The Rhoyne was vast, especially near its mouth where she met her "wild daughters." From the deck of a ship in midstream, a man could not even glimpse the far shores.
The Volantenes never tired of praising their Mother River, declaring no stream on earth could rival her, that only the sea might stand her equal.
Boast though it sounded, even Drogo—ever proud—could not gainsay them. It was true.
Only in the deep and mighty embrace of the Rhoyne could such a fleet, draughts deep as theirs, sail as freely as on the open sea. It was a blessing, and every captain and sailor lauded their khal's wise choice.
As they pressed upriver, the main current narrowed, yet the waters still stretched broad as leagues.
Before entering the Sorrows, the journey was a delight. The beauty of the riverbanks made every man and maid pause in wonder. Even the fairest among them felt humbled by such glory.
Drogo's riders ate well. Their bacon was always thick with fresh river-pig, not gifts from Dofas, but taken by their own hands.
Every cast of the sailors' nets brought scores of leaping fish—enough to feed a whole crew with ease.
When no battle called, Drogo allowed his men their pleasures. Better laughter and feasting than brooding upon the grasslands left behind.
At dawn, as the first frail light touched the waters, the Rhoyne turned from black to blue, until it mirrored the Summer Sea. For a moment one might dream they had never left it.
Nightingales fell silent. Larks on the banks trilled. White egrets leapt skyward from the reeds, leaving their graceful prints upon the sandbars.
After his morning training, Drogo would sit upon his throne of solid gold, sipping dark red Dornish wine, gazing across the waters. This fleet faced no danger; he used the river's clarity to wash the wrath from his heart, to touch again the raw truth of the world.
Morning was the hour for turtles. By day they swam beneath or hid in the shallows, but at sunrise they surfaced. Some drifted close beside the ships.
There were flat-backed turtles, soft-shelled ones, others plated with bone. They came in brown, green, black, and red—even horned. Some shells gleamed with golden, emerald, and milky whorls of pattern.
The largest were vast as skiffs. A man might ride one's back as a boat.
"That is a giant snapping turtle," rasped old Captain Corlenso, reeking of rum, whenever he caught men staring.
The commander of the fleet loved rum too dearly. Each morning he drank near half a bottle, swearing it warded damp and chill, lengthening his voyages.
He was no good drunk—rambling, tiresome, dangerous to sit beside. More than once Drogo had itched to silence him forever. Yet Corlenso always sobered and offered clumsy apologies, which smoothed the anger and left no grudge.
The river ran clear. Many maids, cleanly by nature, longed to dive, showing their swimming and blooming from the water like river-flowers, drawing every gaze.
Girls are the sweetest of creatures. Many dreamed foolish pink dreams: If I could but win the khal's eye, how happy my life would be.
As they slipped into the water, old Corlenso screeched:
"Mad fools! Those monsters can swallow a puffer whole—one snap of their jaws and your pretty heads are gone!"
The girls shrieked and fled, their hopes of mermaid's grace drowned in terror.
Aggo, ever brash, waved his gilded arakh and cried:
"Fair maidens, fear not! With me here, no beast will mar your beauty. I shall take their heads!"
And he leapt bravely into the water—forgetting he swam like stone.
At once he floundered, sputtering, begging someone haul him out before a turtle gelded him. Calm Rakharo tossed him a rope and quipped:
"Ugly ducklings don't eat swans, brother. The girls prefer you on horseback."
Aggo, face dark, yanked the line—and dragged his brother in with him.
Two drowning fools thrashing together had the whole fleet laughing. Even Drogo's stern lips curved in a rare smile.
The Unsullied did not share such jests, yet Grey Worm had begun to drink more. Rumor whispered Missandei was hidden in Drogo's cabin, his canary caged for him alone.
Once Grey Worm dared ask Drogo, but the khal's face went cold. He told him plain: Missandei was his scribe, her hours consumed by duty, with no time to feed a eunuch's dream of love.
Grey Worm had gone away heavy-hearted. His secret wish to shield the queen from her defilers withered.
The more his heart bent to the Naathi girl, the guiltier Drogo felt. Grey Worm was not just his soldier—he was brother.
Oft Drogo muttered to himself:
"Forgive me, brother. Missandei's fate is bound to young Aegon's now."
Ser Kerry had foretold it: the stone-headed dragon would die the hero, saving his aunt. Drogo was certain of it.
All the towns of Volantis clung to the river; Syhorro was no exception. Less than three days brought the fleet there, even against the wind.
Then—"Wuu, wuu, wuu!"—a harsh droning cry split the air. Drogo's face hardened.
No town officials greeted them. On the docks stood warriors, clad in painted leather vests, black trousers, long beards and braids, arakhs in hand.
He counted seven or eight thousand at least.
Beyond the rabble, two men stood foremost. One white of beard but still muscled hard as oak; the other broader still, a scar like a ravine across his chest.
Drogo rose from his golden throne. His greeting was cold as steel:
"Zako. Mors. This is no sacred Vaes Dothrak where blood is forbidden. To face me here—you know the cost."
Khal Zako and Khal Mors bellowed as one:
"Drogo! Fight us! Defeat us, and our khalasars behind us are yours!"
Drogo started, then his eyes lit with fierce joy.
"Single combat… or both at once?" he asked.
This was the Dothraki way he knew well. His blood sang.
He pulled free the Valyrian arakh from the deck, staring at its blood-red ripples and black waves. Softly he whispered:
"I am the Father of Dragons. You are my blade. So you must bear my courage, my spirit without fear. From this day, I name you Dragon's Spirit."
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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