Drogo raised his voice in a shout.
"Khalasar! These highborn women are yours—but only for tonight. Tomorrow, they go free."
His warriors had bled beside him in battle; now it was time for them to relax.
The braid-wearing fighters roared their approval, spurring their mounts and surging like a tide toward the terrified women.
The thunder of hooves jolted Nyessos from the ground where he had been lying in despair. Suddenly his legs were full of life, and he fled faster than he ever had in his life, a gust of wind fleeing the storm's heart.
Drogo paid him no mind. He didn't even bother to draw his bow for a parting arrow, letting the man vanish from the plaza entirely.
The mounted warriors were strong-armed; each could seize a panic-stricken woman as easily as an eagle snatching a chick, sling her over a saddle, and draw his arakh to guard against other jealous beasts.
Since leaving the Dothraki Sea, Drogo had forbidden bloodshed within the khalasar, but competition spurred strength, so long as no one died in the struggle.
With women in short supply, those saddled with less appealing prizes—wilted flowers with tears tattooed on their cheeks—quickly turned covetous eyes toward others' spoils.
Soon, twenty or thirty men might wrestle over a single noblewoman, their scuffles drawing shrieks from the women of Volantis.
The scene was brutal, yet the khal felt nothing. Am I becoming more like the Drogo from before my rebirth? Is it Daenerys who's stirred my heart this way?
He glanced at the Unsullied standing silent at the square's edge. He felt a pang of guilt for them—women held little temptation for eunuchs.
Except, perhaps, for one: Grey Worm, who stood ever at Missandei's side.
Drogo found it curious. Has that one learned to love?
Even accustomed as she was to such sights, the Naathi girl turned her silver mare away, unwilling to watch women suffer.
She felt more and more certain that a true "breaker of chains" did not exist in this world.
Missandei had once thought Drogo and Daenerys might remain the figures she hoped for. Now, she felt only disappointment: one had cast her into the flames lit by Qai's treachery; the other could be merciful one moment, cruel the next.
A grim premonition took root—her queen, her king, the ruler she loved and respected, would soon become again the man he was in the Dothraki Sea: the nightmare of every beautiful maiden.
When the Naathi girl rode off, Grey Worm hesitated only a moment before spurring after her.
Seeing the eunuch's steadfast devotion gave the khal a shiver of distaste. Silently, he prayed Missandei would never accept that man's courtship.
The Golden Company, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki never mixed well. Even the near-total destruction of the mercenaries—save for their wounded commander, somewhere convalescing at sea—had not altered the beasts' and eunuchs' moods.
No one but Grey Worm knew the true cause of the Golden Company's ruin. Drogo trusted the eunuch commander's tongue to stay sealed; that secret would remain buried.
Tonight was destined to be joyous—wine, women, food. Laughter and song filled the central square.
The khalasar, freed from restraint, were in especially high spirits. Wrestling, sparring, dancing—Drogo, sipping from his high seat on the hastily built dais, could almost believe himself back on the Great Grass Sea.
Halfway through the feast, Aggo and the still-vigorous Morrafos arrived, spattered in blood, dragging Nyessos's kin for the khal's amusement.
How ugly could the wife, daughters, and sisters of a triarch be?
The moment they stepped into the square, the beasts devoured them—figuratively and perhaps literally.
The ferocity startled even Morrafos, fresh from battle. For a heartbeat, he feared Nyessos's kin might leave not even bones behind. Then he reconsidered; perhaps Volantis would soon have a few more half-Dothraki children.
When Aggo and Morrafos drew near, Drogo needed no questions to know the task had been hard. "Blood of my blood, Triarch Morrafos, you've done well. I take it Nyessos's palace was well guarded?"
Morrafos, speaking before the bloodrider could, said anxiously, "Khal, Nyessos has many allies in Volantis. I fear this could cause trouble."
Drogo waved the concern aside. "We'll speak of that later. Come, drink with me. When the feast is done, we'll talk over a game of cyvasse."
"Yes, my khal," Morrafos said, bowing low. Every move he made toward Drogo now followed the forms due a king.
A quick-witted servant brought the triarch a chair, so he could drink face-to-face with the khal.
After three rounds of wine, Morrafos grew talkative. Surrounded by beauty and yet chosen as Drogo's sole companion, he took courage from the drink and ventured a question that might please—or offend—the khal.
"Khal, the night air in Volantis is cold and the sea winds bitter, especially out beyond the walls. Shall I fetch the khaleesi to join our feast?"
Drogo's face tightened. He considered, then chose not to answer.
Seeing the khal's expression chill, Morrafos wisely dropped the matter.
Behind his cup, as he sipped, the triarch thought, This ruthless barbarian abandoned even the mightiest company of sellswords to their fate. Surely he could abandon the dragon queen too, if she became a greater danger.
He pitied the last living Targaryen bloodline—but there were those who hoped Drogo would indeed cast Daenerys aside.
On the flat roof of a glass-tiled building at the square's edge, the red-veiled shadowbinder Quaithe gazed down at a man in the alley below.
His wife and daughter were even now in the hands of Dothraki savages. He cursed, his heart full of hatred.
In the blood-moon's light, a shadow lay behind Quaithe.
She had claimed Drogo's dragon had burned her old shadow to nothing in the City of Bones. But now, she had a new one.
This shadow was nothing like her form—thin, gaunt, bald.
When Nyessos finally gathered himself, ready to rally his elephant legion and challenge Drogo, Quaithe spoke softly:
"Bennero, kill the one who seeks to harm the prince that was promised."
At her words, the still shadow twisted, giving a high-pitched sound like a rat gnawing bone.
"No. He is no promised prince. He is the demon who stands in the way of the true savior—the one who ordered his dragon to destroy my body! I will kill him! Any who wish him dead are my friends!"
Quaithe's eyes flashed cold fire. "I am your master. I gave you life again. You will obey me in all things!"
Bennero's reply was a furious snarl. "You are a servant of R'hllor, yet you betray His will to aid one who thwarts the promised prince! You are not my master—you are my enemy! I have only one master: the great Lord of Light!"
Quaithe's voice was like ice. "I gave you life anew, and I can take it away. Do not lie to yourself, Bennero—you need me. That makes me your master."
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