Chapter 62

Drogon, as if sensing that it didn’t take much fire to incinerate Young Aegon, ceased his torrent of flames after a few searing breaths. The monstrous shadow shifted, wings flapping, and returned to its perch atop the mast. Each beat of his wings stirred scorching gales that whipped the sails until they crackled with tension, faint wisps of smoke curling up from the heat.

Those who knew Khal Drogo to be fireproof remained perfectly calm, unmoved, their expressions full of scorn for the burning imposter. Some of the Dothraki were so composed they nearly broke into open laughter.

“Ah, poor judgment,” Drogo muttered to himself, catching the acrid stench of burnt hair. “I didn’t even need to hug the bastard to prove he’s a fraud. And now I’ve roasted myself like one of those bald Red Priests who worship R’hllor.”