24: Chapter 24: The tail gave a thumbs up.

Drogon's lips curled up.

He turned around, his back to her.

His tail rose up behind him, the tip forming a thumbs-up.

He gave himself a thumbs-up.

It was a subtle gesture, but clear enough.

The Dothraki Mercenaries in the front row saw it all.

Some twitched their lips.

Others didn't know whether to be shocked or to laugh.

"Suit yourself. Anyway, I'm her dragon. Doing it for me counts as doing it for her. No problem there."

He looked back at her.

His gaze swept from her face to the bandage on the back of her neck—a dark golden light seeping from its edges.

"Get up, lioness. Let those fools in Yunkai see—whose person their mercenary leader belongs to now."

White Mane stood up.

She bent down to pick up the arakh that had fallen to the ground, hoisting it back onto her shoulder.

Her movements were the same as when she entered, but the leather on the hilt had a few more finger marks—was it sweat, blood, or something else?

The blood from the back of her neck was still seeping out, trickling down her neck and into the cracks of her armor, staining the edges of the sand-worm carapace red.

She didn't wipe it away, nor did she bandage it.

She just let it bleed.

In Dothraki culture, fresh wounds are an honor, especially those left by the strong.

She followed behind Drogon, step by step, toward the enemy camp.

Her pace was as steady as when she entered, her shoulders and back just as straight, but the direction was reversed.

The expressions of the two thousand Dothraki Mercenaries were as if they had all been slapped in the face, all at once.

They watched as White Mane stood up from the ground, blood from the back of her neck trickling down between her fingers, soaking her cloak.

They watched her follow that black-haired youth—walking toward the enemy camp.

There was dead silence on the walls of Yunkai.

A crossbowman dropped his bolt.

It clattered against the stone wall, rolled off the parapet, and fell into the moat.

No one scolded him, because everyone was looking at the same person.

Some had their mouths hanging open, their tongues exposed to the wind.

Others rubbed their eyes, only to look even dumber afterward.

An old Dothraki Mercenary muttered, "White Mane—has she been conquered? In the Dothraki way—conquered?"

No one answered him.

The young man beside him didn't know whether to be happy for their leader or worried for himself.

The commander of the Yunkai garrison—a fat man in gilded armor—dropped his binoculars.

The lens shattered.

He didn't pick it up.

The expression on his face wasn't anger; it was calculation.

Two thousand Dothraki Cavalry had defected, plus the eight thousand Unsullied opposite them, plus three dragons.

How could this battle be fought?

He couldn't calculate it.

"Ding! Achieved legendary scene [Submission by Bite]! Shock value +18000! Reward obtained: Attribute points +350!"

Drogon walked toward Daenerys Targaryen's camp, followed by White Mane, who was half a head taller than him.

His pace wasn't fast, but every step trampled on the heartbeats of the Yunkai defenders.

Daenerys Targaryen sat on her white horse, her expression calm, but her fingers gripping the reins dug into her palms.

Her knuckles under the leather gloves were white.

She stared at the blood on the corner of Drogon's mouth.

She stared at the bite mark on the back of White Mane's neck—the bandage hadn't covered it, and the edges of the bite mark were exposed, deep red and still seeping blood.

She stared at the silent, submissive gait of White Mane as she followed behind Drogon.

The strongest female warrior of the Dothraki had changed her posture.

Before, she was a lioness patrolling her territory.

Now, she was a lioness following behind a male lion.

She might not have realized it herself, but Daenerys Targaryen saw it.

"Drogon."

Her voice was very low, audible only to Drogon.

The wind carried her words to his ears, unheard by others.

"Your teeth—are stained with her blood."

Drogon was stunned.

Subconsciously, he licked his teeth.

There was still a residual taste of blood on the tip of his tongue.

The metallic tang mixed with that indescribable sweetness.

His pupils flickered.

His tail stiffened, then flicked twice.

The movement was large, almost sweeping into Grey Worm beside him.

"Uh. It's a fighting style. Dragons all fight like this. You'll get used to it. Biting back and forth. It's very normal. It's like that in the natural world. Look at lions—look at crocodiles—look at—"

His tail drew a circle behind him.

Daenerys Targaryen was silent.

She shifted her gaze from his face, her tone returning to calm.

Too calm.

"Return to the ranks. Prepare to attack the city."

Drogon turned around, cursing himself inwardly.

Damn it.

He needed to discipline this tail properly when he got back.

Might as well chop it off.

Chop it off—it wouldn't grow back.

Better keep it.

Next time, tie an iron ball to it.

Control it.

Right.

Tie an iron ball to it.

The morale of the Yunkai defenders collapsed the moment White Mane defected.

The Dothraki Mercenaries followed their leader and defected to the enemy.

Their movements were uniform—not the uniformity born of training, but instinct.

Wherever their leader went, they went.

That was what the Dothraki recognized.

No orders were needed.

No explanations were needed.

The leader left, and they followed.

It was just that simple.

Two thousand cavalrymen turned their horses at the same time, the dust kicked up by the horses' hooves covering the faces of the Yunkai crossbowmen.

The city gate was opened from the inside.

It was the Dothraki Mercenaries who opened it.

The guards defending the gate tried to stop them, but were whipped in the face by a burly Dothraki warrior and rolled out of the gate tunnel.

The city gate was pushed open with a boom.

The yellow brick doors slammed against the wall, shattering several bricks.

Eight thousand Unsullied poured in.

The speed of their spear advancement was like a rising tide.

They weren't running.

They were walking.

Marching in unison.

Shields side-by-side, spears thrusting out from the gaps between the front-row shields.

Every step was in the same rhythm.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The Yunkai defenders began to retreat as soon as they heard those footsteps.

They couldn't stop it.

Daenerys Targaryen rode into the city on her white horse.

Her silver-gold hair peeked out from her cloak, shining in the afternoon sun.

Rhaegal and Viserion circled above her.

The two young dragons breathed Dragon Breath on the battlefield for the first time—golden-red flames erupted simultaneously from their two dragon mouths, sweeping across the walls, burning the yellow bricks black.

The catapults collapsed in the Dragon Breath, and even the stones were burning.

The counterweight stones of the catapults were scorched red-hot, rolling off the walls and smashing through the stables below.

Drogon did not participate in the siege.

He followed beside Daenerys Targaryen in human form, his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, his pace as leisurely as a stroll.

White Mane followed behind him.

The two maintained a fixed distance—three steps away.

White Mane had changed into a cloak to cover the back of her neck.

She hoisted the arakh back onto her shoulder, expressionless.

But whenever Drogon stopped, she would immediately stop as well.

Not more, not less, three steps.

Like a shadow.

Like a guardian.

And also like something being guarded.

Or perhaps both.

"The remaining resistance in the city—my cavalry will be responsible for clearing it out."

"Go."

Drogon didn't even turn his head.

He waved his fingers in the air.

"By the way, keep an eye out for me—see if there are any particularly beautiful gemstones. They don't need to be too big. Just brightly colored. Deep red. Needs to be translucent. I want to use them to—hmm. Give as a gift."

White Mane glanced at the back of his head.

Her gaze lingered on his neck for a moment—he also had scales on the back of his neck, black, reflecting in the sunlight.

Then she turned and left.

Her pace was as steady as when she entered, but every step landed in the footprints Drogon had just made.

Not intentionally.

Unconsciously.

Daenerys Targaryen tilted her head and glanced at Drogon.

Her gaze swept from his face to his tail.

"A gift?"

"Military supplies. Right. Military supplies."

His tail drew a circle on the ground.

Daenerys Targaryen didn't ask again.