The visions Drogo had seen in the House of the Undying—two of them had already begun to take shape.
One showed a mermaid swimming forth from a coral palace, rising to the surface of the sea, gazing eastward with tears in her eyes. Drogo had never before seen a mermaid nor a stone dragon, so the visions must foretell what was yet to come.
Mermaids did not weep. But the only mermaid Drogo had ever encountered was Haixi, the Sea-Dragon Queen. Thus he was certain the mermaid of the vision pointed to her.
Another vision had shown countless stone hands thrusting from a seaside ruin, and above them a stone dragon riding the air with a silver mare clutched beneath it.
The stone hands, Drogo believed, were the accursed greyscale men. The stone dragon, its eyes bleeding, its scream ragged and wretched—that could only be young Aegon. By drinking Jon Connington's pestilential blood, the boy had turned from Bronn's ward into the stone dragon of the vision.
Its bleeding eyes, its anguished cries—those were born of hatred. And whom would it hate? Drogo was sure: it hated him, for he was the root of Aegon's misery.
Drogo might not be certain of the stone dragon and the mermaid's meaning, but of the silver mare he had no doubt.
Whose mount was the silver mare? Whom had young Aegon longed to wed? All pointed to Daenerys.
The stone dragon astride the silver mare—what could it mean? That Aegon would win Daenerys at last, that the vision promised union, perhaps even their joining as one, to wage war together upon the world.
Drogo would not let it come to pass. He would defy fate itself—for himself, for his wife, and even for Aegon.
For now, the life he had stolen from destiny was Missandei's. He had gifted her the silver mare, switched her place with Daenerys, bound her with reins and gag, leaving her to await in prison the fate that should have been his queen's.
He knew the tale from the songs of Westeros. The little scribe's fate had always been to love the eunuch Master of Whisperers, and to die at Cersei's command.
Let her stand in Daenerys's stead as Aegon's target. She was now mistress of the silver mare; perhaps the stone dragon would indeed clutch her, not his khaleesi.
When he had heard from Kerry that Aegon had struck plans with the Shroud King of the Sorrows, Drogo had wasted no time in confining Daenerys.
Two reasons drove him: to curb her swelling pride, and to prepare the great deception.
By river, the fleet could reach Dragonstone, once the Valyrian Freehold's western outpost.
By land, they must pass Pentos. But Drogo would not abandon a thousand precious warships. He would need them to seize the Iron Islands, King's Landing, all the great cities.
So he bore the pain, and let his wife endure the dungeon's chains for the sake of his design.
Aegon, true son of Rhaegar or no, was a threat too great. Better to bait him with Daenerys.
He had spared Jon Connington for that very reason—that the fox might keep whispering to Aegon, drawing him step by step into the trap. To kill the exiled Hand would be meaningless.
Ravens came often, alighting upon the fleet's masts. They croaked words, spoke in code. Drogo did not loose arrows at them. Let them fly.
They were small, and the dragons paid them no heed.
Always they came from the west, and to the west they returned. Drogo was sure their roost was amidst the fog-drowned ruins.
So he let Missandei bear the danger. He might lose Grey Worm's loyalty, but he deemed it worth the price. His love for Daenerys had passed beyond flesh—it was etched upon his soul.
Having resolved to sacrifice Missandei, he granted her a last gift: her wish fulfilled, to ease her regrets.
"Pretty child of Naath, may you be reborn in my homeland of another life—far from chains, far from lies, far from fate's cruelty."
As he prayed for her in secret, the pale tigress at his side awoke.
Once loosed, Drogo told Daenerys why he had bound her. But the tigress only lay in silence. She did not blame, did not forgive. She asked only one thing: that he do what must be done, that he prove her tiger-tamer.
On the morrow Drogo disguised her himself. She was to remain hidden by day, alone behind closed doors, lest all be ruined.
Stormborn said nothing, only ate and slept, regaining her strength. By day Drogo was as if invisible.
One dawn he woke to the stench of filth. A khal he might be, but he loved cleanliness. His wife's petty act was her silent protest.
In Dofas's house he never sat the table, yet each morn he dined beneath the eyes of several lovely maidens.
Were it not that Daenerys—delicate in form, yet fierce beneath the moon—was famed for her strength, men might whisper the Khal who walked from fire was a eunuch.
Dofas's proclamations, and the discipline of his host, had eased the tension of Volantis. The city stirred again toward life.
Drogo, with his bloodriders, walked the ruined half of the First Daughter of Valyria. His hard face, his fell name cleared a wide circle about him. He walked in solitude, and was used to it.
If he wished for clamor, who would dare deny him—even if only with hollow flattery?
At the fish market he caught words between two fishmongers hauling their wares.
"Did you hear? The bells ring again, and often—outside Syhorro!"
"Gods! Frightful news! How many gifts must the harbor master, the worthy Quavo Nogas, heap upon those bloody Dothraki before they leave?"
"Hush! Quiet! Look behind you!"
One had seen the bells bound into Drogo's braids and beard.
Since the battle with the traitor Khal Pono, Drogo had not crossed another khal. But hearing of riders haunting Volantis's outlying towns, he was keen to know who.
He beckoned them. "You two—come here."
No Dothraki matched Drogo's stature. The fishmongers, even if they had not known him, knew at once.
They went white with terror and crept forward trembling.
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