"Roar!"
The Lion King, in its desperation to track Drogo and save itself, ruthlessly shoved aside its own kin and desperately climbed to the highest point of the giant tree.
Under the blood-red moon, it let out a series of howls in all directions, much like a direwolf howling into the night.
Very quickly, responses echoed back from across the plains:
"Awoo!"
It was clear that the lions trapped in the trees and those burned by the flames were only a fraction of the pride.
Countless other white lions were still hidden throughout the vast land.
Drogo wasn't surprised.
The last time he had entered the Rainbow Lands, there had been over a thousand white lions roaming in packs.
Now, the ones caught within the fire barely numbered a hundred or two.
But no matter how many remained, it was far beyond what he could face alone.
Once the flames died down or the fire moved on, the Lion King would lead the others down from the trees, and all the white lions—those merely stunned by the fire—would surge toward him.
And their target would be Drogo, the thief who had stolen the blood-marked cub.
From afar, he could still see his bloodriders kneeling in worship, oblivious to the death approaching them.
They looked like primitive savages untouched by civilization, and Drogo, frustrated beyond measure, rasped out a curse:
"Fucking idiots! If you don't run now, when will you!?
Of all times to pray, you pick when your asses are about to burn!"
The distance was too great to hear without shouting, but the smoke had dried his throat—he couldn't even raise his voice properly.
Helpless, Drogo could only urge his horse forward.
He hadn't cared much about Rakharo, Argo, or Jhogo before; Daenerys had only promoted them because she had no better options.
As for Jorah Mormont—he was merely a rival in love, hardly worth mentioning.
Thus, in his irritation, Drogo thought that whether those fools lived or died had little to do with him—so long as they didn't mess up his plans.
In truth, it wasn't really their fault.
Drogo's efficiency was simply terrifying: the four had barely mounted their horses to mourn when he had already burst out of the inferno in a way that demanded worship.
But that was then.
Now, seeing how slow his old horse was moving, his resentment vanished completely.
He was thankful his bloodriders were still here—because his horse was at its limit.
Drogo didn't realize it himself, but he had become very practical in this life—a king touched with a bit of streetwise common sense.
He was wrapped in leather from head to toe, highly fire-resistant, and the lion pelt over him still smoldered, making him appear like a walking flame even after leaving the inferno.
However, holding the blood-marked cub aloft was tiring.
The young cub, clearly still unweaned, was already as heavy as a mid-sized herding dog.
Even with Drogo's monstrous strength, his arm was sore.
He could have easily thrown off the scorched lion pelt to free his arm.
But for pride—for appearances—for the sake of protecting the cub from burning—and, above all, for his own dignity as a civilized man reborn—Drogo gritted his teeth and endured.
He was a king, and like all rulers, he believed:
"As long as there are people, my head may fall, my blood may flow, but my dignity must never crumble."
He glanced back at the tree again.
The fire had shifted away from the giant tree, but the thick grass directly beneath it still burned—buying him a little more time.
The injured old horse, its body covered in burns and blood, took nearly half an hour to finally bring him close to the bloodriders.
From afar, his appearance was stunning.
Up close, it was terrifying.
Seeing that Drogo's skin remained unburned even though he still looked like a man of flames, the bloodriders' awe soared to new heights:
"Blood of My Blood!
Khal!
No, Fire God!
No—Unburnt Wargod!"
They practically wanted to worship him.
Drogo felt a small surge of pride inside but kept his face calm.
Ignoring them, he locked eyes with Ser Jorah.
The exiled knight, confused and nervous, shivered under his gaze.
The bloodriders then noticed what Drogo was holding—and their excitement exploded.
The blood-marked prince—
A legend in flesh and blood.
Rakharo clicked his tongue:
"To think I would see the blood-marked heir with my own eyes!"
But Drogo had no time for wonder.
Lowering his gaze, he stared at Jorah's horse and said sharply:
"Ser Jorah.
My horse is finished.
I need yours."
Jorah was stunned.
His horse, stronger than the others, had been bought in Pentos—a foreign breed the other Dothraki had scorned.
