Chapter 70 — The Lion's True Colors
"That's Dothraki firewine," Shireen said from the side, answering on Drogon's behalf. "Only the bravest Dothraki khals can drink it."
Back then, she'd only taken the tiniest sip and immediately coughed so hard her eyes teared up. She'd asked Drogon afterward, and that was when she learned the name—and the origin—of the drink.
The moment Tyrion heard the words "only the bravest Dothraki khals," he suddenly remembered the way Shae always liked to purr—
My lion… my fierce lion…
And something inside him snapped into place with absolute certainty.
This firewine…
He had to finish it.
Even if it took him the entire day, even if he had to suffer through it one miserable mouthful at a time—he was going to empty that cup.
Decision made, Tyrion forced down a couple more bites of meat, then raised his cup again.
Drogon hadn't expected him to keep going.
He flicked Tyrion a glance, then clinked cups like it was nothing—
And once again, drank the entire cup in a single savage gulp.
Tyrion's eyelid twitched.
This dragon… is insane.
But this time, Tyrion didn't try to match him. He took only a tiny sip—then immediately grabbed water and swallowed several huge gulps like his life depended on it. After that, he shoved more meat into his mouth, desperately trying to smother the burning fire in his stomach.
Shireen didn't expect Tyrion to continue either.
She didn't realize her comment had effectively pushed Tyrion into a corner. Now he had no choice but to prove something—especially with Shae sitting right there.
The small jar of firewine only held enough for four or five cups.
Drogon drank a full cup every time.
Tyrion drank a single sip every time.
One cup for the dragon, one sip for the man.
By the time Drogon finished the jar entirely, Tyrion had also—through sheer stubborn suffering—finally consumed the remaining half cup.
At that point Tyrion's face was so red it looked sunburned. His pupils were unfocused. His posture was barely upright.
After forcing down the final mouthful, he seemed to complete some sacred heroic duty—
And collapsed face-first onto the table like a soldier dying gloriously in battle.
Shireen and Shae exchanged a look.
Then both of them turned to Drogon at the same time.
Drogon looked completely fine—if anything, too fine.
Beneath the edges of his scales, a faint red glow pulsed like molten heat under black armor. His eyes burned bright, like twin flames, sharp and terrifyingly clear.
Shireen knew instantly:
He wasn't drunk at all.
It wasn't even close.
Since Tyrion was officially down for the count, Shireen awkwardly said goodbye to Shae, then—very casually—took the book from the bedside.
Drogon followed her out of Tyrion's carriage like nothing had happened.
They returned to Shireen's carriage. By now, both wagons had traveled far from Pentos, rolling along the main road southeast.
The moment Shireen climbed inside, she burst with excitement:
"Drogon! You actually got Tyrion the Imp drunk!"
To her, it was hilarious. Watching Tyrion slump across the table felt like witnessing some legendary miracle.
Drogon only sniffed and tilted his head away, utterly unimpressed.
Getting Tyrion drunk wasn't an achievement.
He was a dragon.
But while the drinking had been satisfying, Drogon hadn't dared to go all-out on the meat earlier—because if he did, nobody else would've gotten a single bite.
Now he needed to make up for it. He still had growing to do, after all, and hunger was a matter of development.
Besides…
He'd eaten through Shireen's food supplies too.
Those stores needed replenishing.
After leaving Shireen, Drogon circled the area carefully, sweeping the road and nearby brush for any signs of danger.
Only once he confirmed there was nothing lurking nearby did he finally head toward the grasslands.
These days, across the Dothraki Sea, there were almost no Dothraki left who didn't know about Drogon—the black dragon.
In fact, most of them were practically praying their khalasar would be honored with a visit.
After entering the Dothraki Sea, Drogon didn't waste a second.
He struck fast, finished faster—eat, pay, leave.
Every khalasar he hit was handled cleanly: one brutal swoop, a quick meal, then a few gold coins tossed behind like tipping an innkeeper.
Only at the last khalasar did he finally slow down a little… eating his fill and packing extra to go.
An hour later, the caravan guards saw the black dragon return—despite having only flown off not long ago.
And this time, he wasn't empty-clawed.
He was hauling a cloth sack the size of a full-grown warhorse.
The guards nearly stopped breathing.
They couldn't understand it.
How could such a tiny dragon drag something dozens of times larger than his own body… and still fly with ease?
Of course, they hadn't seen Drogon's adult form.
He always shrank back into his hatchling body long before approaching the wagons.
To them, he was just a small dragon doing impossible things.
