The mornings in Pentos always carried a mixed scent of sea salt and spices.
The history of this city began in the era of Valyria.
Back then, the great dragons still dwelled upon the Fourteen Fire Peaks, and this place was merely a trade outpost of the Freehold.
Square brick towers rose from the coast, terracotta tiles covered the sloping roofs, and the Port was always crowded with ships from all directions.
Spice ships from the Jade Sea unloaded cargo here, and the black masts of Ibbenese whaling ships stood tall like a forest.
Every day, galleys crossed the Narrow Sea to reach King's Landing, bringing back wool and grain from Westeros, as well as the latest rumors from the other side of the continent.
But today, the focus of the discussions among the sailors and merchants on the docks was not trade.
"Did you hear? About Magister Illyrio's feast."
A merchant wearing a brocade coat lowered his voice, glancing toward the palace with nine tall towers beside the bay.
It was a gift from the Magisters to the Dothraki Khal, its brick walls covered in ivy, glowing dark red in the morning light.
"Whose birthday feast is it this time?" asked a spice merchant nearby, casually.
"It's the dothraki."
The merchant lowered his voice further: "Khal Drogo's envoys have arrived and are staying in that Palace of Nine Towers."
"Magister Illyrio arranged it, hosting the feast in his private courtyard."
"I heard you can pay ten gold coins to enter through the Trade Gate. The wine flows freely, and you can even see the princess with your own eyes."
Someone grew interested: "The princess? The Beggar King's sister? Is she really being sold to the Horse King?"
"It's a marriage alliance."
The merchant corrected him, though his tone carried the same implication: "Trading a princess for scimitars."
"That beggar who constantly calls himself king wants to use his sister to buy the dothraki horse hooves to trample King's Landing flat."
"Pipe dreams," someone shook their head.
"The dothraki never go near the sea."
"Their horses fear water, and their gods only recognize the grass sea. Even if they borrowed troops, how would they cross the Narrow Sea? Swim?"
"That's for the Magister and the Beggar King to worry about." The merchant jutted his chin toward the Palace of Nine Towers.
"See that? Gifts the Magisters gave to Khal Drogo."
"This isn't the first time. Every time the dothraki come, we have to offer gifts, smile subserviently, and present our best things."
"We're used to it."
On the edge of the crowd, Aegon listened quietly.
His face was expressionless.
Only in the depths of his violet eyes did a trace of faint, almost mocking amusement flash.
A coincidence?
Ever since his brief encounter with Daenerys and her brother at the Lys Arena, where he flapped the first butterfly wing, everything else seemed to have been pulled back onto the predetermined track by some invisible force.
Daenerys still appeared in Pentos.
She was still arranged to marry Khal Drogo, with the time, place, and people fitting perfectly.
However, it saved him the trouble of specifically searching for his blood relatives.
He was riding the dragon toward Braavos, and Pentos was a necessary stop along the way.
Illyrio Mopatis, that name had been like a thorn stuck in his memory for over a decade.
This fat merchant, in league with The Spider Varys in King's Landing, formulated the Blackfyre Conspiracy and groomed the False Aegon.
This forced the true son of Rhaegar to live under an assumed name, struggling to survive in the shadows of the Free Cities.
But for him, now possessing Ghidorah, that fat man was just an ant.
Since he was passing by, crushing him along the way was simple enough.
This was why he was here.
He just hadn't expected Daenerys and her brother to be here too.
Killing two birds with one stone, then.
As for the marriage alliance between Daenerys and Khal Drogo?
Naturally, it would not happen again.
The bloodline of the Targaryen family must not be defiled.
A Dragon family princess was certainly not cargo to be traded for an army.
The wind stirred up by his butterfly wings had already reached Pentos.
And now, he intended to turn that wind into a sweeping storm.
Aegon turned and merged into the stream of people moving along the docks.
Several children on the street were playing a game of knights fighting dragons, their wooden sticks clashing as they yelled loudly.
"I'm the knight! I'm going to slay the dragon!"
"No, I am! My sword is Valyrian Steel!"
Aegon walked past them, his lips curling up almost imperceptibly.
Dragons weren't made of wood... Magister Illyrio's private courtyard.
The feast was in full swing.
