He had slept for an age and more. He had slumbered as the earth trembled and the lands shifted, the oceans rose and fell and rose again. The skies shook and the seasons broke and still he did not awake. When he finally stirred it was to a darkness so black no light could penetrate it. He could not recall how he had gotten to where he is as he was quite unsure where he was at all, but he did not let his lack of memory trouble him.

There was much that he had forgotten, much of his past that eluded him but he was content to let the knowledge remain lost as he was suspended in darkness and cocooned in silence. For a brief moment his surroundings became warm and he felt himself twitch in pleasure. Coiling tighter about himself in the heat, he slept some more.

Although he could remember what light looked like and the warmth of the sun upon his face, he could not bring forth an image of the sky nor the color the leaves became when it grew cold. He knew the concept of it - surely things changed when seasons turned - but he could not recall upon how he knew such things.

Sometimes he could feel that summer heat once more, a warmth that would settle over his darkness and rouse him from his slumber. He could almost make himself believe that he could hear singing when his darkness became warm, but he knew that to be folly. There was no singing in his sanctuary.

He had a very vague memory of another darkness not nearly so black and a confining space that was entirely different. It was less tight but it felt more suffocating. Although similar, it was different in all the ways that mattered. Just the thought of it filled him with an anger that he did not fully understand and a sense of child-like fear. He cast the memory aside and listened instead to the singing that was not truly there.

This darkness was his sanctuary, not his prison. He disliked that sometimes it felt that way.

He had had a name once, a long time ago. A word others had used and it was him of which they spoke. His name...it was...he could not remember. It was a heavy thing, that much he could recall, a burden mantled upon him. He had worn it like a crown, pretty to look upon but painful to wear and it dragged his head down until his neck nearly snapped from the weight of it.

His name had meant power, not like the words of power, spoken magic used and twisted.

Magic was as familiar to him as his darkness. Words of healing and words of pain, words both great and terrible. A single word for death, he did not remember what it had sounded like, but he knew that word to be green.

His name was a different sort of word, but he knew it to be a powerful one. Trying to recall it left him with a pain in his chest and a feeling of foreboding, so he vowed not to remember it at all.

When he dreamed he saw a stone castle standing sentinel over a dark forest and a deep lake, both hiding creatures of imagination and death for the unwary. She was gone now, crumblings of aged rocks where her foundation had once stood, memories of ramparts as tall as the clouds. Time had torn the glorious castle apart because death had claimed all those who could have defended her. He had cursed time and death frequently but he could not remember the reason why. When he did, he wished to forget once again.

His world had been green and beautiful. Time took the green until everything became brown and all that was seemed to wither and die. There had still been blue, but not upon the surface of the world. The blue there had dried and cracked and crumbled. The only place left to be found was above...but even that did not last.

He had been in love once, a love so deep he could almost still feel that dark place within his heart she had left when death had claimed her too. Her hair had been like fire and her passion an inferno. They had created life together, three small things that grew and loved as well. Time took all but the faintest memory of them and he remembered why he had cursed it so.

In the end it was time and death that laid ruin to everything he had known. He had cursed and wailed and begged as death and time grabbed and gobbled all that was left and yet neither would lay claim to him. He had stood unmolested and unchanging as everything around him just died.

What was left of magic had tried to soothe his hurt and his rage even as she too withered away. He had spoken words of power, but each syllable tore something away from him until he was bits and pieces of what he once was and the words simply became sounds and did nothing.

He did not remember falling into the deep sleep, could not recall even the simplest of memories before his long slumber and he wondered if they would ever return to him...unsure if he even wanted them to. Every tiny bit he could remember left him feeling angry and bereft. Perhaps it would be better if he simply forgot altogether.

When he awoke, becoming truly aware for the first time, it was to a wailing scream of agony that nearly drowned out the gentle singing as his sanctuary was washed in heat.

The voice and tune he had heard before, a delicate undulation in words that stirred something within him and he realized that it was the same melody. It had not been a part of his imaginings after all. He pushed forward, straining to get closer in the confined space that pressed against him and suddenly his sanctuary had become too small and too tight.

Clawing and straining, he raged against the darkness until a crack appeared upon the black, suspended above him. The crack was red, alighting the dark as he pressed himself toward it. The crimson fractured further, hundreds of tiny lines that branched apart like lightning in the sky and he finally felt something give. He gave one last great heave before it all fell apart and he tumbled out, wet limbs spilling into ash as fire surrounded him.

For a single moment he panicked, flames licking at his limp and useless limbs before he realized that he too was of the fire and the orange and red flames could not harm him. The heat ate away the slick that coated him, steam rising from his scales, leaving him dry and itchy.

Giant hands scooping him from the ash, skin pale and thin but as warm as he, and he cried out in surprise. The sound startled him as it came out different then he remembered. The being pulled him up and brushed careful fingers down his spine as he rumbled in pleasure. It was then that he realized that the thing - the person - that held him was not overly large…it was he that was so small.

The woman cradled him to her naked breast and he craned his neck to gaze into her violet eyes as she reached back into the fire and ash to pull another from its depths. The tiny green thing squawked with the same high pitch screech that he had used and he turned to look at it in curiosity. His sibling, for it could be nothing else, cried and shrieked until the woman hushed it with gentle fingers and a soft voice.

Another cry had him turning back to the flames, the feeble noise barely heard over the popping wood and roaring fire. Pale fingers dug into the soot, staining long nails as he climbed up to get a better view. He settled upon her shoulder, tiny claws not large enough to leave more than a scratch upon the delicate skin even if he had wanted to.

The green suckled ravenously at her milk heavy breast and his own stomach clenched in a hunger that he had not felt in over an age. Before he could claim the other swollen nipple to feed, she had guided the much smaller gold to it. He squawked indignantly at being denied, but she settled him quickly with a finger scratching along his itchy jaw.

He contemplated briefly of forcing the gold or green aside to sate his hunger. They were tiny little things, delicate and frail and so very new. He was not much larger than them, but he was enough to make a difference. He may have also been tiny and frail and new to this world, but his soul was old…so very old.

They were not like he, they did not have memories of before the great sleep. Their hunger pressed into his mind like a hammer and he felt nothing beyond it but the discomfort of being born. His vision alighted upon the broken shards of what could only be an egg and he thought hatched was probably a better description for their emergence into the world. Their minds did not work like his and when he crooned, pressing a query at them, he only received confusion and the double sensation of hunger on top of his own.

Draping his body around the thin neck of the woman that held them, he settled himself to wait even as his stomach rumbled. The thin, soot covered fingers darted along his muzzle, pressing lightly to his scales in a feather light touch that soothed his aggravation. He did not know if she was rewarding him for his patience or exploring his form in curiosity but he cared not which as long as she continued to ease the itch that had settled across his drying hide.

