Chapter 159: The Princess of the Prophecy
Gritting his teeth, Bonifer Hasty drew his sword, dropped to one knee, and raised it high above his head.
"Your Grace, from this day forward, the Hundred shall serve you!"
Daenerys Targaryen stepped forward and helped him to his feet, her voice solemn.
"And I will not fail you."
After sheathing his blade, Bonifer personally guided her through the layout of Harrenhal. Along the way, Daenerys asked about her mother—things she had never known.
Only then did she learn the truth: Bonifer and Rhaella Targaryen had once been deeply in love.
But that love had been cut short.
Her grandfather, Jaehaerys II Targaryen, had heard a prophecy from a woods witch—that the Prince That Was Promised would be born from the line of Aerys II Targaryen and Rhaella.
And so, Rhaella had been forced into that marriage.
Daenerys fell silent.
She hadn't expected such a secret behind her parents' union. Yet both her brothers were dead—and she was no "prince." Perhaps… the prophecy had never been true.
Behind her, Drogon fell into thought as well.
He was no longer the skeptic he once was. Not after everything—after even he himself had begun to brush against something akin to divinity.
He remembered the prophecy too—but not from Bonifer.
The version that lingered most clearly in his mind came from Missandei.
In High Valyrian, the prophecy did not strictly mean prince—it could just as easily mean princess. The term was ambiguous.
Yet in the end… whether prince or princess, the prophecy had still failed.
That thought stirred an old saying in his mind:
"Of the fifty, one escapes."
Was the prophecy flawed?
Or had something—someone—interfered, altering fate itself?
Before he could dwell further, the thunder of hooves shattered the moment.
A rider burst into the castle courtyard.
Daenerys recognized him instantly—a Dothraki scout.
She and Bonifer moved to meet him.
"Khaleesi!" the young rider gasped, breathless. "Ten thousand cavalry—coming from the south, heading northwest!"
"Northwest?" Daenerys frowned, mentally tracing the map. "Not toward us?"
"They'll pass below Gods Eye. They won't meet us."
Daenerys turned to Jorah Mormont, who was already deep in thought.
"They've misread our movement," Jorah said after a moment. "King's Landing must think we're marching to relieve Riverrun. So they've sent cavalry the same way."
Daenerys's eyes sharpened.
"Can we intercept them before they arrive?"
Ten thousand cavalry was no small force. If there was a chance to destroy them, she would take it.
"If we move fast enough… yes," Jorah replied, a spark lighting in his gaze.
Daenerys turned to Bonifer.
"Hold Harrenhal for me. I'll send the Dothraki shortly."
Without waiting, she strode forward, mounted Drogon, and launched into the sky.
Outside the castle, she relayed the scout's report to Jhaqo and the other khals.
At the mention of ten thousand enemy riders, their spirits ignited instantly.
Within moments, they were in the saddle—twenty thousand Dothraki thundering westward, following the shadow of Drogon.
Watching them sweep past Harrenhal like a living storm, Bonifer could only sigh.
Ten thousand men… against twice their number of the finest cavalry in the world.
Escape would not even be an option.
---
Meanwhile, in King's Landing, news of the Dothraki movement had already reached Cersei Lannister.
An emergency council was convened.
Based on the scouts' reports, their trajectory pointed toward Riverrun. Some suggested Harrenhal as the target—but that theory was quickly dismissed.
Why take a ruined castle… when lifting the siege of Riverrun could win allies?
The answer seemed obvious.
Cersei acted immediately.
With no better option, she dispatched her brother, Jaime Lannister, at the head of ten thousand cavalry.
Even as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jaime was once again forced onto the battlefield.
---
Near the Gods Eye, after three relentless hours of riding, Jaime was reaching his limit.
His horse was too.
And even so… he wasn't sure they would arrive in time.
Just then, as Jaime Lannister led the charge at the front, he caught something strange beneath the thunder of galloping hooves—
Shouts.
War cries.
And the piercing screams of horses.
He turned—
—and saw the Dothraki riders crashing into his formation like a pack of unleashed beasts, their arakhs flashing in brutal arcs.
Heads flew.
Blood erupted skyward in crimson fountains.
In that instant, Jaime understood.
They had never gone to Riverrun.
Or worse—
they had been waiting here all along.
"Turn back! Form up!" he roared, wrenching his horse around and ordering a counterattack.
But the moment he turned—
his eyes caught something far more terrifying.
A vast shadow descended from the right.
He looked up—
—and saw it.
A colossal dragon, its wings stretching nearly a hundred meters across, bearing down upon his army like the sky itself collapsing.
It reached the battlefield in seconds.
Then—
it opened its jaws.
A torrent of dark violet-black flame erupted downward.
Soldiers caught in its path didn't even have time to scream.
Their bodies stiffened mid-motion—
and in the blink of an eye, they were reduced to charred skeletons.
A faint wind swept across the field—
and even those brittle remains collapsed into fragments, scattering across the ground.
Where moments ago men and horses had lived—
there was now nothing but an empty patch of bone-strewn earth.
Watching from afar, Jaime felt something primal crawl up his spine.
A tremor—not of the body, but of the soul itself.
He clenched his teeth, but the shaking wouldn't stop.
All around him, both Lannister soldiers and Dothraki warriors froze mid-battle, staring in stunned silence at the horror before them.
Moments ago, that space had been filled with life.
Now—
it was nothing.
Above, on the dragon's back, Daenerys Targaryen herself was shaken.
She had never imagined Drogon's flames had reached such a terrifying level.
Before, they burned men into blackened corpses.
Now—
they erased them into splintered bone.
This is just unfair… Drogon thought, glancing at the empty stretch below.
Truthfully, he hadn't even wanted to breathe that flame.
But since he was already here… not doing it would've felt wrong.
So he gave them a "warning."
The effect was immediate.
The soldiers of King's Landing snapped out of their shock and broke.
Some fled blindly.
Others turned their horses, trying to escape the battlefield entirely.
But no matter how fast they ran—
they could never outride the Dothraki.
Within moments, riders caught up, arakhs rising and falling—
and more heads rolled.
After that single blast, Drogon did not attack again.
There was no need.
Twenty thousand Dothraki against ten thousand cavalry—
this was no battle.
It was a slaughter.
And for all his power, Drogon felt no particular hatred toward these men.
If Daenerys's forces were in danger, he would not hesitate to unleash fire again.
But now?
This was no war—
just a lion mauling a lamb.
And he had no interest in turning it into something worse.