The long table was laden with roasted meat, honey-glazed quail, grapes, and pomegranates.
Silver goblets reflected the flickering candlelight, and the air was thick with the rich scent of roasting meat fat mixed with spices.
Viserys sat in the seat of honor, wearing his best, and only, brocade robe embroidered with the House Targaryen sigil.
He sat very straight, chin slightly raised, trying to maintain the dignity of a king.
But the fingers constantly rubbing the goblet exposed his inner anxiety.
Opposite him sat three dothraki.
They wore no armor, only painted leather vests, revealing their heavily muscled arms and chests.
They used short knives to cut and eat the roasted meat, their movements crude, grease dripping down their tangled beards.
The leading dothraki was jabbering something quickly, with gestures so large he nearly knocked over the plate in front of him.
Viserys couldn't understand.
He turned to Illyrio beside him, his voice low but clearly impatient: "What is he saying?"
Illyrio's fat face was arranged in a genial smile. He leaned in slightly and whispered, "Your Grace, this is Khal Drogo's bloodrider."
"The Khal himself is still on the Dothraki Sea. He sent envoys ahead to discuss the details of the marriage."
Viserys's face instantly flushed crimson.
Not Khal Drogo? Just an envoy?
He, the rightful monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, the last true dragon of House Targaryen, condescended to personally receive a barbarian chieftain... and the one who showed up was just a subordinate?
Rage boiled in his chest, burning his throat dry.
He wanted to flip the table, splash wine in the face of that Dothraki savage, and roar, "Tell Drogo to come see me himself!"
But he couldn't.
He needed those forty thousand Screaming Warriors.
He needed that army to fight back to Westeros, reclaim the iron throne, and make those Usurpers tremble at his feet.
Viserys took a deep breath, his fingernails digging into his palm, using the pain to force himself to calm down.
He forced out a stiff smile and raised his cup to the dothraki:
"Tell the envoy that I look forward to meeting Khal Drogo."
Illyrio translated.
The dothraki grinned, showing his teeth, and spoke a string of words.
"What did he say?" Viserys asked.
Illyrio's smile faltered: "He said... he wants to see the princess's appearance first, to confirm the cargo... cough, to confirm the quality of the bride."
Viserys's smile grew even stiffer.
He turned to Jorah Mormont, who was standing beside him. This exiled Northern Knight was currently his only guard and advisor.
"Where is Dany? Why hasn't she come out yet?"
Jorah Mormont's face showed the fatigue of long hardship.
He bowed slightly: "Perhaps the maiden is shy, Your Grace. Shall I go hurry her along?"
"Go quickly!"
Jorah turned and left.
A moment later, he returned, with Daenerys following behind him.
The entire banquet hall fell silent for an instant.
Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the candlelight.
She was wearing her old, faded dress; the linen fabric was coarse, and the cuffs were even frayed.
Her silver-gold long hair spilled over her shoulders, making her small face appear even paler.
But she wore something on her head: the golden wreath she had received in Lys.
Like a princess.
Yet, against the backdrop of her worn clothing, the wreath looked particularly glaring, particularly... awkward.
Viserys stared at her.
Staring at the shabby dress, staring at the ridiculous wreath.
His rage finally burst forth.
He sprang up suddenly.
A wine cup was knocked over, and deep red wine spilled onto the snow-white tablecloth, spreading a dark red stain, like blood.
"What are you wearing?!"
He shrieked, his voice grating: "Where is the dress I prepared for you? The purple, pearl-inlaid dress?!"
Daenerys stood her ground.
Her violet eyes met her brother's furious face.
Her hands clenched at her sides, fingernails digging into her palms, but she did not back down.
"I didn't want to wear it." Her voice was soft but clear. "That's not my dress, it's a dowry. It's the packaging you use for trade."
"You!"
Viserys lunged toward her, raising his hand.
But it didn't fall.
Because the dothraki spoke.
The dothraki spoke a string of words, his eyes fixed on Daenerys, scanning from her face to her chest and waist, like evaluating the quality of a young mare.
Illyrio quickly translated: "He said... although the princess is frail, her face is beautiful, and the color of her eyes is unusual."
"Khal Drogo should like her. The marriage alliance can proceed."
Viserys lowered his hand.
