Dragon King of Ice and Fire

How could he possibly swallow this insult? Someone had brazenly dared to inspect his camp—his wife. Drogo couldn't let it go. He might not be able to touch the instigator just yet, but that didn't mean he was powerless.

He stared coldly at Osu's gruesomely mutilated corpse and said in a deep voice,

"This Giscar pig can count as a bonus to the deal. You don't mind, do you?"

Kraznys mo Nakloz, panting from the effort of standing, gave the corpse a kick and forced a smile.

"A mere hound. I've got plenty more. As long as it pleases you."

"Good. See you tomorrow."

Drogo turned to leave, but after two steps, he glanced back.

"As a show of sincerity for this deal, I'll leave this blood-marked cub with Great Master Kraznys as a deposit."

Kraznys looked surprised and pointed to himself.

"You mean... for me?"

"Of course," Drogo said seriously.

"The Bloodstain Lion King may be fearsome when grown, but this cub is still young—unrecognizable, barely aggressive. Treat it well, stay close to it, and in less than a week, it'll see you as its master."

Then he crouched down, picked up the struggling Snowball, and shoved him into Kraznys's waiting arms.

"Awoo!"

Snowball whimpered, calling after his master—perhaps even his father. Kraznys stroked the cub's silky fur and cooed:

"Easy now, little one. With me, you'll thrive. And I'll get you as many lionesses as you want."

But Snowball didn't take kindly to the change. He bit down on Kraznys's arm, staining his gauzy robes red with blood. Kraznys, however, didn't shake him off. Instead, he smiled with sick satisfaction:

"Yes, that's more like it. I was worried that cropped-hair savage had tamed you into a lamb."

To Kraznys, being ruthless to others—and to oneself—was the key to greatness. He lived by that twisted code.

He returned to his seat, basking in the envy of the other Good Masters.

The eldest among them couldn't help but ask:

"Kraznys, why did you so readily agree? A hundred slaves wouldn't match a single Unsullied with a spiked helm. What currency could possibly be enough to buy all of them? Drogon's khalasar is finished. We have no reason to sell at a loss."

Kraznys chuckled.

"A loss? No. The one getting swindled is that horse. His offer is more than enough to buy ten thousand Unsullied. When he said it could buy the armies of Westeros, he wasn't exaggerating. If that boy-king Joffrey truly wants to rule the world, he'd pay the price."

His words made the other masters sit up straighter. Kraznys's business acumen was legendary.

"Don't keep us in suspense—what is the offer?" one urged.

Kraznys grinned, relishing the moment.

"Why did Old Ghis fall?"

A silver-tasseled Grazdan rolled his eyes.

"Because of those damned Valyrians and their endless lust for conquest. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Think again. What gave the Valyrians the arrogance to think they could conquer the world?"

The eldest Grazdan's eyes went wide.

"You don't mean... dragons?"

Kraznys said nothing—he just smiled and nodded.

The guest hall erupted.

"Gods!"

"Is that true?"

"Are there really dragons still alive?!"

Laughing like a madman, Kraznys confirmed:

"Three of them. Each about the size of a hound. Alive. Energetic. All tucked inside the fallen Khal's wife's tent!"

Gasps filled the room. Then, laughter.

"HAHAHAHA—"

It took a long time before they calmed down, flushed and breathless. Kraznys leaned forward again, his voice colder now.

"Don't you all want to teach that arrogant fool a lesson? His khalasar is broken. We could take those dragons without lifting a finger."

The old master frowned.

"That sounds tempting… but dangerous. The Dothraki fight among themselves, yes, but if outsiders destroy a khalasar, all Khals would unite. They'd ride from Vaes Dothrak and burn Astapor to the ground. That's why no one dares provoke the Great Grass Sea."

"That's coward talk," muttered the youngest Grazdan.

"Once we have the dragons, what need have we to fear horse lords? And we have nine thousand Unsullied! Have you forgotten three thousand once slaughtered thirty thousand Dothraki?"

The old master shook his head.

"You're young—and so are those dragons. They're still pups. Do you really think they can withstand Dothraki arrows? And as for the Unsullied—can they hold off a cavalry three times their number?"

"Enough!" Kraznys snapped, cutting off the argument.

"Let's be clear-eyed, but not timid. Who says we have to do the dirty work ourselves? Let them destroy each other. Drogon's former bloodrider—Pono—is in Slaver's Bay right now. He brought three thousand slaves with him. If he learns Drogon's alive... what do you think he'll do?"

The masters gasped.

"Brilliant, Great Master!"

Kraznys smirked, pleased with the praise.

"As long as the Talon of the Harpy remains in my hand, the Unsullied obey me—even if I pretend to sell them."

The other seven hadn't thought of that. They looked at Kraznys with newfound admiration.

The meeting—part trap, part farce—concluded in laughter.

That night.

Drunk on wine and triumph, Kraznys fell asleep with Snowball curled up in his chamber. He believed Drogo's words and imagined bonding with the lion cub in his dreams.

Snowball had been whimpering, clawing at the door to escape, but suddenly stopped.

His eyes glazed over.

He climbed slowly onto the bed and gently bit down on a nearby whip.

The whip was bizarre: its handle carved from black dragonbone, inlaid with gold. It trailed nine slender leather lashes, each tipped with a golden claw. At the base, a woman's face made of gold smiled wickedly, her ivory fangs bared.

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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire

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