Chapter 307

Drogo noticed a powerfully built man sitting alone inside the tent, with short gray-white hair and a neatly trimmed beard that was obviously well maintained.

A sword lay across his knees at an angle. In his hand was a piece of oiled leather, and he gently wiped the blade, polishing the metal until it took on a muted sheen.

That sword was special—its material felt familiar. Drogo was drawn to it at once.