11: Chapter 11 Words on the Wall

The city walls emerged at the end of the heat waves.

Bronze. Jade. Obsidian. The triple walls were layered atop one another, gleaming under the sun as if someone had melted gemstones and poured them over the hills.

Drogon narrowed his eyes.

He lay on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder, his slit pupils reflecting a line of text carved into the gate. It was in Old Valyria.

"The dragon waits here."

Daenerys Targaryen read aloud. Her voice was very soft, but her knuckles turned white as she gripped the reins.

"Qarth. The wealthiest city in the world."

Jorah grunted beside her.

"Also the most dangerous." His eyes were not on the walls, but on the archers standing upon them. Their bows were already drawn. "Khaleesi, these merchants never make a losing deal."

Drogon did not listen to them. He was sniffing.

The wind poured through the gaps in the city gate. Saffron. Myrrh. Rotten fruit. And iron.

The iron of gold. The iron of gemstones.

He licked the corners of his mouth.

He was hungry.

The gate opened.

The man who walked out was dressed even more dazzlingly than the gate. Trimmed with pearls. Silk trailing on the ground. His skin was as black as polished obsidian. He spread his arms and smiled, showing twelve teeth.

"Stormborn! Mother of Dragons! The Unburnt!"

His voice was high and sharp, like singing.

"Your arrival brings honor to Qarth! I am Xaro—your most loyal admirer."

Daenerys Targaryen nodded. A polite smile.

Drogon stared into Xaro's eyes.

Those eyes were not smiling. They were counting. First, they counted the jewelry on Daenerys Targaryen. Then they counted the horses behind her. Then they counted him on her shoulder.

Finally, they landed on him. They paused for three seconds.

Drogon recognized that look.

In his past life, downstairs from his rented apartment, a fat guy wanted to buy his second-hand graphics card. He offered three hundred. It was exactly this look. He wanted a bargain.

Drogon said nothing. He rested his chin in the crook of Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder and wrapped his tail around her arm.

Xaro was still smiling.

The streets of Qarth were wide enough for ten horses to walk side by side. Both sides were lined with stalls.

Emeralds were piled into mountains. Silk was spread into rivers. Gold bars were stacked like bricks.

Drogon's slit pupils were almost shrinking to pinpoints.

Not because of the wealth. But because he was greedy for it.

A string of dragon glass bracelets worn on the wrist of a fat merchant was three times larger than the hairpin he had swallowed last time. On the stall next to it, raw rubies were displayed; one could feel the elemental fluctuations from half a street away. Further ahead, someone was auctioning gold coins in the street—not by the coin, but by the chest.

Drogon's claws dug into Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder.

Daenerys Targaryen hissed.

"Drogon. Calm down." She tilted her head and rubbed against him. "Those are not yours."

"Mother," Drogon lowered his voice, "Those are simply not yet mine."

A series of rumbling sounds came from his throat.

Daenerys Targaryen froze for a second. Then she sighed. The kind of "I knew it" sigh.

The council chamber of The Thirteen had a dome high enough to fit half a dragon.

Gold. Everywhere was gold. The walls were covered in gold leaf, the pillars were edged with gold, and even the cracks in the floor were inlaid with gold thread.

There were no chairs.

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the center of the hall. Above her were thirteen gazes, looking down from on high. Xaro sat on the far edge, still wearing a smile, not bothering to stand up.

The member of The Thirteen holding a fan spoke first.

"So—you are that woman who calls herself the Mother of Dragons?"

The fan swished twice.

"Where are your dragons? Let us see. If they are real, Qarth might consider—" his mouth twisted, "—funding you a small sum."

Someone next to him chimed in.

"But if they are just a few dyed giant lizards—"

Laughter. Not loud. But loud enough.

Jorah's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Daenerys Targaryen pressed down on him.

Drogon lay on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder, his eyes closed. His breathing was steady. Just as if he were asleep.

Rhaegal and Viserion were released from their cage by Daenerys Targaryen and landed on her arm. The two little ones hissed twice; their wings had not yet hardened, and they fluttered a couple of times.

Someone gasped in amazement. Someone applauded.

The member of The Thirteen with the fan spoke again.

"These two are real. But the most precious one—what about that black one? I heard he can speak?"

Xaro leaned forward. He smiled as if it were genuine.

"Do not be afraid, Khaleesi. Let him come out. We just want to... admire a miracle."

Daenerys Targaryen's voice turned cold.

"He is not a parrot for people's amusement."

Drogon opened his eyes.

Not slowly. In a flash.

In his golden slit pupils, the pupils exploded from a single line into two pools of magma.

The air changed. It did not get cold. It got heavy.

The member of The Thirteen with the fan felt it first. His fan stopped in mid-air, his fingers frozen. Then the one next to him who had chimed in—his mouth was still open, but the laughter was gone. As if someone had choked him by the throat.

Xaro's smile was still on his face, but the corners of his mouth began to sag.

Dragon's Might.

Drogon did not use any skills.

It was something seeping out from his bloodline. Earlier than claws and teeth. More primitive than Dragon Breath. An instinct carved into the top of the food chain. No need to practice, no need to learn. Once you are targeted by it, you know.

Drogon flew up from Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder. His wings spread. His wingspan was only a little over a meter, but it cast a large shadow under the dome.

He hovered in the center of the hall, looking around at The Thirteen.

He spoke.

In a Valyrian noble accent even more standard than Xaro's.

"What do you wish to see, merchants?"