He purred in pleasure, chest thrumming, as she turned awe filled violet eyes to his. Her wonderment danced against his mind and he tried to send contentment back but he was unsure if he was successful. Her mind was very different from his, more so then even his siblings.

She hummed a soft tuned as she pulled the green away, her nipple swollen and glistening with milk. He let himself fall into the crook of her arm and clamped toothless jaws around it. The green protested softly and the woman began to sing gently to calm it. He recognized the melody as the one that he had thought to be imaginings and he knew it had been her voice he had heard all along.

He rumbled in satisfaction, voice thrumming into a purr as his tiny claws kneaded at her breast, filling his stomach with sweet milk. Her song caressed his ears and he could finally remember what love had felt like.

It felt much like this.

~ Page Break ~

His name had been Harry once, but never just Harry. He remembered Harry-the-Boy and Harry-the-Hero. His mother called him something different, Drogon, the word falling from her pink lips like a prayer and a command all at once. It did not matter what she called him, Drogon was as good a name as any and it was not shadowed with the history and grief as the name Harry had been.

So he became Drogon.

She was not his first mother, though he could not recall a memory of her aside from the sound of her voice scared and pleading. What she begged for he did not know, but he felt it had been important to him. This new mother was not the one who clutched him nor his siblings, but she brought them into this world, hatched them from their eggs, suckled them at her breasts and smothered them with a mother's love and affection.

His mother was a tiny thing, he realized. Compared to him she was a giant, but nearly everything was at the moment so he could not use himself as a reference. When Drogon perched upon her shoulder and watched the red dirt and white rocks slowly pass by, he noticed that she was shorter than all but the children.

Her hair was a beautiful silver white and he found that neither he nor his brothers could resist snapping at it playfully when a breeze caught her loose locks and they fluttered in the wind. She would grumble in irritation and untangle her hair from their teeth but she never told them to stop.

Drogon was always careful when she let him perch on her shoulders. He had to make certain that his growing claws dug only ever into her leather pauldron and he kept his limbs from brushing her irritated and sunburned skin. His brothers were never as careful as he, but she did not complain, even when they accidently drew blood.

The other humans, the ones that followed her, called her Khaleesi, though he knew it to be a title and not her name. He wondered if it was anything like a Lady or a Dame, but the reverence in which they spoke it made him think the translation was closer to Queen. She was beautiful, even with her hair unwashed and escaping her braid, lips chapped and skin peeling. She would be even more so when they finally escaped this harsh and barren land.

Daenerys, he learned her name several days later as the eldest of her khalasar fell asleep and did not awake. The women killed the weakest of horses, more of a pony then a Dothraki steed with a rounded back and shortened stumps for legs, and built him a pyre to ride into the afterlife. Drogon thought it was a perfectly good waste of meat and his stomach rumbled from the smell of the horse burning in the fire.

Occasionally Daenerys would let all three of them out at the same time, two laying entwined upon the small wooden cages while she carried the third. She was diligent in switching between them, trying not to show favoritism. And yet it was Drogon more often than not who would claim her shoulder pauldron. He knew that it was simply because he was much more careful with his claws that got sharper each day that passed then the other two. His brothers seemed unbothered by the extra affection their mother bestowed upon him, and when his mind brushed theirs he felt no jealousy or hostility from them.

He had been human once, though not like Daenerys or those who followed her. He had been a being of magic, a wizard. His mother too was such a being but hers was a passive magic. As he watched his sibling squabble upon the cage he realized he was of magic still, just of a different sort.

When he had been Harry he had had dreams of being a dragon, stretching his wings and taking to the sky as his shadow cast the world beneath into darkness. Harry-the-Boy had loved those dreams, the feeling of freedom following him into the waking world. Every time the wind touched his face he could almost imagine being amongst the clouds.

Harry-the-Hero hated them. As he got older and exchanged his cupboard for a gilded cage he knew that there was no such thing as freedom in the world. When he escaped one prison it was through the bars of another. The lie left him bitter and resentful the next morning.

Drogon-the-Dragon was so far quite unimpressed with actually being the creature out of the fairytale. At just over a month he had grown from the size of a rodent to just smaller than a cat. His limbs were uncoordinated, muscles twitching at random and throwing off his balance at the worst possible times. Twice he had fallen off the back of the horse that Ser Jorah had leant to carry the cages, when he had been doing no more than sitting. The beast had not even been moving the first time when his leg muscles had started twitching and it was only the quick reflexes of Irri, his mother's handmaiden, which had saved him from taking a tumble in the hard dirt.

Most of the day he spent asleep, body heavy and mind tired during the few hours he forced himself awake. His wings pulled him off balance nearly as often as they helped him keep it, and they were still too small to even glide upon. It had been days since he had eaten, jaw bone aching and gums irritated as his first teeth broke through.

So far, being a dragon was not nearly as fun as what he had dreamt it would be.

Daenerys cooed at him, tongue clicking as she held a piece of raw horse meat before him. Drogon coughed, nose wrinkling and red frills flaring as he tried and failed to call forth fire. It left his throat feeling raw and a strange mucus coating his tongue. His mother had stopped breast feeding them several days ago when he had latched onto her nipple and she had pulled him away with a cry of pain as his new teeth broke skin.

Rhaegal, the green, had his first tooth come in last night and had shrieked up a storm when their mother had denied him her milk. She had taken the gold, Viserion, to feed out of sight of the green and Drogon had found himself snapping at his brother until he behaved. Viserion had yet to start to teeth and Drogon saw Daenerys run her fingertips over the gold's gums to check for fangs before she would bare her breast to him.

It was a curious thing to be a dragon. He had known dragons before, and yet he could not help but feel as if what he remembered and what was now were very different. When the green would hiss and snap at him playfully, sometimes his brother's scent changed. It only happened when Drogon forced his sibling to submit to him, and only for a brief moment. It took Drogon longer then he cared to admit, but one day he realized Rhaegal scent was less male in those instances.

He had spent several days thinking upon it when he learned that Viserion had that same skill. At first Drogon thought it to be a defense mechanism for when their playful games got too rough, one of their scents changed and the other calmed right down. It was then that he realized that it was not just their scent that became different. For a brief moment, his brothers had truly become female.

Drogon had spent that night in his covered cage carefully examining himself and he came to the conclusion that he too could switch between genders. His body and that of his siblings were naturally male, but if provoked they could become female for a short time. He wondered if it was just for breeding or if there was another evolutionary reason behind a species that was duel gendered.

Such a thing might have bothered him - had he been human - but Drogon was a dragon and he knew that it simply was what it was. Although it was a curious feature, and it solved the issue of dragons dying out as they were the only three in existence, at the moment it was unimportant in the scheme of things.

