3: Chapter 3 The Dothraki

A commotion began in the distant crowd.

Khal Drogo was dead. His Khalasar was like a pile of loose sand. The vast majority were going to disband. Only a small handful decided to stay because of the fire just now, because Daenerys Targaryen had walked out of the ashes, and because all three dragon eggs had hatched.

Now, there was also a black dragon hatchling that could speak human tongue.

This matter was beyond their understanding.

Several Dothraki warriors whispered to each other, their eyes scanning over Drogon.

Perched on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder, he narrowed his eyes at them.

These people, according to the original story, were the ones who would later follow Daenerys Targaryen through the Red Waste. Their loyalty wasn't an issue. But the Dothraki only recognized strength.

The fire just now was strength. The three dragons were strength.

What about a talking dragon hatchling?

They had never seen one. Things never seen before were either gods or demons.

Drogon bared his teeth.

Revealing two rows of teeth that were still thin, but definitely sharp enough.

Those Dothraki warriors all took half a step back in unison.

Good. As long as they're afraid. They'll know who to listen to from now on.

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the pile of ashes, speaking to those who remained.

"I am not here to be anyone's queen. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of the Targaryen. I will return to Westeros and reclaim what is mine."

"Those who are willing to follow me—"

She paused for half a second.

Drogon felt her shoulders tense. Her fists were clenched tight, nails digging into her palms.

She was afraid. Afraid that no one would stay. Afraid that all of this would be in vain. Afraid that the stories of her brother and her father would eventually fall upon her head as well.

Drogon stood up on her shoulder.

His wings unfurled.

Those black wings, so small they could only fan a light breeze, suddenly expanded in the morning light, obscuring half of Daenerys Targaryen's face.

Then he let out a cry.

It wasn't the hiss of a hatchling. It was a high-pitched dragon's roar, like a blade scraping against bone.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was extremely piercing. The horse herds on the grassland went wild; dozens of warhorses neighed and reared up at the same time, knocking over campfires and flagpoles.

All the Dothraki—those leaving and those staying—looked over.

Daenerys Targaryen's hair was blown by the wind, silver, looking like a handful of molten silver in the morning light.

Drogon folded his wings and lay back down on her shoulder.

"Ding! Shock Value +2000. The 'Daenerys Targaryen' faction has been initially established. Current scale: Micro."

Those people knelt down and shouted in unison, "Khaleesi!"

Daenerys Targaryen's shoulders relaxed.

She tilted her head and rubbed against Drogon's head.

No one spoke.

But Drogon knew it was settled.

The sun rose. The wind on the grassland grew hot.

The Dothraki began packing their things. Tearing down tents. Saddling horses. Those who were leaving left first, and those who were staying began to work.

Drogon lay on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder, his vertical pupils scanning the camp.

Khal Drogo was dead. The Bloodriders were either dead or scattered. Only a few dozen people remained by Daenerys Targaryen's side, half of whom were the elderly, weak, women, or children.

In the eyes of the Dothraki, this was a joke.

Drogon didn't think it was funny.

He knew what would happen next. The Red Waste. Qarth. Astapor. Meereen. Step by step, this small woman would become a queen.

And then there was that terrible ending.

Drogon narrowed his eyes.

With me here in this life, no one will ever give Daenerys Targaryen a 'mad queen' script.

You bastards of Westeros. Just you wait for me.

"Ding! Main quest updated: Accompany 'Mother' Daenerys through the Red Waste. Reward: Unlock Talent Tree."

Drogon closed his eyes. His consciousness sank into the system panel.

In the attribute bar lay 200 available attribute points. The skill bar hung with a row of passives. Bloodline: 55. Elements: 0.

Weak. Still very weak.

His ancestor Balerion could melt a castle with a single breath of Dragon Flame. What about him? He could only puff out a tiny flame when he sneezed; even lighting a cigarette would be a struggle.

No rush.

I have the system. I know the script. And I've swallowed a hairpin.

Drogon opened his eyes and looked toward the east, where red sand filled the sky.

The Red Waste. Talent Tree. More Shock Value.

And the necklace around Daenerys Targaryen's neck.

He licked the corner of his mouth.

Come on. This wretched world. Let's see how I devour you whole.