Chapter 72 — Wind of the Grass Sea
When Khal Rogo saw Shireen walking toward him, he immediately swung down from his horse.
He accepted the three glittering golden coins from her hands, then lowered his head respectfully toward Drogon in the air—his posture solemn, almost reverent.
He didn't understand why the Dragon God's backpack was now in Drogon's possession…
But he was almost completely certain of one thing:
Even if this little black dragon wasn't the Dragon God's offspring, he was closely tied to the Dragon God—so close that offending him could invite catastrophe.
The two dragons looked nearly identical.
Even their packs were the same.
And after receiving tribute, this little dragon didn't simply take it—he paid generously, like a ruler making fair trade.
That alone was enough to make Khal Rogo's blood run cold with respect.
---
After taking the coins, Rogo vaulted back into the saddle. He raised a hand and gave a sharp wave.
In an instant, the riders moved.
The circle of hundreds broke apart as naturally as mist. The khalasar regrouped around their khal, then followed behind him, gradually fading into the distance—dust and hoofbeats dissolving into the horizon.
Just like that, what could've become a massacre…
was smothered before it ever sparked.
---
Only after the Dothraki were gone did the guards and coachmen finally exhale.
They exchanged glances, then—almost without meaning to—looked at Drogon again.
But this time, their eyes were different.
Not just awe.
Not just fear.
Something closer to… gratitude.
Drogon hadn't merely provided food and drink on this journey.
He had, in a way, saved their lives.
They didn't know exactly why the Dothraki had offered tribute to him.
But they understood something instinctively now—
This small black dragon was not merely strong.
Otherwise, no proud Dothraki khal—those wild lords of the plains—would ever abandon a raid and offer supplies instead.
---
Tyrion watched the retreating dust for a long moment. Then he turned toward Shireen.
"Shireen… the food and wine Drogon brought before—those were bought from the grasslands too, weren't they?"
It had been too smooth.
Too practiced.
The way Drogon merely glanced at Shireen and she immediately ran out with the purse—
That kind of coordination didn't come from a single lucky encounter.
It came from habit.
---
Shireen nodded cheerfully, her small face bright.
"Yes! Every time Drogon gets hungry, he flies out to the Dothraki Sea. And he often brings delicious things back for me too!"
---
Tyrion narrowed his eyes slightly, thoughts moving fast.
He was almost certain Drogon must have gone to the Dothraki Sea in his larger form.
Otherwise, that khal would've recognized him instantly.
There wouldn't have been hesitation.
No testing.
No uncertainty before they offered tribute.
---
Because the truth was obvious:
The Dothraki didn't fear a small dragon.
They feared the Dragon God.
And Drogon—whether child, servant, or something far stranger—
was close enough to that legend that even a khal chose caution over conquest.
He knew full well that three gold coins were enough to buy ten—no, twenty times the amount of food piled on the ground.
"Captain Alvin," Tyrion said, turning to the escort leader, "you seem to understand a bit of Dothraki. What were they saying just now?"
"I only know a little," Alvin replied awkwardly. "But… I heard something about a Dragon God… and offspring."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly.
So Drogon's adult form… was being worshipped by the Dothraki as a Dragon God.
If that was true, then Drogon's relationship with the grasslands was clearly far deeper than merely flying out to buy food.
Truthfully, even Drogon himself probably didn't understand the real reason he'd been deified.
It had started after he saved that defeated Dothraki mother and child.
Drogon had always despised the way victorious riders would take their spoils—especially the way they casually violated defeated women.
Whenever he happened to witness it, he interfered if he could—driving off the men mid-act.
And if they refused to back down…
Drogon would graciously gift them a free experience in bungee jumping.
After he saved a few women like that, more and more Dothraki wives began offering him prayers.
And slowly… the title spread:
Dragon God.
Before long, even the khals of victorious khalasars began enforcing a new rule in order to obey the Dragon God's will:
They forbade their riders from assaulting defeated women.
Instead, they only took the men and children—capturing them to be sold as slaves.
And just like that…
the wind of the grasslands began to change.
A woman without her men had no support and no protection.
Naturally, many of them ended up following the victorious khalasar.
Over time, they would bond with the men of the new khalasar—forming new families.
In doing so, they escaped the fate of being violated, and also gained new shelter and stability.