Drogon heard his mother sigh softly and he chirped at her in sympathy as she pulled the meat away. He would not eat it raw and he was too young to make fire himself. He tried to push that thought at Daenerys but she just tucked the meat back into the pouch and turned to her handmaiden as Doreah approached her.

"What did your brother say about them, Khaleesi?" Doreah asked softly. Drogon found her accent and features curious. She was not as most that accompanied them, her skin too pale and eyes too round. The way she spoke was as if she had been trained to speak in such a way to get exactly what she wanted. Daenerys spoke like one born into a prominent family, Doreah spoke like one pretending to be highborn.

"He said they ate meat," Daenerys replied after a moment as she ran dry and cracked fingers along the horns that decorated his jaw. Her chipped nails caught along the base and Drogon crooned in pleasure as the shedding and dead skin came away at last.

"He didn't tell you what kind of meat?" Her hands twisted around her fingers, steps uneven and halting in a nervous manner.

Daenerys turned to her and Drogon squawked as was forced to adjust his balance or fall. "My brother didn't know anything about dragons!" Her tone was sharp like a parent reprimanding a child and Doreah's pace stuttered as she drew back and lowered her head into a more submissive posture.

Drogon pressed calm into his mother as she too drew to a halt. The caravan continued around them, a few of the khalasar casting curious looks in their direction, but no one approached. He felt the tense muscles release under his talons and after a moment Daenerys turned back to the path and resumed walking. Doreah took a few hesitant steps and then scuttled closer once his mother glanced at her and gestured forward with her fingers.

"He didn't know anything about anything," Daenerys added quietly after a long moment of just walking in silence. It was not an apology, but Drogon felt it was the closest she could get. Doreah bowed her head in acceptance and understanding at speaking out of turn and the khalasar continued to trek through the desert as Drogon felt his hunger grow.

Daenerys hummed thoughtfully as she brought Drogon into her cupped hands. His tail curled around her tiny wrist as his wings fluttered uselessly in the air before he was finally able to balance properly. His thumbs hooked around her fingers and he chirped at her curiously. His orange eyes met her violet ones and for the first time he felt his mother's presence press back against his own. Patiently and with great care, Drogon pushed the thought of cooked meat once more to Daenerys, visualizing it as if it was actually in front of him. He continued this way, using all of his senses to make her understand like a parent teaching a child to read.

He watched as his mother's eyes fluttered closed and her nostrils flared as if she could actually smell the meat cooking upon the fire. Drogon felt the idea being presented back to him in an inquisitive and wondering manner and Drogon trilled in reply, excitedly sending her praises and contentment along with his hunger. Daenerys' smiled, lips tilting in an amused and self-proud way as her violet eyes opened and gazed upon him with love and understanding.

She turned to Doreah, hair fluttering in the breeze and mouth parted to speak, but whatever command she was about to give was interrupted by a commotion at the front of the caravan. Daenerys did not hesitate even as Doreah fluttered by the cages in a nervous manner. She rushed forward, cupped hands raising to hurriedly push Drogon back onto his perch upon her pauldron. Squawking, he flailed as he fought to keep his balance, claws leaving thin gauges in the leather. He had finally just righted himself when he was nearly thrown off as Daenerys fell to her knees in the dirt next to Ser Jorah.

She reached forward with a shaky hand and placed it upon the fur of the horse's cheek. It was the same color as his mother's hair. Daenerys stroked gentle fingers down to the muzzle, her palm hovering over its nostrils to feel for air as she gazed at the unmoving belly of the mount. The horse did not breathe.

"She was Drogo's first gift to me," his mother whispered, gaze fixed on the beast's closed eyes as she slowly drew her hand away, clutching them tightly in her lap as if to keep them from shaking, or ripping something apart. Drogon could feel her grief like a heavy thing, draped across her shoulders and trying to push her further into the ground.

Drogon sent his own sorrow back and tried to comfort her the best he could. He did not know the mare, had no emotional connection to the beast, but his mother did and her pain made him grieve with her. He could feel his brothers stir within their cages, but he only sent heavy thoughts of sleep back to them. They settled back to rest quickly and Drogon pressed his head to his mother's cheek and crooned in the silence that had descended.

Daenerys raised her hand that no longer shook and cupped his body close as she sent the feeling of gratitude to him. The sound of shuffling feet drew them apart and he felt his mother take a deep breath to steel herself before her eyes darted to her khalasar that had surrounded them. A few of the women muttering quietly about omens. For a people who worshipped horses, having the Khaleesi's own mount just drop dead was an ill one. Drogon could hear the few quiet murmurings of the word cursed and those that quickly shushed them.

"I promised to protect them," her words were quiet but they were laced with an anger that Drogon could feel. "I promised their enemies would die screaming. How do I make starvation scream?"

"A trick I never learned, I'm afraid." Jorah sighed, hand upon the dead mount's shoulder more for supporting his balance while squatting as opposed to comfort. He seemed detached from the situation, calm in a way Daenerys was not.

Drogon shuffled down her arm before he hopped upon the horse's neck. His mother glanced upon him but made no move to stop his progress so Drogon tucked his claws in and settled himself to wait.

"Does it ever end?" Daenerys questioned, eyes darting around the bleak and dry landscape that surrounded them before settling upon the comet. Drogon's head cocked as he followed her gaze. The comet and its crimson tail showed brightly now, even in the day time.

"This is further east than I've ever been. But, yes, Khaleesi, everything ends, even the red waste."

Daenerys reached forward to stroke along the scales to either side of his spine and Drogon crooned as she turned back to Jorah, swiping at the loose strands of hair that fluttered into her face. "And you're sure there's no other way?"

"If we go south to the land of the Lazarheen, the Lamb Men will kill us and take your dragons. If we go west to the Dothraki Sea, the first khalasar we meet will kill us and take your dragons." Jorah answered her honestly and Drogon could smell fear under his words.

Her eyes had drifted back to her dead mount, but at his words she turned back to Jorah, shoulders tense. "No one will take my dragons!" Her words were sharp and her anger so hot Drogon shifted uncomfortably beneath the sensation.

Fear settled into his chest at the thought. Drogon knew that he and his siblings were to young and small to do more than scratch and shriek at an assailant. He shifted closer to his mother, letting her presence ease his discomfort. She would never let them be taken, and Drogon found himself comforted by her absolute certainty that she would let no harm befall her children.

Jorah regarded her carefully for a moment, taking in her exhausted form, sun burnt face, and the slight bulge of extra fat she had yet to completely lose from her pregnancy. "They are too weak to fight, as are your people," he reminded her. His mother's violet eyes darted to those who had gathered around them but still kept a respectful distance. "You must be their strength."

"As you are mine," Daenerys confessed softly and though Ser Jorah did not flinch nor avert his eyes, he reeked of guilt. Her eyes fluttered back to the khalasar before she steeled herself and Drogon could feel her pushing her grief and anger away. "Zhey qoy qoyi," she called, forcing herself to stand even though Drogon could feel how she ached. Three men separated from the others and approached her.

