daenerys.
Drogon's own final, agonizing death.
The extinction of dragons—again.
A horrifying possibility surfaced… slowly, chillingly.
Years ago, after the Red Woman used leeches to curse the false kings, they all died one after another.
Ser Davos had doubted the curse, but Stannis believed it wholeheartedly.
No one could prove whether those deaths were caused by assassins, politics… or something far more mysterious—
the subconscious influence of a god.
So Drogon wondered:
Could this entire chain of tragedies—Targaryen extinction, dragon extinction—have been orchestrated by the gods themselves?
Old Gods, New Gods, R'hllor, the Undying…
They all sought worship, faith, influence.
Their power grew through believers.
Their teachings spread through chosen servants.
Among them, the strongest seemed to be:
The Lord of Light, with his visions and flames
The Old Gods, through the Weirwood network and the Three-Eyed Ravens
If the Red Woman survived to the end and Daenerys lived, the Seven Kingdoms would eventually fall under R'hllor's shadow.
Bran becoming king meant something else entirely:
Weirwood trees would fill Westeros.
The Old Gods' influence would spread everywhere.
The gods never appeared in person, only controlled events through followers…
But dragons?
Dragons were a bug, an anomaly, a threat.
During the Targaryen reign, countless people revered dragons, bowed to dragon sigils, worshipped their power.
Faith in dragons undermined the gods.
So Drogon wondered:
Did the gods wipe out the dragons to eliminate competition?
And weaken House Targaryen until it withered to nothing?
The more he thought about it, the more frightened—and convinced—he became.
His gaze returned to Bran.
A chilling urge flashed through Drogon's mind:
What if he killed Bran now—end the line of Greenseers forever?
"Do you want to kill me?"
The sudden voice whispered directly into his ear, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.
The Reed siblings and Rickon stiffened instantly.
Both direwolves bared their fangs, growling deep and low.
Even Osha stared in shock—why would a dragon that cooked its own meat suddenly want to kill the crippled Stark boy?
Of course.
He was dealing with the future Three-Eyed Raven.
No wonder he sensed it.
Drogon exhaled slowly.
He abandoned the thought as quickly as it had come.
Bran wasn't yet the emotionless oracle of the future.
Killing him now would be senseless murder.
Besides, the world had changed.
He was not the old Drogon.
Daenerys would not be the same Daenerys.
His heart eased.
He glanced at the growling direwolves—still young, but already larger than fully-grown hounds.
Beating his wings once, he darted toward one of them with blinding speed.
"Summer!" Bran shouted, too late.
Drogon skimmed across Summer's head, brushing the wolf's fur lightly, then shot upward into the sky and angled southward.
"So soft."
He flexed his claws with satisfaction—he hadn't expected direwolf fur to be that silky.
"Don't worry," Osha muttered, staring at the black pepper dust left on Summer's head.
"He just… patted him."
Only then did Bran finally relax.
But sweat already drenched his back.
It felt like he had just walked out of the abyss.