"He said he could cure your illness?"
Ser Davos knew exactly how terrifying greyscale was. Stannis had spent years searching half a continent for healers—n of the Citadel, maesters, miracle-workers—only to suppress the disease, not remove it. The scarring on Shireen's face remained forever.
Who in the world could claim to completely heal greyscale?
"And… did he say when he'll cure it?" Davos pressed gently.
"He said he can't do it yet. He told to wait a little longer."
Shireen still refused to say who had given her the letter.
Davos had no idea whether this mysterious person was lying to him—and to Shireen.
The letter claid Stannis would burn Shireen's uncle.
It also said Davos would soon be released from the dungeons.
Those things would be proven—or disproven—soon enough.
If the mysterious writer truly wanted to save Shireen, Davos would know.
If he ant harm, that too would beco clear.
So Davos decided to wait for the next ssage before deciding whether to help Shireen escape Dragonstone.
---
Leaving Dragonstone behind, Drogon made for the vast grasslands once more.
During his journey across Westeros, forced to chew tiny mouthfuls like a hatchling, he had never truly eaten his fill. Now he could barely stay aloft.
With a stubborn growl he crossed the Narrow Sea again, flew over the Free Cities, and finally—finally—saw the endless beauty of the Dothraki Sea.
He ignored a small khalasar—barely enough for a snack—and instead chose a massive one, tens of thousands strong.
To his surprise, his arrival caused little panic.
Driving the Dothraki away from their food took more effort than usual.
Looks like they already know I'm the "good dragon" who steals food but doesn't kill, Drogon mused.
Once he had chased people away, he devoured at while watching the crowd.
There was no fear in their eyes—only curiosity.
They pointed and whispered to each other excitedly as he ate and drank.
Ever since Drogon first descended on the plains, the tale of the dragon who steals food, drinks horse-milk wine, and eats Dothraki blood-pies had spread across the entire Sea.
And every ti he stole food, he left behind coins.
As one khal had explained, those coins could be traded outside the grasslands for far more at than the dragon consud.
So the Dothraki no longer feared Drogon—
they welcod him.
A chance to witness a living dragon, and make a profit?
Who wouldn't pray for that?
After eating until his stomach was pleasantly full, Drogon dropped two gold coins and surveyed the crowd one last ti.
Then he saw it—
Several Dothraki won fell to their knees, facing him.
They murmured sothing under their breath in reverence.
Drogon blinked.
He had never expected a few gold coins to earn such treatnt.
He was about to take flight when suddenly—
a cluster of pale, creamy yellow light points gathered in his mind.
Startled, he focused on the feeling—
then looked at the kneeling won.
A word surfaced in his mind:
Faith.
He'd felt sothing similar during his last trip to the plains.
Back then he hadn't understood it.
Now he did.
He studied the yellow points and the white spark he once absorbed from the Immortals of Qarth.
He had long discovered that these yellow motes could nourish the white one, strengthening it—
but the improvent was so slight it was nearly unnoticeable unless he focused deeply.
Now he finally understood:
The yellow motes were faith energy.
The white spark he had stolen from the Immortals was sothing far more profound.
He decided to na it:
The Light of Divinity.
The white light allowed him to absorb faith—
and faith would, in turn, nourish the Light of Divinity,
which would then enhance his physical body.
Drogon lowered his gaze to the Dothraki won kneeling in worship and finally understood—
He was not just a dragon.
He was becoming a being of divinity.
---
Having figured it out, Drogon realized he had discovered a new way to strengthen himself—
not only by eating, but by gathering faith.
Looks like I'll need to start leaving a bit more gold for them, he thought as he glanced at the kneeling Dothraki won.
He dipped his head toward them in acknowledgnt—
then suddenly shot upward into the sky, wings bursting with power.
A thunderous roar exploded from his throat:
"AOOOOOOO!!!"
A mont later he unleashed a blazing torrent of dragonfire into the open sky.
If he wanted to gather faith, then occasionally showing strength might be necessary.
And Drogon no longer minded putting on a little performance.
On the ground, the Dothraki froze.
None of them understood what might have angered the dragon.
They didn't dare run—running might make him give chase.
The smarter ones recalled how Drogon had nodded toward the kneeling won earlier.
So they dropped to their knees as well.
As soon as a few knelt, others followed.
In re monts the entire grassy plain was covered in people prostrated on the ground—
even the khal of this massive khalasar finally knelt.
Drogon could feel it:
waves of creamy-yellow light points flowing into him,
growing stronger with each person who bowed.
He had never expected that a simple display of power would create such an effect.
He circled the khalasar once from above, then dipped his head in the direction of the kneeling khal before sweeping away on powerful wings.
The Dothraki, seeing that their kneeling earned the dragon's approval, beca even more devout—
and Drogon harvested a trendous surge of faith energy.
Two hours later, filled with satisfaction from the constant stream of pale yellow light, Drogon finally returned to Astapor.
From high above he located the two other dragons and imdiately knew where Daenerys was staying.
He dropped off his backpack in a concealed spot, then shot back into the air—
diving straight for Viserion.
It was ti for daily dragon training.
Viserion, play-fighting with Rhaegal, sensed sothing was wrong at the last second.
He turned—too slow.
A black blur smashed into his wing.
The pain shocked him so much he almost spiraled into a fall.
That collision was Drogon holding back.
If he had used full force, his current dive speed could have punched a hole straight through Viserion—
and probably injured himself as well.
Drogon had intended to strike Viserion's side, but the younger dragon had managed to dodge just enough for the hit to graze his wing instead.
Rather than anger, Drogon felt delight.
His ambushes and wrestling matches with the two had paid off—
they were getting sharper.
If they could react to him, their instincts were improving.
Because of Drogon's constant ambushes and training, the two dragons had learned to stay alert while flying—
especially today, when Drogon had been gone for so long.
They had been searching for him repeatedly, unable to feel at ease.
---
Inside her chamber, Daenerys paced restlessly.
She had already discussed the future governance of Astapor with Jorah and the others that morning.
In truth, she had little to do right now—she had planned to depart for Yunkai this afternoon.
But she had not seen Drogon all day.
And Daenerys simply could not bring herself to leave without him.
She tried to tell herself that she wasn't in a rush—
but the longer Drogon stayed gone, the more her unease grew.
If not for the missing flint and tinder bag from Missandei's belongings, she would have already sent people searching the city.
Just then—
"Khaleesi! Drogon has returned!"
A young handmaiden, Qihea, ran into the chamber breathlessly.
Knowing how worried Daenerys had been, she had rushed here the mont she saw the three dragons fighting in the sky.
"Where is he?" Daenerys' eyes lit up instantly.
"In the sky!"
She hadn't even finished speaking when Daenerys swept past her, striding out the door.
She looked up—
and saw three dragons tearing up the sky in a chaotic brawl.
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