"Rakharo, Aggo, Kovarro," Daenerys called them by name as they halted before her. Her bloodriders, Drogon knew, those bound to protect her until either they or she died. "Take the strongest of our remaining horses. You will ride east," she told Kovarro. "You southeast, and you northeast." Daenerys gestured to Aggo and Rakharo.

"What do we seek, Khaleesi?" Rakharo questioned.

Daenerys looked at her bloodriders, taking in their own dirtied and exhausted forms. "Cities," she replied after a long moment. "Living or dead. Caravans and people. Rivers or lakes or the great salt sea. Find how far the red waste extends before us and what lies on the other side."

Rakharo called to the other two and they left to prepare the horses. Drogon could hear his siblings cry out in annoyance as they were awoken when the cages were jostled while being removed from the horse. The people around them began to murmur again as Daenerys joined Rakharo at his horse, leaving her child still perched upon the dead mount.

Ser Jorah glanced at him, black scales and orange eyes stared back. The man shifted, hand falling subconsciously to the hilt of his sword. Drogon knew he made the knight feel uneasy, he just did not know why. Despite his discomfort, Ser Jorah stood guard over Drogon and the deceased horse while the khalasar began unpacking and setting up camp.

Daenerys returned to them slowly, the pounding of hooves on stone still echoing even as the riders faded from view in the distance. She stood there a moment, arms crossed in a self-comforting gesture as she gazed at the silver. Jorah shifted awkwardly before he took a halting step forward. The movement seemed to draw his mother out of what ever stupor she had fallen into.

She gave Jorah a look of gratefulness before calling Irri and Doreah over as the other women started to set up the large pavilion like tent. "Have a fire built," Daenerys spoke in Dothraki. Drogon's understanding of the language came from his mother's knowledge, but even he could tell she spoke it too softly. Dothraki was a harsh language, with guttural stops and hard edges. His mother was used to a finer language that seemed to roll off the tongue with ease. When she tried to incorporate that rolling lilt into the rough and primitive language the words seemed not to quite fit.

"Khaleesi?" Irri questioned softly, the title spoken like it was being pulled from the back of her throat.

"For the horse," Daenerys answered, trying to match the words with how she knew they should be pronounced and falling short. She did not let it trouble her - if she was understood, then what did her accent matter. "I want it cooked, good meat should not go to waste, especially since we have so little. Have smaller chunks cut into little pieces, for the dragons."

"The dragons, Khaleesi?" Doreah asked as Irri went to do as bid.

"Yes, I just remembered: only dragons and men eat cooked meat."

~ Page Break ~

Drogon slept for a day and a night. By the time he awoke, seven more had been claimed by the red waste, the youngest a girl who had still been nursing at her mother's breast. There had not been enough horses that could willingly be lost and Daenerys had a single pyre built for all of them. Of the two horses left, she chose the younger one that had gone lame from the harsh journey and it was burned with them.

In Dothraki culture only the warriors of someone held in the highest of esteem was burned with a horse. Although no longer slaves, a khalasar would have still left them where they had perished and let the buzzards and other carrion feed upon their bodies. Even though her people were lost in the waste and dying, those that remained felt a deep gratitude to their Khaleesi as she honored the deaths of even the lowest members of her khalasar.

Drogon had watched as his mother's face twisted in rage even as he knew her heart bled in grief. But she would not allow it to show - could not - refusing to let any weakness be seen by those who had followed her into this desolate land. Rhaegal and Viserion began to warble as the fire rose high in the night sky, throwing up embers and ash brighter than even the stars. Drogon found himself joining them, their voices rising in song as the red comet cast the moonless night in red.

The days passed slowly and even with Daenerys trying to keep them fed, the rations kept getting smaller at every meal. Drogon and his brothers did not eat much, but even they were beginning to feel the effects. Every few nights another pyre was built for those claimed by the red waste. No horse burned with the dead. Only one horse had survived their journey and though it was weak from hunger and dehydration, Daenerys forbade the others from slaughtering it. If her bloodriders did not return, she knew they would need the meat.

Pyres were built, bodies burned, and his mother wept. Daenerys would stand in the darkness, away from the others but still close enough to hear the popping of the wood and smell the scent of burning flesh. When she cried for those lost she did so quietly, cuddling her children close and trying to muffle her sobs into their hides.

Viserion crooned at her, his scent changing to female as she bumped her head against their mother's neck and jaw. Rhaegal followed suit, Daenerys' turmoil forcing them to shift into the less threatening gender to try and comfort her. Their mother was incapable of understanding the effort her children made - even when Drogon tried to help her - but she could not interpret the information. All the same, she was able to comprehend that the two smaller dragons had done something to try and ease her suffering. Daenerys cried harder but they could feel it was filled less with grief.

Ser Jorah stood guard outside and pretended not to hear.

Drogon found the old knight a curious being. He knew that Jorah was fascinated by the dragons, but Drogon could also scent fear when the man was near them. He never approached the hatchlings, never reached out to touch them as Doreah and a few others had done, but his fingers would twitch as another stroked their scales and he knew that the knight wanted to do so. Drogon thought it was guilt that stopped him. Guilt from what he did not know, but he knew that what ever it was that troubled Ser Jorah, it involved Daenerys.

When Ser Jorah looked at her and saw that all the baby fat had been eaten away by hunger, he reeked of guilt and shame.

Drogon liked the man who devoted himself to Daenerys, but he did not trust him. There were few that Drogon did trust, his mother and siblings at the top of his very short list, and Irri a close second. The Dothraki girl was a quiet thing, hands gentle as she fed them and voice always calm. She too never reached out to touch them, instead she would open their cages and stand to the side, hand presented if they wished to be held, but unobtrusive if they did not.

Irri never pressured them for contact, but never denied Rhaegal or Viserion when they would crawl to her. She touched them like they were delicate things made of glass, fingers ghosting over their hides so softly they could barely feel it. Drogon only indulged her touch when Irri brought out the wire brush. Her hands were gentle when she ran the coarse bristles over their hides, precise movements that expertly scratched away the molted scales.

Doreah was the opposite. When she opened the cages she would shove her hands in, eager fingers scooping them up. She tried to be careful, but her excitement made her careless. Drogon and Rhaegal tolerated her naive handling, but Viserion did not. Though the gold was the smallest of his siblings and Daenerys treated him as the youngest, he had a temper that matched his namesake.

Daenerys did not speak of her brother often, but when she did it was with mixed emotions. Viserys had the unfortunate luck to have been born with the Targaryen curse of madness. His madness had made him threaten and hurt his little sister and ultimately led to his death. But he had not always been that way, Daenerys would tell them. Once, he had been kind. When she was little he used to take her to the market when they lived in the house with the red door. He would buy her sweets, take her to the waterfront to watch the ships, and play hide-and-seek in the garden. His madness progressed with his age.

