4: Chapter 4 The Wasteland Has No Water

The third day.

No one said "We're almost there." No one spoke at all.

Horse hooves sank into the sand, were pulled out, and sank again. Each step couldn't even kick up dust—the sand was too dry; even the dust was dead.

Drogon lay on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder, his slit pupils narrowing into lines.

His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. Dry. It itched terribly under his scales.

It wasn't molting.

It was hunger.

Human hunger is a growling stomach. A dragon's hunger is a ball of fire burning in the gut, burning so fiercely he wanted to bite someone.

Daenerys Targaryen's hand reached over. Her fingernails were filled with dirt. She didn't speak, just gently scratched his spine with her fingers.

Drogon closed his eyes.

Her fingers were trembling.

Not from exhaustion. It was from a lack of strength.

"Ding! Host's body restructuring consumption has accelerated. It is recommended to eat as soon as possible. Current hunger level: 72%."

Drogon opened his eyes.

Heat waves rose from the distant horizon.

Beneath the heat waves lay the Red Waste, a place that looked even more like hell than the desert.

"Khaleesi."

A voice whipped back from the front of the horse column. It was coarse. The syllables of the dothraki language all slammed onto the "lee" sound, like spitting out a glob of phlegm.

Drogon tilted his head.

Ko Araddo. Since Khal Drogo died, this guy was the best fighter in the Khalasar. That arakh had cut down three Khal's Bloodriders, and every notch on the back of the blade had been paid for with a head.

Now he rode, blocking the front of the procession, his whip pointing at Drogon.

"Your dragon—doesn't he know how to speak?"

Daenerys Targaryen didn't stop. The horse kept moving forward.

"Make him go find water," Araddo grinned. His teeth were yellow. "Find meat. Or is it that he only knows how to eat your jewelry?"

Someone behind him laughed.

Not many. Seven or eight. But the sound was loud.

Daenerys Targaryen reined in her horse.

Drogon felt her legs tighten against the horse's belly. She was afraid. Not of Araddo—she was afraid that those people behind her would stop laughing at Araddo and start laughing at her instead.

"He is not a hunting dog."

Daenerys Targaryen said.

Her voice was flat. But her knuckles gripping the reins were white.

Drogon looked at her neck. The necklace had left a red mark. It wasn't from the sun. She had pulled it herself.

Drogon didn't look at Araddo.

He was looking at the few people behind Araddo who had laughed.

They were thin. Their lips were all cracked. Their eye sockets were sunken. What could people like this do? They could cut others. They could also cut their own people.

Jorah Mormont's sword was drawn three inches. Daenerys Targaryen pressed her hand on him.

Drogon opened his mouth.

A puff of flame sprayed from his nostrils. It was tiny. Like a lighter.

But he didn't spray it at Araddo.

He took flight.

The moment his wings spread, Araddo's horse took a half-step back. The horse feared him. Araddo did not. But the horse's fear made him pull the reins tight.

"Mother, wait for me."

Drogon spoke in the dothraki language.

The voice wasn't loud. But the entire Khalasar heard it.

"I am going to hunt. To get us dinner."

He didn't wait for Daenerys Targaryen to answer. With a beat of his wings, he headed deep into the Red Waste.

Someone shouted from behind. Not Daenerys Targaryen. It was Araddo.

"A waste that hasn't had prey for three days—what could he possibly hunt?!"

Drogon didn't look back.

He tapped the system in his mind.

"Search for me. Within a five-kilometer radius. Whatever there is, kill it."

The system panel popped up a cluster of red dots.

Three kilometers straight ahead. Twelve meters underground. Four life signals. All of the same species.

"Red Sand Worm (larva). Gregarious. Threat level: High. It is recommended for the host to retreat."

Drogon stared at that line of text.

Gregarious.

Four.

Larvae.

The wind poured in from the depths of the Red Waste, scraping against his scales with a rustling sound.

The two words "retreat" flashed three times.

Drogon accelerated.

His dragon wings tore through the heat waves, casting a rapidly moving shadow across the sandy ground. His speed was nearly forty percent faster than before.

He could feel it. It wasn't that his body had become stronger. It was that his heartbeat had become faster.

It wasn't nervousness.

It was excitement.

The instinct to slaughter. Not hunting. Slaughter. They were completely different. Hunting is for eating. Slaughtering is because you can kill.

Drogon aimed at that patch of sand, and the dragon crystal in his chest began to heat up.