19: Chapter 19: Yellow Brick City

The walls of Yunkai were yellow.

Not gold. Just yellow.

With the yellow bricks stacked one by one, baked by the sun, the whole city looked like a giant piece of moldy cheese.

You could smell that scent of mortar from three miles away.

Drogon stood at the bow of the lead ship in the fleet.

In human form.

His hands were tucked into his trench coat pockets.

The sea breeze messed up his black hair, but he couldn't be bothered to fix it.

His tail swished behind him, at a slow rhythm, as steady as his heartbeat.

Eight thousand Unsullied were lined up on the shore.

In perfect formation.

The reflection of their spears stung the eyes.

Grey Worm stood at the very front, the three spikes on his bronze helmet taller than everyone else's.

The yellow brick walls were full of people.

Twenty thousand. Maybe thirty thousand.

The long arms of the trebuchets extended from behind the battlements, like skeletal fingers.

Daenerys Targaryen rode a white horse beside him.

Jorah. Barristan. Grey Worm. Missandei. All were present.

But Drogon didn't look at them.

He was looking at the figure on the wall.

Even from three miles away, he could smell that person's scent—blood. Iron. Sweat. And something indescribable.

Not spices. Not the scent of flowers. It was the musk of a beast.

Mixed with the smell of leather and horsehair. Intense. Scorching. Like the grasslands baked through by the sun.

"Is that White Mane?"

Drogon licked the corner of his mouth.

His golden slit pupils narrowed into two thin lines.

The system popped up a notification: "Side quest target: Illyse White-Mane. The strongest female rider on the Dothraki Sea. Vow—only offer loyalty to the man who defeats her."

The tip of Drogon's tail went rigid.

"Only offer loyalty to the man who defeats her?"

The corner of his mouth curled up.

"This setting—I like it."

The city gate opened.

Not fully open. Just a crack.

A person walked out from the crack.

A woman.

Estimated height, one meter eighty.

Bronze skin.

Her silver-white hair was braided into dozens of small plaits, all flying up in the wind, like the mane of an enraged lioness.

Her armor was made of assembled sand-worm carapaces.

Form-fitting.

The lines it outlined weren't soft—they were hard.

The kind of hardness filled with explosive power.

Broad shoulders.

Narrow waist.

Her thighs were long and slender, every muscle tensed beneath the leather armor, and one could see the trajectory of the muscles rolling as she walked.

Not skinny. Lean. The kind of body forged by years of riding horses and hacking people.

Three white war markings on her face.

Running from her forehead across her left eye, down to her chin.

Her left eye was amber, and there was no such thing as "fear" in her pupil.

Her lips were full, but there was an old scar at the corner of her mouth, pulling the left lip line down a bit, giving her expression a permanent hint of disdain.

She was carrying a blade.

An arakh.

Taller than she was.

The blade was as wide as a door panel, its reflection coldly dazzling.

The hilt was wrapped in leather, worn until it shone.

The back of the blade was covered in notches—each notch represented a life.

Behind her followed a dozen burly Dothraki men.

Fully armed.

Not one of them dared to walk in front of her.

Cheers exploded on the walls of Yunkai: "White Mane! White Mane! White Mane!"

Drogon's slit pupils narrowed into thin lines.

"...Combat power proportional to attractiveness? This setting is unreasonable."

His tail stiffened for a moment behind him.

"But—I like it."

White Mane walked to the middle of the two armies.

She slammed her arakh onto the ground.

Boom.

The blade sank three inches into the ground.

Cracks spread from the tip of the blade in all directions.

Gravel jumped up and fell back down.

She pulled the blade out with one hand and shouldered it, the movement smooth and flowing, as if she were holding a toothpick.

She looked up.

Her amber eyes swept across the Unsullied phalanx.

Swept past Jorah. Past Barristan. Finally, they nailed onto Daenerys Targaryen.

She spoke. In the dothraki language.

Her voice was hoarse, with immense penetrating power.

Not shouting. The kind of voice that could be heard clearly by hundreds of people without needing to yell.

"Are you that silver-haired woman who calls herself Khaleesi?"

Daenerys Targaryen said nothing.

"I heard you have dragons. Release them and let me see."

White Mane tilted her head.

Her silver-white braids slid over her shoulder.

"Otherwise—you don't even have the qualifications to speak with me."

She paused. Grinned. Her teeth were very white.

The tip of her tongue licked the scar at the corner of her mouth.

"In my tribe, a woman like you—is only fit to warm a Khal's bed. Silver hair? Everyone is the same once they take their clothes off."

Jorah's sword was unsheathed by three inches.

Veins bulged on Barristan's hand.

Grey Worm had no expression, but his fingers gripping his spear tightened.

Daenerys Targaryen gripped the reins.

Her knuckles turned white.

No expression on her face.

But Drogon could smell that the scent on her had changed—the scent of an enraged Mother of Dragons.

Different from White Mane's. Hotter. Fiercer.

Like the moment before dragon glass is ignited.

Drogon reached out a hand. Stopping Jorah.

He walked forward a few steps.

Hands tucked into his trench coat pockets.

His pace was slow.

His tail swished behind him.

He stopped. Looked up.

His slit pupils met those amber eyes.

The corner of his mouth curled up.

"Warm a bed? Interesting."

The dothraki language carried a dragon-kin guttural tone.

Lower than a human's, every syllable like stone grinding over sand.

"You actually reminded me—my mother's Dragon Breath is indeed quite warm."

"Do you want to experience it yourself? Take off your armor. Lie flat. I guarantee I'll keep you warm from head to toe."

White Mane stopped smiling.

She stared into his eyes.

Drogon could feel her assessing him.

Not assessing combat power. Assessing his species.

"Your eyes—"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Are not human."

"Neither are you."

Drogon tilted his head.

His tail drew an arc behind him.

"Lioness."