He breathed heavily, staring at Daenerys, emphasizing every word:
"Did you hear that? Khal Drogo is willing to marry you! Forty thousand troops! This is your supreme honor!"
"I won't marry him," Daenerys said.
Her voice was quiet, but firm.
"What did you say?!"
"I said, I won't marry him." She repeated, her voice beginning to tremble, not from fear, but from something suppressed for too long surging up.
"I am not cargo, Viserys."
"I am Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, and I will not marry a savage I have never met! I won't!"
"Shut up!"
Viserys grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.
"Everything you have was given by me! Your life was saved by me! You don't have the right to say no!"
During the struggle, the golden wreath on Daenerys's head was knocked off.
With a "clang," the wreath rolled onto the floor, hit the Dothraki envoy's chair, and stopped.
The Dothraki envoy laughed.
He bent down and picked up the wreath, weighed it in his hand, then poked the leaves on the crown with the tip of his short knife, shook his head, and spoke a phrase in Dothraki.
Illyrio translated, his voice somewhat unnatural: "He said... the gold is of poor quality and unworthy of the princess."
"When she reaches the Dothraki Sea, the Khal will give her real gold."
The dothraki carelessly tossed the wreath back onto the floor, as if throwing away trash.
Daenerys looked at the wreath on the floor.
That wreath, which the Silver-haired Knight had casually placed on her head in Lys, telling her to "be brave."
The warmth of that moment, the instant she was treated as a person rather than cargo, flashed through her mind like an illusion, only to be shattered by the reality before her.
She suddenly felt that everything was so absurd.
Her absurd brother, the absurd feast, the absurd dothraki, the absurd marriage, the absurd... her life.
The sounds around her began to fade.
Viserys's roaring, the dothraki's chattering, Illyrio's smooth translation, the clinking of goblets, the crackling of candlelight... everything seemed separated by a thick layer of water.
She only saw the wreath on the floor, shining with a faint, mocking light in the candlelight.
Then she saw the fire.
The enormous bronze brazier in the center of the courtyard.
Charcoal burned within it, the orange-red flames leaping and twisting, emitting scorching heat waves.
That heat wave pierced through the noise, through the cold, through the despair, striking her face directly.
It was very hot.
But for some reason, that intense heat made her mind clear for an instant.
She remembered.
The hot water in the bath that could scald an ordinary person.
That strange affinity for high temperatures that surged from the depths of her bone marrow.
"We have the blood of the true dragon flowing through us! Dragons are not afraid of fire!"
Viserys had screamed this countless times, and back then, she had dismissed it as madness.
But now... Daenerys's gaze shifted from the wreath on the floor to the brazier.
And from the brazier, it moved to Viserys's face, twisted by anger, to the dothraki's eyes assessing cargo, and to Illyrio's false smile.
An idea, cold and clear, formed in her mind.
If this was her life... a piece of cargo to be appraised, traded, and passed on.
If this was her destiny... marrying a savage, trading her body for an army, and then being forgotten on some grassland.
If she didn't even have the right to say "no"... then at least she could choose not to be treated like this.
She could at least choose to end it all, in the Targaryen way.
Daenerys moved.
She didn't go to pick up the wreath.
She didn't spare Viserys another glance, nor did she look at the dothraki.
She simply turned around, walking step by step toward the burning brazier.
Her steps were steady, surprisingly steady.
The surrounding sounds rushed back into her ears—Viserys shouting something, Jorah saying something, the dothraki yelling something.
But she couldn't make it out clearly.
She only stared at the fire.
Staring at the leaping, orange-red flames that seemed to be beckoning her.
Closer and closer.
The heat wave rushed at her face, making her cheeks burn.
But she didn't stop.
Her hand reached toward the scorching edge of the brazier; the bronze was red-hot from the charcoal, and the heat warped the air.
"Since when did outsiders get to decide the marriage of a Targaryen princess?"
A voice came from the shadows of the courtyard corridor.
Calm. Clear.
Like a blade of ice, it cut through all the clamor in the hall, and also cut through the burning chaos in Daenerys's mind.
Dear Reader,
A special 60% discount offer available Don't miss this opportunity to enjoy your favorite stories at a greatly reduced price.
The offer is available for a limited time only — grab it before it ends!
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898