20: Chapter 20 Dragon's Assessment

Their gazes collided in the air.

Drogon could feel the air thickening. It wasn't dragon-awe. It was an aura.

Two apex predators stared at each other from twenty paces away, and the surrounding air seemed to freeze automatically. The Dothraki Mercenaries in the front row instinctively stepped back half a pace—they didn't even realize it themselves.

He was looking at White Mane's arm. Bronze-colored. Covered in old scars. Not knife scars. Claw marks. Three parallel white lines—stretching from her wrist to her elbow. Whatever had clawed her must have been huge.

She had fought large beasts. And she had won. She wasn't wearing armored bracers, intentionally leaving the scars exposed. In Dothraki culture, every scar was a medal.

Her shoulders. The lines of her collarbone peeked out from the edge of her armor. Not delicate collarbones. These were the kind of bones that could support an entire sand-worm carapace. Her neck was slender. A tendon ran along the side, stretching from behind her ear to her collarbone. When she breathed, that tendon would pulse gently.

Her breathing. Very steady. But Drogon could smell the pheromones her body was secreting—adrenaline and something else. Not fear. Excitement. She was excited. The exact same excitement she felt when she smelled large beasts. Her pupils dilated by half a millimeter. Drogon saw it.

Drogon's tail stiffened for a moment behind him.

The system popped up a notification again: "Warning! Host's dopamine and adrenaline levels are secreting abnormally! Matches the physiological indicators of the dragon 'mating season'! Suggestion—"

"Suggestion: Shut up."

He forcibly closed the notification window.

White Mane didn't know what he was thinking. But she saw that moment his tail stiffened.

The corner of her mouth curled up.

"A long-tailed bastard boy—daring to stand up for your master?"

She drew her arakh. Slung it back over her shoulder. The lines of her shoulder blades bulged beneath her armor.

"Fine. I'll give you a chance. We Dothraki respect the strong. One-on-one. A duel. As long as one of you can defeat me—my two thousand mercenaries will all defect."

Her gaze swept over Jorah. Swept over Barristan. She shook her head with contempt. Then it stopped on Drogon.

"However—I don't fight little brats. Let a real man come out."

Drogon's smile didn't change.

But the temperature in his eyes dropped. The playful light in his golden vertical pupils retracted, turning into something colder and deeper.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets. Spread his ten fingers. His nails gleamed with the luster of obsidian in the sunlight.

"Little brat?"

He took a step forward. His tail lashed the ground violently.

Crack—

The stone slab cracked. A fissure crawled from under Drogon's feet all the way to White Mane's feet. The edges of the crack were steaming, showing signs of melting—it wasn't a physical strike. It was dragon fire compressed at the tip of his tail.

"Commander White Mane. That sentence you just said—"

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"—made me hard."

White Mane frowned.

"What?"

"My fist."

Drogon's vertical pupils brightened. The curve of his mouth widened, revealing two canine teeth sharper than a human's.

"My fist is hard. Come on, lioness. Let me see if your bite—is good enough to be my collection."

White Mane's pupils constricted. Not from fear. It was because she recognized that smile. It wasn't a human smile. It was a beast's smile. It was the exact same smile as the sand-worms, manticores, and blood wolves she had encountered on the wasteland—the smile of a predator seeing its prey.

Her fingers gripping the hilt tightened.

"Interesting."

She turned around. Carrying her arakh, she walked toward the open space between the two armies.

"Don't disappoint me. Long-tailed monster."

Both armies retreated three hundred paces.

The Unsullied. The Yunkai garrison. The Dothraki Mercenaries. Each occupied a side. The open ground in the middle was cleared.

A natural arena. Two hundred paces in diameter, the sandy ground had been packed down, and there was still blood left from the slaves' training yesterday. Dark brown. Dried.

White Mane walked in first.

She carried that arakh, which was taller than she was, her pace unhurried. Not arrogance. It was confidence. The kind of confidence that comes from crawling out of a pile of corpses. Her hips swayed gently with her steps. Not intentional.

It was a habit developed from years of riding—Dothraki women all walked like this. But on her, this sway carried something more primal. Like a lioness patrolling her territory.

Her lieutenants—several burly Dothraki men—bowed to her.

One of them lowered his voice and said something in the dothraki language. Drogon understood: "Commander White Mane, the scent on that boy—it's not right. He has the scent of blood and fire. Be careful."

White Mane licked her lips. A flash of excitement crossed her amber eyes.

"Blood and fire? Perfect. This is the kind of prey I like best."

Drogon was about to enter the arena.

Someone grabbed his wrist.

Daenerys Targaryen.

Her hand was shaking. Not from fear. It was because she was also suppressing something. Her fingers gripped his wrist, the strength so great that her nails dug into the gaps between his scales.

"Drogon—do not turn into a dragon."

She lowered her voice. Her tone was a mixture of worry and another emotion she might not have realized herself. Her eyes weren't looking at his face—they were looking at White Mane. Looking at him, looking at White Mane. Then looking at him again. Then looking at White Mane again. Her pupils were contracting.

"The Yunkai ballistae will target you."

Drogon turned back. Smiled at her.

"Mother. To deal with a bristling she-cat—there's no need for dragon form."

He gently broke free from her hand. His tail, however, disobediently wrapped around the back of her hand for a moment. Then let go. A silent promise. Or perhaps silent guilt. Drogon couldn't tell himself.

Missandei leaned into Daenerys Targaryen's ear. Her large amber eyes were full of curiosity.

"Khaleesi—was Lord Drogon's tail—acting coquettish just now?"

Daenerys Targaryen remained expressionless.

"No. It was being stupid."