Once the Dothraki riders finally withdrew, the guards—at Tyrion's signal—quickly gathered the food tribute from the ground and stored it away.
After surviving such a terrifying encounter without bloodshed, everyone felt far more confident about the road ahead.
Black Castle, at the Wall
At Castle Black, the gates opened as Night's Watch brothers rushed forward.
Jon Snow—his body riddled with arrows—was carefully helped down from his horse.
Samwell Tarly, the enormous, soft-hearted man, stared as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes.
Jon had been gone for two months.
Only after confirming Jon wasn't going to die did Sam finally breathe again.
Maester Aemon tended to Jon's arrow wounds, while Sam assisted at his side.
Sam was practically Aemon's half-apprentice now.
The maester had not only taught him basic healing and treatment, but also guided him in knowledge and scholarship—almost as if Sam were being trained as his successor.
Sam might have been fat, clumsy, and useless in a fight…
But in learning and medicine, he possessed a remarkable talent.
It was precisely that gift which caused Aemon to abandon the Watch's former candidate for successor—and choose Sam instead.
Jon had survived his return only through sheer will.
He'd pushed through the pain, mile after mile, until he finally saw Sam.
Only then—only when he knew he was safe—
did he collapse unconscious.
After his wounds were treated, he eventually awakened.
Over the last two months, both of them had passed beyond the Wall.
Jon, as a ranger, had gone deep into wildling territory to scout their movements—
and ultimately infiltrated them as a spy.
After learning enough, after confirming the wildlings were preparing to attack the Wall…
Jon made the hardest decision of all:
He left Ygritte behind…
and returned to Castle Black to warn them.
Sam, meanwhile, had traveled beyond the Wall as Lord Commander Mormont's steward,
meeting Craster at Craster's Keep—
that monster of a man who married his own daughters,
sacrificed every son to the White Walkers,
and kept every daughter alive… to repeat the cycle.
That night, Sam and Jon spoke beside Jon's bed, trading stories of their last two months.
But before long, Jon insisted on rising.
He needed to report everything to the Lord Commander.
Only then did Sam finally force himself to say the words:
"Jon… the Lord Commander is dead."
Jon froze.
"What…?"
Sam swallowed.
"Commander Mormont was murdered by traitors. Gilly and I barely escaped back alive."
"Mormont is dead…?" Jon whispered, as if he'd misheard.
That bear of a man… strict, fierce, yet protective…
gone?
Jon's hands clenched until his knuckles whitened.
"Who were the traitors?" he demanded through his teeth.
Jon hadn't been there when it happened—
but that wouldn't stop him from avenging Mormont.
Sam understood Jon's grief.
Slowly, carefully, he listed the names of the twelve traitors.
Jon forced the pain down.
He didn't have time to mourn.
Not when an army was coming.
"Then who's in command now?" he asked urgently. "Who's leading the Watch?"
Sam hesitated.
Then delivered the next blow.
"Ser Alliser… is acting commander."
"Alliser?" Jon's face darkened instantly.
He could already imagine how that meeting would go.
Ever since Jon arrived at the Watch, Alliser Thorne had despised him—
the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell.
Alliser had always opposed him.
Always humiliated him.
Sam looked at Jon's expression and sighed.
"There's someone else here too," he said reluctantly, "someone you really won't want to see."
Jon's eyes snapped to him.
"Who?"
"Janos."
-
"Janos who?" Jon frowned. The name meant nothing to him.
Sam explained quietly:
"You don't know him… but he knows you."
"When your father served as Hand of the King, this man betrayed him—and sided with Queen Regent Cersei."
"And when Tyrion became Hand, he stripped Janos of his position as Commander of the City Watch… and sent him here to join the Night's Watch."
At the mention of Tyrion, Jon unexpectedly recalled something Tyrion had once said—half-joking, half-comforting:
'All dwarfs are bastards in their fathers' eyes.'
Tyrion had never trusted Janos.
A man who betrayed one Hand would betray another.
Instead, Tyrion chose Bronn—the mercenary.
Because the Commander of the City Watch was the Hand's sharpest blade…
and Tyrion would never wield a weapon that belonged to Cersei.
Out of respect for Eddard Stark—
and in part to avenge him—
Tyrion had condemned Janos for betraying the former Hand…
and sent him to the Wall.