"I was eight when he first hit me," Daenerys had confessed to them late in the night while waiting for her bloodriders. She would tell them stories of the people they were named after. She would speak of Rhaegar, the brother she never met, Drogo, the husband she had loved, and Viserys, the brother who had gone mad. "He told me I awoke the dragon…but he was no dragon," she had whispered softly, voice laced with anger and sadness. "Fire can't kill a dragon." The words were like a mantra. She spoke them as if to remind herself that he was gone and could no longer hurt her. She spoke them as if they could somehow bring him back.

Doreah no longer went near Viserion. His temper had flared at her rough handling and he had snapped at her. His tiny teeth, gums bleeding as they had yet to come all the way in, had caught the flesh between her finger and thumb. Doreah had not bled much but their mother had fussed over the wound for hours, smearing a poultice upon it in apology. Daenerys never did actually say the words, a queen would not admit to such a thing, but Drogon knew his mother was hurt over Viserion biting her handmaiden.

Daenerys was unsure how to punish Viserion, not because he was a dragon, but because she did not know the full series of events that led to the gold attacking Doreah and because Viserion was her child. In the end she did not need to punish him at all as Drogon had stood over Viserion, chest puffed and domineering as he chastised the little dragon. Viserion had cowered away from him, whining pitifully and shifting his gender. It had been three days since then and she had yet to turn back. Daenerys did not know what Drogon had done to cow his brother so, but both were uninjured and Viserion did not snap at anyone else so she let it be.

Doreah, on the other hand, did not handle the situation well at all. She would glare at Viserion now, not that the gold seemed to notice, and Drogon realized that she was a spiteful thing. When it came to feeding time she would always feed Viserion last…and sometimes when their mother and Irri were away or thoroughly distracted, she would feed him not at all.

Humans were fickle creatures. His memories as Harry had taught him as much, but witnessing their pettiness first hand left Drogon feeling confused and bereft. He liked Doreah, she was always eager to interact with him or Rhaegal, whispering fanciful stories and fairytales to them by the fire and telling them the histories of the world and gods, the sun and moon, and animals both real and not.

Her treatment of Viserion left him conflicted. Unsure of what to do and how he felt, Drogon chose the company of Irri when his mother was unavailable, moving to the back of the cage and hissing when Doreah tried to retrieve him. He warned her away with threats and posturing but he never attacked her, never hurt her. It was unneeded, Viserion biting her had been enough of a warning and she would flinch away every time Drogon growled at her. Her face would twist, emotion flicking across them so quickly that he had a hard time reading her. Even so, he knew that she was hurt by his actions, but he would not be swayed.

Viserion meant more to him than the girl's feelings.

Drogon's sudden shift in behavior towards her handmaiden left his mother confused and suspicious. Daenerys did not know what had caused him to shun Doreah and the most he could do to explain himself was to send her his feelings of displeasure. But she must have understood more than he thought because one day Doreah stopped tending to them and no longer came near the cages. He would see the girl gazing at them, face filled with longing, but she did not approach.

Once, it had seemed like her temptations had won and she had scuttled closer when nobody was looking. Drogon was uncertain on what to do as she approached, hand stretched to touch them. He hissed at her and even though she flinched, she did not back away. Drogon did not want to hurt her, did not want her to be harmed, but he also would not let her near Viserion who had cowered behind him. Rhaegal started to shriek in distress, Drogon's aggression and Viserion's fear causing him cry out for his mother. The gold's shrill voice joined the green's and Drogon found himself crying as well.

Their screeching voices brought Daenerys into the pavilion and she needed to do no more than look at Doreah before the handmaiden had scuttled outside, hands shaking as she stepped past the Khaleesi. They had exchanged words, but what was said Drogon did not know as he was too far away to hear. What Daenerys had told Doreah seemed to have had a lasting impression though, for she never tried to approach them again and she even went out of her way to not be alone with them. When Drogon did see Doreah, she looked properly cowed but her eyes burned with anger.

The wait for the riders was a long one. Nearly a fortnight had passed before one of his mother's qoy qoyi returned. Aggo rode slowly into the camp, his horse dragging its hooves through the dirt leaving tiny trenches as its head hung low in exhaustion. The rider did not look much better. His hair had come loose from its tie and there was a layer of grime covering his skin, small rivulets of sweat leaving trails in their wake.

"Blood of my blood," Daenerys had whispered and embraced him tightly once he had descended from the horse. The words made Drogon's chest feel tight as he recalled a curly brown haired female and the freckled face of a male. He had crooned softly in a grief he did not fully understand and Daenerys had bundled him up from the rock he had been sun bathing on as she led Aggo into the open pavilion.

His mother cradled him to her chest and he had clung to her, tucking his head into her neck as his wings stretched from one of her shoulders to the other. His thumb claws had dug into her soft skin, leaving scratches that welled up with blood but his mother seemed not to notice. Daenerys had tried to comfort him, his distress making her uneasy as Aggo dropped gracelessly into the pillows and accepted one of the last full water skins from Irri. He had run out of supplies long before he began his return journey and thirst caused him to drain it nearly empty before wisdom made him stop.

Daenerys gave him a sad smile and joined him on the pillows, ignoring how the dirt so easily transferred to the embroidered fabric. She placed Drogon in her lap as Aggo told her of what he had seen. He had ridden southeast for many days before he had come upon a city for the dead.

Only ghosts dwelled there now.

He spent two days searching amongst the ruins but he had found the wells dry, the trees barren and the land as desolate as the waste. At night, the wind blew through the shattered windows and broken doors, echoing through the dead city and howling like a thousand wailing ghosts.

"It is not a good place, Khaleesi," he told her softly, words stuttered as he spoke them in the common tongue. He spoke the language so as to get his meaning across, the gravity of his sentence heavy.

Daenerys bowed her head in despair as she laid a gentle hand upon Aggo's arm and ordered him to rest. She left him to join Ser Jorah, giving her Khalasar a sad smile. Some of the women had begun to gather the supplies in the tent but Daenerys just shook her head and her people settled back into the cliff side to wait.

She found Jorah at the edge of the camp staring out into the vast desert, eyes squinting from the sun. Dirt had settled into what seemed like every pore in his face except for the crow lines on either side of his eyes. He glanced curiously at her as she approached, the tiny black dragon clinging to her like its life depended upon it, but he said nothing.

Drogon appreciated his tact as he knew he was being unreasonable, but that did not stop him from crying loudly in distress and clinging tighter when his mother tried to shift him to her pauldron. They both winced from the racket he was making, talons gripping into the leather covering her stomach and Daenerys immediately stopped trying to move him. In the distance, his siblings answered his cry with a shriek of their own that echoed down the canyon wall.

