21: Chapter 21 Conquest

White Mane made her move.

It wasn't a probe. It wasn't a polite exchange of blows. The first strike was meant to kill.

The arakh felt weightless in her hands. A silver crescent moon arc tore through the air.

Before the high-pitched whistle reached anyone's ears, the blade had already cleaved toward Drogon's face. The air, compressed by the razor-sharp edge into a white shockwave, slammed into his face first.

The wind from the blade pushed Drogon's black hair back. A few strands were shorn off and drifted in the air.

Drogon did not dodge.

He raised his right arm, forearm held horizontally before his face, scales tightening.

Clang—the sound of metal striking metal rang out. Sparks flew in every direction. A shockwave exploded from the point of impact, kicking up a layer of sand from the ground and forming a visible ring of air.

The Dothraki Mercenaries standing in the front row were pushed back half a step by the shockwave. Some had their ears ringing.

White Mane's pupils constricted.

Her blade was forged from Ghiscari hundred-times-folded steel, capable of cleaving through heavy armor, shattering shields, and slicing a man from shoulder to hip.

Yet, upon striking the boy's forearm, it didn't even leave a white mark. A wisp of blue smoke rose from the scales as the force of the blow was dispersed across his entire forearm.

Drogon grinned from behind the blade, his sharp canine teeth visible, only three inches from her face.

"Not bad strength. Enough to scratch a mosquito."

His left hand moved simultaneously, a hand-blade with fingertips concentrated with a faint, black Dragon Breath light, edged in gold, thrusting straight at her ribs.

Not at her heart, but at her ribs—where there was a gap in her armor, at the junction of the sand-worm carapace, tied with leather cords.

White Mane reacted with extreme speed. Abandoning her blade, she retreated. The moment she let go of the arakh, she rolled on the ground, the hand-blade grazing the side of her armor—

Szzzt. Three scorched fissures were slashed into the sand-worm carapace. Sparks were still rising from the edges of the cuts. The leather cords were burned through, and a piece of the carapace clattered to the ground, revealing the leather tunic underneath.

She flipped to her feet. A spare dagger was already in her hand, held in a reverse grip, the point aimed at Drogon.

Her eyes were locked on him, her chest heaving. A large expanse of bronze-colored side-waist was exposed through the tear in her sand-worm armor, with sweat beads rolling down her waistline.

"...What kind of monster are you?"

"My name is Drogon."

Drogon flicked his left hand, the Dragon Breath at his fingertips dissipating. He paced around White Mane, his tail dragging an arc across the ground, his posture as leisurely as if he were taking a walk in his own backyard.

"I am a dragon, and I am a man. Although, by dragon years—I'm still a baby."

His dothraki language carried a draconic guttural tone. Every word made the air tremble slightly. All the Dothraki Mercenaries heard it. Some whispered to each other, while others subconsciously looked at White Mane's reaction.

"But you said earlier that you would only submit to a man who could defeat you."

He stopped, leaning forward. His golden slit pupils locked onto her amber eyes, close enough to see his own reflection in her pupils.

"So—I will use the form of a man."

"And beat you until you submit."

Then he moved.

Not a run. A launch. The stone slab beneath his feet exploded—gravel flying a dozen paces back.

His whole body turned into a black shadow, lunging straight at White Mane. No Dragon Breath. No dragon aura. No skills. Relying purely on the defense of his scales and the physical strength of a dragon.

Fists. Elbows. Knees. Tail. Hand-blades. Every strike was the most primitive form of close-quarters combat. Bone crashing against bone. Scales colliding with steel.

White Mane did not retreat. She met him head-on.

Their figures tangled into a blur in the center of the arena. The sound of fists and feet colliding was as dense as a rainstorm.

Not the crisp clashing of metal on metal, but the dull thuds of bone on bone. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact made the ground tremble slightly.

Drogon threw a punch, the force of his fist breaking the air.