Drogon swooped down, halted the wagons and guards, dropped the enormous sack onto the ground with a dull thud, then signaled Shireen to call Shae over.
Food distribution time.
Some supplies were loaded into the wagons.
The rest was handed out to the guards and drivers.
The moment the sack was opened—
Every man there nearly drooled.
They'd only been carrying hardtack and water. Real meals were something they could only hope for when passing through towns.
And yet this dragon disappeared for one hour and came back with a feast fit for nobles.
Shireen and the others didn't keep much for themselves.
Drogon had already eaten his fill. He only kept a bit of fruit as snacks.
More than half the sack—meat, pastries, preserved food, even fermented mare's milk—went straight to the seven guards and drivers.
None of them had expected to be included.
They stared at the food like men seeing salvation.
The wagons rested briefly. Once the guards had eaten and drunk their fill, the caravan rolled forward again.
---
The next morning, Tyrion opened his eyes groggily.
He blinked at the luxury of the carriage interior, confused for a long moment—until his memory returned in pieces.
Carriage… road… wine…
And then the main horror struck him:
He had been drunk under the table by a dragon.
When Shae saw him wake, she quickly poured him a cup of water.
"Where are we?" Tyrion asked, voice rough, his head throbbing.
"I don't know exactly," Shae said, half-amused, half-exasperated. "The guards said there's a small town ahead. We can rest there tonight."
Then she leaned closer, eyes wide.
"Do you realize you've slept for a full day and night?"
"A day and night…?" Tyrion groaned. "How did I sleep that long?"
Even he was shocked.
He lifted the carriage curtain to look outside, but the morning sunlight stabbed into his skull like a dagger.
He hissed, dropped the curtain, and stumbled out of the carriage to relieve himself.
After splashing cold water on his face, he stood there blankly for a moment—lost.
For all his intelligence, for all his pride…
He suddenly didn't know what he was supposed to do next.
Yes, he knew the "mysterious man" wanted him to go to Slaver's Bay and serve Queen Daenerys…
But Tyrion still felt uncertain.
He had no idea what kind of reception awaited him.
No idea how Daenerys would treat a Lannister.
---
Meanwhile…
King's Landing.
The Small Council chamber was already full.
Every councilor had arrived.
Every voice, every seat, every whisper—present.
Except for the most important man in the room:
Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King.
With the Hand absent, no one dared begin.
They could only wait.
Another half hour passed.
Still no Tywin.
The room grew restless.
Lord Mace Tyrell, Master of Ships, finally tried to smooth things over with a bland smile.
"Lord Tywin must be… overworked. That's why he's late."
No one answered him.
No one even looked at him.
To the people here, Mace Tyrell was simply—
a glorified decoration.
A title-holder propped up by Highgarden's power.
Even Cersei glanced at him with such open contempt that it was almost insulting.
Grand Maester Pycelle sat there trembling, his hands fidgeting with the heavy chain around his neck.
Varys stood with hands tucked into his sleeves, calm as a meditating monk.
Cersei shifted impatiently again and again, the annoyance on her face deepening into anger.
Then—
BANG!
The doors exploded open.
Everyone turned at once, expecting Tywin.
But the man who entered wasn't the Hand.
It was Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard.
His expression was grim.
He marched straight to Cersei, leaned down, and whispered only a few words into her ear.
"What?!" Cersei shrieked.
She shot to her feet and stormed out.
The rest of the council instantly knew something was wrong. They hurried after her.
Cersei moved like a madwoman, heading straight for the Tower of the Hand.
On the way she collided with Jaime, who was running just as fast—his face pale.
Together they reached the tower within minutes.
The entrance was already packed with guards.
Cersei and Jaime forced their way through, rushing into Tywin's bedchamber—
Two armed guards stood rigidly inside.
A serving girl clung to the doorway, shaking, wiping tears with trembling hands.
"Father!" Cersei screamed.
She rushed forward—
And froze.
Tywin lay on the bed in a gray nightshirt, stiff and unmoving.
His face was purple-blue.
The expression he wore in death was horrifyingly familiar.
Jaime stared, heart sinking.
Because in that instant…
he was reminded of Joffrey.
The same discoloration.
The same twisted death.
The same unmistakable signature.
Pycelle stepped forward, examined the body, and whispered in terror:
"The Strangler."
Cersei snapped her head up, madness flashing in her eyes.
"Go—NOW!" she screamed at the Gold Cloaks outside the door. "Find Tyrion! Immediately!"