"What's got him all worked up?" Ser Jorah asked as his glare sent the curious Dothraki back to their tasks.

"I am unsure," Daenerys confessed as she hushed Drogon quietly. She cupped her hands around his small form, one patting his back while the other supported his weight, and she bounced him slightly while twisting and rocking from side to side. Daenerys comforted him like a mother would their newborn child and Drogon was only a little ashamed that it worked.

They stood together in the quiet for a long time, Daenerys comforting the dragon and Jorah standing as her sentinel, keeping the others away. Only after the sun had begun to cast long shadows did his mother finally break it. "Aggo has returned." Her tone was benign, lacking any feeling as if she were speaking about the weather.

"I saw," Jorah's blue eyes trailed to what was left of the khalasar. The women and children preparing the last of their rations, the men patrolling or resting in what little shade they could find. Nothing was packed away and nobody was making any motion to do so. "He did not return with good news, I take it."

Daenerys just shook her head, silver white wisps of her hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She did not elaborate and Jorah did not ask. They went their separate ways as night began to fall and though his mother let him sleep with her, his rest was fitful. He dreamt of a living castle in ruins and the loss of his bushy haired and freckled companions. When he awoke, his chest ached. Even though it seemed to be in perfectly good working order, his heart felt broken.

He knew his grief and distress were leaking not only into his siblings but his mother as well as he caught her looking melancholy more than once and he knew that it could not continue. He forced the feelings away until he was sure they were buried and he felt nothing and vowed to return to them when he had more control and his darker emotions would not affect his family.

By the time he was certain that the broken and faded memories of them were gone, another rider returned and Irri's wail of despair awoke Drogon from his sleep. Caged as he was, he could not see what had caused her distress, but even from a distance he could smell the blood. Rakharo's name passed Daenerys' lips in a voice tight with rage and all her children grieved with her as another pyre was built and the returned horse - decorated red in paint and blood - was slain and placed by the severed head.

Irri and Doreah clung to each other as Rakharo joined his ancestors. Daenerys stood alone, her dragons cradled in the curve of her arms, and Jorah slightly behind where he remained even when all the others had returned to their bedrolls and the fire died out leaving hot coals in its wake. "He stood up to Viserys for me," she whispered as she gazed at the ashes.

"Khaleesi?" Jorah questioned, shifting closer to her but not closing the distance completely. It was not his place to stand beside her - that honor had been Drogo's alone - and though he wished otherwise, Jorah knew that no other would take his place…not even himself.

"When Viserys came after me in the grass. Rakharo took his whip and wrapped it around my brother's throat to get him away from me," her words were stilted, like she was forcing them out through clenched teeth. "He was the first person in my life that ever protected me from my brother's madness."

Ser Jorah bowed his head, hand on the hilt of his sword, giving away his unease. "I am sorry, Khaleesi. I know what he meant to you."

Daenerys pulled her eyes away from the fire and met his gaze. "Do you?" She asked softly. She did not expect an answer and Jorah did not give her one. He just stood with her in the dying light as she looked back to the charred bones. Only once the smoke had turned into but a thin trail did Daenerys turn away. Her eyes were dry but her grief plain for all to see, even in the dark. Jorah watched her go, face twisted with conflict. He wanted to take the sorrow from her, but knew of no way to do so.

Drogon felt a sense of empathy for the man as his mother's anguish washed through him. Only time could heal this sort of wound. So Drogon did the only thing he could, he clung to her. He wrapped his tiny body around her neck and crooned a sorrowful note as she cradled his siblings in her arms. Daenerys did not place them in their cages that night nor the one following.

The days continued to pass and with it his mother's rage grew. She and Jorah spoke many times about which Khal had been the one to kill her loyal and trusted friend in such a cruel and disgraceful way. Though her rage was fueled that was the only thing that was. Her khalasar was withering away into nothing. They had run out of food days ago. The women had taken to boiling the leather saddles no longer in use but not even that would last. Most of the khalasar had abandoned doing more than laying in what little shade they could find.

Just past sunrise the next morning there salvation arrived. Kovarro returned on a horse that he had not left on. Drogon was awoken as camp was being broken down. The khalasar moved with a single minded purpose, excitement and energy in every step they took. Three full water skins were passed between greedy hands and two of them were fully drained before they had even begun their journey.

Aggo and Jorah secured the dragon cages on the back of the black horse the knight had leant to the bloodrider. Its steps were slow and jarring, the gelding plodding its hooves down and lifting them as if it took a great deal of effort, but like the rest of the khalasar, it pushed through the exhaustion and kept walking. The promise of food and more water kept even the weakest of humans moving.

The other two horses were burdened with as much of the supplies as they could carry. Much had been left behind, including the bones of the dead.

They journeyed through the red waste for days, only stopping to rest when the sun was highest in the sky. Kovarro led them with sure feet to the city that he called Qarth. The closer they got, the more uneasy Ser Jorah seemed. Daenerys could see his trepidation with ease, but she did not let his mood put a damper on her own, though Drogon could sense her conflict. She was wary but she also had hope. Not even the whispers of the garden of bones could sway her.

Ser Jorah's mood caught like fire despite Daenerys' disposition. The closer they got to the fabled gates the more restless the khalasar became. Drogon and his brothers could even sense it in their sleep. Though he too had hope, Drogon pressed caution to his mother. They were a desperate group with nowhere else to go, and the Qarthians already knew this, if their boon of water and food was any indication.

They gave the khalasar just enough to reach their gates and no more. Drogon wondered what they would ask of his mother in return to gain entry and if she could afford to give it. The situation did not sit well with him…but they had only one other option: to lay down and die.

The khalasar continued its march towards the city of Qarth and the red comet burned brightly in the sky.

~ Page Break ~

Drogon was already awake by the time the horns had sounded and the group halted a hundred meters from the extravagantly designed and heavily fortified gate. He pulled himself to the edge of the cage to peer through the gap, but his mother had had the cages replaced the night before last. Irri and Doreah had taken their old cages apart and cobbled together three larger cages from what little supplies they had left.

There was no complaint about the size, he and his brothers had been outgrowing their old cages, but now he could stretch his wings out completely and they would not touch either side. He appreciated the extra space, but Daenerys had ordered larger hides to be made for their walls. The hides had been stitched together from the many smaller pieces of their original cages and the scraps from the saddles that had not been boiled down for food. They were tied together to seal any gaps. The tiny cracks that were between wood and leather were too small to see out of unless he wished to view the ground or sky.

He growled in annoyance but kept his voice nearly silent. Drogon knew that his mother had not done so to keep them imprisoned, but instead to protect them. And from the sound of the marching footsteps that echoed loudly in the quiet that had descended upon the khalasar, he thought that perhaps she had made a wise choice.