Still, after a moment's thought, he nodded:
"Alright."
Drogo accepted the reins without a word.
He had expected the knight to agree—this had been a test of Jorah's loyalty.
After all, Drogo knew Jorah had once been a spy for Varys.
Until the man fully proved himself, Drogo would remain cautious.
He dismounted, freed the old horse's reins, and patted its battered flank, whispering:
"Go.
Run free in the Night Lands.
May you never know slavery again."
The old horse staggered forward thirty paces, then collapsed forever into the sea of grass.
Humans are executioners by nature.
The only difference lies in their chosen victims.
Drogo sighed lightly, mounted Jorah's horse, and gazed back at the distant tree.
The white lions trapped closest to the ground were beginning to stir.
Time was running out.
He swept his gaze across his companions and issued his orders:
"Jorah and Jhogo—ride double.
All of you—get back to camp as fast as you can.
Otherwise, die here."
The bloodriders obeyed at once.
After a short distance, they noticed Drogo hadn't followed.
Rakharo turned his head and shouted:
"Blood of My Blood!
The lions are about to attack!
Why don't you come with us?"
Argo joined in:
"Yes! Hurry!"
Drogo waved them off irritably:
"It's not time yet.
Don't question me.
Just go!"
Still hesitating, Jorah said solemnly:
"Let's go.
He's a miraculous man.
If we stay, we'll only get in his way."
With that, he urged his horse into a gallop, dragging Jhogo with him.
The others, after one last deep glance at Drogo, quickly followed.
Now, only Drogo remained—
alone, facing the oncoming tide of death from every direction.
As soon as the others disappeared into the endless grass sea,
he ripped off the scorched lion pelt, stomped out the lingering embers, and tied the heavy cub against his chest using his golden belt.
He smiled grimly.
Even the firestorm hadn't harmed him— proof that the blood of the true dragon flowed in his veins.
And even in this moment of peril, his thoughts turned once again to her.
To Daenerys.
Her inhuman beauty.
Her passion unlike any Dothraki woman.
Her emerging leadership.
Maybe it was women with strong minds who truly captured a man's soul— those who made you want to conquer them completely, never letting time or fate take them away.
"If I drained her blood, would I become a true dragon-blooded king?"
The thought slipped into his mind.
But Drogo shook himself fiercely:
"No!
Daenerys is the one I treasure most in this world!"
Feeling ashamed, he raised a hand, ready to slap himself—
When the cub whimpered softly, snuggling closer to his burning chest.
Drogo froze.
The cub's clear, innocent eyes blinked at him, and its tiny tongue licked his chest gently.
Despite himself, Drogo softened.
He had always viewed lions as enemies of men, but this one was so pure and so helpless...
Still, the sweet moment shattered quickly.
The beastly howls grew louder.
Drogo scanned the horizon— waves of lions, countless as stars, surged toward him from all sides.
He hardened his heart.
"This cub will grow into a terror one day.
It is merely a tool.
I must not grow soft."
Without hesitation, Drogo slapped the cub hard across its body.
"Awoooo!"
The blood-marked cub's pitiful cry shattered the night.
The lions went mad.
Their howls rose like a tidal wave, shaking the very earth, even stirring the sun awake.
The sky turned pale.
Sneering at the charging Lion King, Drogo whispered:
"Come, then.
Kill with me."
He yanked the reins, whipped the horse brutally, and shot toward the Red Waste like a comet!
"Clop, clop, clop..."
Meanwhile—
A column of hundreds of Dothraki thundered across the great beaten paths of the Sea of Grass.
Their muscles rippled with each pounding stride.
Suddenly, the towering leader at the front yanked his reins to halt.
He gazed into the distance, toward the rising smoke and the faint sounds of chaotic roaring.
A strange smile crossed his face.
He muttered:
"The fire... it's coming from the Rainbow Lands.
And the lions... they're headed toward the Red Waste?"
"Heh...
Now this is getting interesting."
He tilted his head and said slyly:
"Don't you agree, Khaleesi?"
.
.
.
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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