17: Chapter 17 The Whip

Daenerys Targaryen still held the whip in her hand.

A golden handle.

Rubies.

The whip body braided from rhinoceros hide.

Drogon walked over and pulled the whip from her hand.

His fingers brushed against the back of her hand.

Her fingertips were icy cold and trembling violently.

"Let me borrow this."

He turned around to face the eight thousand Unsullied.

Eight thousand spears.

Eight thousand shields.

Eight thousand bronze helmets.

All aimed at him.

He stood still, his tail flicking gently behind him.

The tip of his tail struck the floor.

Snap.

He opened his mouth.

It was not the Common Tongue.

It was not Valyria.

It was Old Ghiscari—the language the slaves' ancestors spoke.

Missandei had taught him a few phrases on the ship.

Not all of it, but enough.

"Your Great Masters are dead."

Eight thousand empty eyes stared at him.

"You are free."

For the first time, a stir rippled through the ranks.

It wasn't chaos.

It was just someone moving.

A finger twitching.

An eye shifting.

Freedom.

A word they had learned but never used.

Drogon raised the whip.

"But there is no such thing as absolute freedom in this world.

So, I give you a choice."

He pointed at Daenerys Targaryen.

"Follow my mother.

Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn.

Fight for her.

You will gain dignity, honor, and land.

Or—"

He paused, sweeping his gaze across the field.

"You may leave.

I guarantee no one will stop you.

But I cannot guarantee—that you will survive three days in the wilderness."

Silence.

Then, eight thousand spears struck the ground in unison.

Boom—

Dust rose from the stone slabs.

At the front of the phalanx, one Unsullied knelt on one knee.

His armor was different from the others—it had three spikes instead of one.

The commander.

He spoke in stiff Common Tongue.

"We fight for the Mother of Dragons.

Until death."

Eight thousand men knelt simultaneously.

Their knees hit the stone slabs, uniform and perfectly aligned, just as they had been when standing.

Drogon returned the whip to Daenerys Targaryen.

"Deal."

Daenerys Targaryen did not take the whip.

She ran over, stumbling.

Not walking, running.

She nearly tripped over a crack in the stone slab.

She threw herself into Drogon's arms.

Embracing him tightly.

"You little bastard!"

She pounded on his chest.

Not hard, but every strike was trembling.

"This is your surprise?

You nearly scared me to death!"

Drogon froze.

He didn't know where to put his hands.

His humanoid senses were too sensitive.

He could feel her body trembling.

The warmth of her tears.

The scent of lavender mixed with dragonfire on her.

And her heartbeat.

It was fast.

Heavy.

Pressed against his chest.

What was worse was his tail.

That damn tail.

It wouldn't listen to his brain at all.

It moved on its own.

It wrapped around Daenerys Targaryen's waist, tightened, and pulled her a few inches closer into his embrace.

The alarm in Drogon's brain went off.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Let go!

This isn't right!

She's my mother!

No—she's not my mother!

She's my queen!

My partner!

She's—fuck, tail!

Let go!

The tail didn't listen.

Instead, it coiled tighter.

The tip of the tail even rubbed gently against her waist.

Daenerys Targaryen felt it.

She lowered her head.

Looked at the tail around her waist.

She raised her head.

Looked at Drogon.

She was stunned.

Drogon's ears turned red.

He turned his head away, forcing a stern expression.

His voice was extremely stiff.

"Uh.

This is a Pavlovian conditioned reflex for dragons."

Daenerys Targaryen was still looking at him.

"Maybe it's because I used to perch on your shoulder for too long."

The tail tip rubbed again.

"Muscle memory.

Right.

Muscle memory."

He grabbed his tail and pulled hard.

It wouldn't let go.

"Let go.

You stupid tail!"

Grey Worm—that first Unsullied commander who knelt—led the eight thousand Unsullied to surround the Great Masters' district.

Efficient.

Ruthless.

Not a single wasted movement.

The Great Masters were dragged out of their mansions.

Kneeling in a row.

Their silk robes covered in mud.

The Unsullied opened the treasuries.

Gold.

Jewels.

valyrian steel weapons.

Carried out in crate after crate.

Drogon lay on the battlements—in his human form.

His tail swayed back and forth.

His eyes were locked on the transport team.

"That one!

Yes!

That box inlaid with rubies!"

Grey Worm looked where he pointed.

A carved ebony box.

Four Unsullied were carrying it.

It was heavy.

"Take it to my room!"

Grey Worm nodded.

Daenerys Targaryen coughed from the side.

Drogon didn't change his expression.

"—my mother's room.

I'm keeping it safe for her."

"Drogon.

That is military funding."

"I am the dragon."

"The dragon is the army."

"The army is the cost.

So—what's mine is mine.

No problem there."

Daenerys Targaryen rubbed her forehead.

Grey Worm was expressionless.

He looked at Drogon.

He looked at Daenerys Targaryen.

A flash of confusion crossed his eyes.

He chose to continue executing the order—carrying the box toward Daenerys Targaryen's flagship.

Drogon's tail slapped the stone slab happily.

It cracked a new fissure.