"I thought we were welcomed," Daenerys whispered, her voice easily carried to his enclosure. The day was hot, the scorching sun's heat competing with the blazing sand. The wind was nonexistent and sound traveled easily in the still air.

"If you heard a Dothraki horde was approaching your city, you might do the same, Khaleesi." Jorah's tone was decisive, filled with confidence even as Drogon could hear the creak of leather and the clicking of metal.

Jorah Mormont wore his armor.

Unease began to settle over Drogon and he chuffed quietly to warn his brothers. They were too small to fight, but they could fly if they had need of it. Their wings may have been too weak to take them far, but if they were quick and luck was on their side, perhaps it would be enough.

Irri stood next to the cages and Aggo held the reins of the horse. If a fight happened to break out, Irri had been ordered to open the cages and free them as Aggo covered their escape. Drogon did not like the plan but his mother would not be swayed. She had already lost one child and she refused to lose any more.

"To the sea," she had told them. "If the cage doors open, you are to fly to the sea and not look back. If I live I will find you, but do not wait for me."

So to the sea they would fly even though every part of him rebelled at the thought of leaving his mother. But he would obey and he prayed that it would not come to that. Drogon did not particularly believe in a god, or any god at all really, but he prayed all the same.

"Horde?" Daenerys questioned incredulously. Drogon had to agree. They numbered less than thirty and that included the Dothraki children. Of those left only seven were blooded fighters, the rest young boys who had yet to earn even a single braid.

He had heard the others speak of the time before he and his siblings had been hatched. They spoke of a khalasar with forty-thousand warriors that his mother had been Khaleesi of before her Khal had died. That was a true horde. What was left of the khalasar were stragglers…desperate people who had followed a desperate woman.

"My name is Daenerys-"

"Daenerys Stormborn," a cultured and smug voice interrupted her. Drogon could scent his mothers' unease in the near still wind. "Of the House Targaryen."

"You know of me, my lord?" Her voice was strong, though it still trembled over the courteous title. The man had thrown her, his sudden disrespect baffling to one who had grown up as she. Lords and ladies would greet her as an equal, bowing to her brother and presenting themselves as Targaryen supporters. Those that did not still went through the motions of societal niceties, hiding their distaste behind smiles and courteous words laced with darker intent.

This immediate disregard of her was mystifying, and it left her feeling confused on how to continue. Drogon could feel her whirling emotions as she fought for even ground, mind darting from one statement to the next wondering what to say and how to say it. He could not help but think that that had been the man's intention, and Drogon found himself shifting restlessly in his cage. This was not a good sign at all.

"Only by reputation, Khaleesi," he spoke to her with thinly disguised contempt. He did not even attempt to pronounce her title with anything other than the barest of efforts. Drogon found himself puffing up at the slight and his chest rumbled with a near silent growl for all the good it did him. The humans could not see him behind his sheltered cage, and even if they could, he was a rather unimpressive sight. "And I am no lord, merely a humble merchant…they call you the Mother of Dragons," his tone went from barely polite to outright mocking.

The merchant said 'Mother of Dragons' as if he thought she was either a liar or insane. Drogon knew the man was trying to get a rise out of his mother, but to what purpose he could not tell.

"And what should I call you?" Daenerys' tone had not changed and she showed no sign of having noticed the merchant's disrespect. Drogon could feel her anger though, simmering low but gaining heat. He feared for when it boiled over. His mother had a hot temper, and he worried that if she let her anger get the best of her she would no longer see reason. In a situation such as this, it could get them all killed, either from the guards or from the gates closing upon them.

"Oh, my name is quite long and quite impossible for foreigners to pronounce," there was laughter in the merchant's tone and Drogon bristled at the insult. The man thought Daenerys too young and dimwitted to give his name. Daenerys' anger grew. "I am simply a trader of spices."

Drogon breathed deeply, trying to catch the man's scent but it was hidden beneath a thick layer of perfume. It made his nose wrinkle in disgust. The merchant spoke with what could have been amusement, but the tiny dragon could hear something darker behind the words. It made his teeth ache as he clenched in jaw in anxiety.

"We are the Thirteen." Drogon could hear the rustle and slide of fabric. It sounded like silk. "Charged with the governance and protection of Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be."

"The beauty of Quarth is legendary-"

"Qarth," the spice merchant interrupted her again and Drogon listened with trepidation as his mother stumbled over the pronunciation, her scent starting to shift from uncertainty to hostile. "Might we see the dragons?"

Daenerys went still and Drogon froze with her. He could practically feel all the eyes on their cages and he finally understood why their mother insisted upon new ones. Aside from the khalasar no one knew how small and vulnerable they all were. The cages made it appear as if what was held inside was much larger…at least three times the size of what they were now.

His mother was in a tight spot, an impossible decision versus an impossible choice. If she opened the cages and presented even the largest of her dragons, the Thirteen would see just how young and defenseless they were. The foot soldiers they had brought as their guards were more than enough to kill the weak and exhausted khalasar and seize the dragons. If she refused to present them then they could declare her a liar, bar the gates, and her khalasar's bones would add to the garden.

'Tread carefully, little mother,' Drogon cautioned. He felt Daenerys reign in her anger and take a breath to calm herself.

"Do you take me for a fool, spice merchant?" She asked, voice laced with the mocking tone that the man had been using since their arrival.

"Forgive me, Mother of Dragons," the way he spoke had Drogon bristling even as he hissed at his brothers to keep them quiet. Their reactions made him realize that his siblings understood more than he had originally thought. He was unsure if they were responding to the words themselves or their mother's emotions, but all the same they wished to defend her. He clicked and warbled a comforting purr to calm them and after a moment he could hear them settling once more as their rumblings and growls faded into nothing.

"No man alive has seen a living dragon," he continued after a moment, voice sliding into a deeper tone, greed darkening it. "Some of my more skeptical friends refuse to believe your children exist," he taunted her with his words, speaking to her as if she were a small child with limited understanding. "All we ask is a chance to see for ourselves."

Drogon shifted in anxiety, easily reading the true intention behind his request. When he had been Harry, there were many that said one thing but meant another in order to gain control of him. Harry had become quite proficient in reading the true objective behind one's words, and the skill had not left him through the ages.

The spice merchant not only wished to see if the dragons were real, but he also wanted to gage their worth. The man wanted to see if the benefits of attacking what was left of their horde to lay claim to three dragons was greater than the risk. The size of the cages dissuaded him, implying that the creatures within were perhaps too large to subdue. But if Daenerys opened their cages to be inspected by the Thirteen, the perfumed men would see that was not the case and then they would all be in danger.

Drogon could feel his mother's anger rising, but underneath that was the sickly scent of fear. He knew she could feel his own fear as he could hers, and that seemed to calm her some. It was not just her own life that she held in her hands, but that of her children and her khalasar. She knew she must choose her words carefully or the consequences could lead to their death.