White Mane sidestepped the fist, her arakh slashing back—the back of the blade smashing into his wrist. Clang. Drogon's wrist dipped slightly, his tail already sweeping out, wrapping around her ankle.

White Mane leaped up. The tail swept through empty air. She flipped in mid-air, her arakh slashing down with overwhelming force. Her body twisted into a bow in mid-air, all her power concentrated on the blade.

Drogon crossed his arms, taking the blow head-on.

Clang—the impact drove his feet three inches into the sandy ground. Sand and stones splashed. He didn't pull his feet out; he directly borrowed the force to spring up, his knee slamming toward her chest. The sound of his knee cutting through the air was like a siege ram.

White Mane lowered the hilt of her blade. The knee slammed into the hilt. No sound of cracking bone followed—she had dissipated the force, spreading the impact across both her arms.

But the impact sent her flying back five paces. Her heels plowed two furrows in the sand. The soil turned over, revealing the black earth beneath.

She landed. Blood spilled from the corner of her mouth, but her amber eyes burned even brighter. She wiped the blood away with her thumb and flicked it onto the ground.

Drogon pulled his feet from the sand and shook his shoulders. A few white marks appeared on his scales, but they weren't broken. Three slits were cut into the cuff of his trench coat, revealing the wrist covered in fine scales beneath.

The two looked at each other.

White Mane was panting heavily. There were more tears in her armor. A large chunk of the sand-worm carapace on her left shoulder had shattered, exposing her entire arm. Sweat glistened on her bronze skin, trickling down her deltoids.

A few strands of her silver-white braid had come loose, sticking to her cheeks. Her lips were stained with blood, redder than before.

A corner of Drogon's trench coat had been sliced off. There were three more slits in his sleeve. There was a shallow mark on his face—left by the tip of the arakh grazing past. His scales had protected him; he hadn't bled. His hair was completely disheveled by the blade wind, hanging down to cover half his eyes.

The Dothraki Mercenaries were dumbfounded. The Yunkai garrison was stunned. The Unsullied showed no expression, but Grey Worm's eyes followed Drogon's figure—which, among the Unsullied, counted as extreme shock.

Daenerys Targaryen gripped the reins, her lips pressed into a thin line.

White Mane was not someone who only knew how to take a beating. Her combat experience exceeded Drogon's by more than a decade. Ten years. Ten years spent fighting her way through the Dothraki Sea. Every battle had been a life-or-death struggle.

After being knocked back a dozen times in a row, she finally seized an opening in Drogon's overconfident lunge.

Drogon's hand-blade thrust out. The angle was off by two degrees. It was just those two degrees—

Her body twisted at an almost impossible angle, her spine as if boneless.

As her waist twisted, the edge of the sand-worm armor scraped against Drogon's scales, emitting a harsh, grating sound.

Her long, bronze legs wrapped around his waist like two pythons, locking him in. The muscles on the inside of her thighs tightened, squeezing his ribs until they creaked. It wasn't soft; it was hard, with the kind of power that could crush an ordinary person's spine.

Then, she threw her entire body weight into a sudden flip.

Boom. Drogon was slammed to the ground. The stone slab cracked. The back of his head created a crater. Dust exploded from the pit, choking the Dothraki in the front row into a cough.

She mounted him, her thighs clamping his waist, her knees pressing down on his arms. She aimed the dagger at his throat and stabbed down viciously. The sound of the dagger tip breaking the air was sharp—faster than the arakh.

Ding. The dagger struck the scales on his throat, failing to penetrate. A small spark splashed against the scales. But the impact caused Drogon's head to tilt back slightly, his chin lifting.

White Mane straddled him, panting heavily, her chest heaving violently. Her silver-white braid hung down, falling onto Drogon's face. The ends of her hair swept across his scales. Sweat dripped from her chin, landing on the corner of his mouth. It was salty, carrying the scent of her skin.

Her amber eyes burned with fury and defiance. Her pupils were dilated—not from fear, but as a reaction to adrenaline pushed to its limit.

"Do you submit?!"