"I assure you, Spice Merchant," Daenerys spoke his title as he had hers, disdain dripping from every syllable. "I am not a liar, my children are quite real."

"Oh, I don't think you are," he seemed almost surprised at her declaration, the words uttered quietly as if in afterthought. His tone, however, contradicted his statement. "But as I've never met you before, my opinion on the matter is of limited value."

A cold anger simmered over their bond, whether it was his own or his mother's he was unsure, but Drogon found himself reacting purely on instinct without a thought for the consequences of revealing himself. He shrieked loudly in outrage, throat warbling as deeply as he could make it as his brothers joined him in his cry. The horse startled beneath them and he could hear Aggo fighting to calm the gelding as it snorted and stomped its hooves. Irri's soft voice drowned out the anxious shifting of the Thirteen and their guards as she tried to comfort them, hand pressed to the wall of his cage.

The scent of fear saturated the air around the perfumed men and Drogon's tail flicked in satisfaction as he realized it did not come from the khalasar. He had not planned to draw attention to him and his brothers, but now that he had, he hoped they had sounded properly menacing. Rhaegal and Viserion allowed Irri's words to calm them, but Drogon only settled after Daenerys sent him her desire for him to be quiet. He would have worried about displeasing her, but he could feel her amusement travel through the bond along with the command.

The silence that had descended upon the two groups was nearly palpable before Daenerys broke it. "Once I have seen my people fed, you and your friends may gaze upon them all you like," she spoke as if she would be granting them a great honor but her tone was contemptuous, imitating the spice merchant's own smug voice before it turned into hard steel. "But not before."

"You are in no position to make demands," the man's voice held steady, but only just. Rage was concealed beneath barely controlled propriety. "Well, I suppose that settles it then." Drogon could hear him retreating, silk slippers with leather soles shuffling softly upon the hard packed dirt. The guards stepped aside to let only the merchant pass, moving in synchronicity to cover the gap.

"What are you doing?" Daenerys' lighter footsteps followed him for several paces. The little dragon heard Jorah shadowing her and the creak of wood as the guards gripped their spears tighter. "You promised to receive me."

"We have received you," the merchant turned back to her, speaking to her as one would a dimwitted child. "Here we are, and here you are." Drogon cursed his tiny form and inability to breathe fire as the sudden urge to eat the man overcame him.

"And you deny me entry?" Daenerys demanded to know, tone stern and unyielding.

The spice merchant sighed in annoyance, his confidence bolstered by the guards standing between him and the people he considered to be savages. "Qarth did not become the greatest city that ever was or will be by letting Dothraki savages through its gates!" He seemed to almost spit the word as if uttering it had somehow dirtied him.

He could hear Jorah's voice pleading softly to his mother, but Drogon could scent her rage and knew she would not be cowed or made to see reason. Her anger was nearly a tangible thing, settling on his tongue like a spice and making the back of his throat itch. His siblings stood to attention in their cages as Daenerys marched even closer to the armed guards.

"Thirteen!" Her voice rang out harshly, dropping all others into silence. "When my dragons are grown, we will take back what was stolen from me and destroy those who have wronged me! We will lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground! Turn us away and you will burn first." Daenerys' tone turned cold and quiet, but easily heard by all in the silence that followed her words.

"And if we let you in, your dragons will grow. What assurances do we have then that you will not turn your dragons on Qarth? You're word?" He laughed at her and Drogon could hear the others join him in his amusement. "What is your word worth to us? Nothing, I'll tell you. Less than nothing! You are no more than a beggar queen who cannot back up what you say." Righteous anger seeped from his every pore and Drogon could hear the man's weak heart racing.

"No," he continued after a moment to catch his breath. With the way his lungs puffed and his heart labored Drogon knew the man to be grossly unfit. "I'll tell you what will happen if we close the gates to you and your people. The nearest city is a fortnight away on horse, longer still on foot. You and your savages will die long before reaching it, and your dragons with. They will burn no cities and lay waste to no armies! And so-"

"Retreating in fear from a little girl is unbecoming of the greatest city that ever was or will be," a deep voice cut in and Drogon could scent the spice merchant's annoyance.

"The discussion is over, Xaro Xhoan Daxos. The Thirteen have spoken!" He said the name like one would an insult or curse.

"I am one of the Thirteen and I am still speaking," Xaro Xhoan Daxos replied, voice sure and confident. Drogon thought his name was needlessly long but it seemed to roll off of the human's tongue in an elegant manner.

"The girl threatens to burn our city to the ground and you would invite her in for a cup of wine?" The merchant did not use her titles nor her name. He did not even have the decency to call her a woman for that was what she was. He called her 'girl', as if she was no more than a child who knew nothing of the ways of the world. Drogon felt it was only the presence of Jorah and the guards that stopped his mother from killing the man.

"She is the Mother of Dragons. Do you expect her to watch her people starve without breathing fire?" Xaro asked, his calm tone in contrast to the spice merchant's agitated one. "I believe we can let a few Dothraki through our gates without dooming our city. After all, here I am, a savage from the Summer Isles, and Qarth still stands."

"Our decision is final," the merchant's smug voice broke the silence that had settled over the two groups.

"Very well, I invoke Soumai," Drogon heard the slide of metal as a blade left its sheath. The smell of blood startled him at first, but he could only scent a little bit of it. Barely a flesh wound, little more than a scratch. "I will vouch for her, her people, and her dragons in accordance with the law."

Soumai sounded like a blood oath of some sort. Blood oaths were not unfamiliar to him - when he used to be Harry. He did not believe that it was as binding as it had been with his own people as he could not taste the magic in the air signaling the oath had been sealed that way. This blood oath seemed more of the sort that was bound upon honor, not magic. Drogon thought it was rather useless without the magic to inforce it…after all, what was the honor of men truly worth.

"Be it on your head," the words sounded bitter and tone sharp, but Drogon could fell his mother's relief and he allowed himself to settle back down to rest.

"Welcome to Qarth, my lady," Xaro intoned as the gates opened and the tiny khalasar entered the city. Drogon could smell the salt in the air from the ocean and hear the bustle from the markets as Xaro led them to his estate. He wondered if his mother would take him and his brothers to see the city, but he doubted it. They were still too vulnerable, even with the strange man's protection. Perhaps when they were older.

"Well, that could have gone better." Daenerys spoke softly to Jorah so as not to be overheard. Although relieved to have been given access to the city, she still smelled of unease and Drogon could feel her anxiety.

"I thought you handled that quite well." Jorah replied after a moment.

"My anger nearly got us killed," she snapped back, her agitation pulling Drogon from the doze.

"You will learn, Khaleesi," Jorah assured her, voice certain and confident.

Drogon would make sure of it.