"What do you think I should do, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asked.
Though she possessed the world's only three dragons, and their future promised unparalleled glory, she knew she must lie low for now.
*Low-key farming is the way to go,* she thought. *Going out and showing off with three dragons that could be slaughtered at any moment would be truly foolish.*
Jorah considered for a moment before replying, "There isn't enough food here—blood food to sustain three growing dragons. Aegon's Balerion could swallow a whole wild ox in one bite, or even a woolly mammoth roaming the frozen plains.
At their current rate, Qarth's horses would be gone within a year. And a year is far too short for a dragon to grow into a giant."
Daenerys lifted Big Black from the basket on her back and cradled him in her arms. She tried to poke her Littlefinger into his mouth, but the searingly hot mucus burned her finger, and she couldn't even reach his throat.
*When will he be able to swallow a whole mammoth in one bite?*
"Didn't I send Rakharo to hunt nearby just now?" she said, looking down to tease the squirming Big Black.
"Have we encountered any Sand Lizards larger than a dog on our journey?" Jorah countered. "Carnivores prey on herbivores, and the Red Waste provides no environment capable of sustaining docile prey."
"Dragons shouldn't be fed by others. Starting tomorrow, I will train them to hunt for themselves," Daenerys said.
"What's the point of advanced hunting skills when there's no prey?" Jorah asked, exasperated.
"I don't expect them to grow into Balerions here. As long as they become formidable predators, they won't be easily killed by humans who covet, fear, or loathe them."
Daenerys's eyes sparkled as she turned to the knight, her tone enigmatic. "Viserys told me that nobles and commoners alike are secretly sewing three-headed dragon banners at home, waiting for the true dragons to return. What do you think?"
Jorah smiled wryly. "Your Highness, I wouldn't dare deceive you. The great lords are obsessed with the power games, while the lesser lords and merchants are more interested in fine wine, women, and glorious tourneys.
As for the common folk, they simply wish for summer to come every year, preferably the legendary 'Eternal Summer' of the tales: orchards heavy with fruit, fields of golden grain, and sweet melons.
"If only the lords were more merciful," she continued, "and didn't rape their wives and daughters, or use their sons as target practice."
"Kings and queens? They don't care about them, and caring wouldn't help anyway. Their lives have nothing to do with kings."
"So even if I left here, where could I go?" Daenerys shrugged, her expression indifferent. "I'm not like Viserys. He wasn't pure, just trapped. He had no choice but to arm himself with lies."
"Regardless of my own wishes, once the usurpers learn that the last Targaryen has hatched a dragon, they'll send their most ruthless assassins to hunt down me and my dragon."
"I wandered Braavos for years. I know it's the most powerful and prosperous Free City, and that it's home to the world's most deadly assassins: the Faceless Men."
"'All mortals must die,' they say. Given the right price, they'll kill anyone. They've never failed, or so the stories go."
"The price to kill me will be exorbitant, but what's that to a king?"
Jorah frowned in thought for a moment, then reassured her, "The usurper wouldn't send Faceless Men to assassinate you. The wine merchant who tried to poison you last time wasn't one of them."
"Why are you so sure? I have dragons now, that changes things," Daenerys said.
*Because I'm here!* Jorah thought to himself.
Daenerys had watched *Game of Thrones* and remembered a crucial plot point: when King Robert learned of her pregnancy, he convened his Small Council to discuss how to permanently eliminate the last remnants of the royal family. Eddard, strongly opposing the murder of women and children, fell out with his best friend and indignantly resigned as Hand of the King.
That had happened about a year ago, and just three months prior, Daenerys had survived an assassination attempt in Vaes Dothrak.
To King Robert and Prime Minister Eddard, that Small Council meeting was about "whether to kill the remaining Targaryens." To the king and the other councilors, however, it was a meeting about "how to kill Daenerys and her bastard."
During that meeting, one minister had even proposed hiring the Faceless Men, and the proposal had almost passed.
King Robert was a profligate ruler, his treasury empty and his debts mounting. Littlefinger, as the Master of Coin, believed a more economical approach was necessary.
Jorah Mormont!
Yes, the very man standing before them—a burly, seemingly simple-hearted giant.
He was a spy, tasked with gathering intelligence on Daenerys and eliminating her if necessary, a King's Landing agent embedded in her court.
However, Daenerys wasn't worried about Jorah harming her. Beyond the unreliability of personal sentiment, from a pragmatic standpoint, he had no reason to betray her.
King's Landing offered to lift the bounty on Jorah and restore his status as Lord of Bear Island.
Compared to the merit of saving Daenerys the Dragon, what was that worth?
Not only was the title of Lord of Bear Island of little value, but Jorah hadn't even lost House Mormont's ancestral lands; his aunt had succeeded him as the island's ruler.
It was like letting good meat rot in the pot.
In truth, had Jorah not protected her, or if he had truly wanted to kill her, Daenerys would have died long ago.
The critical question was: if King's Landing learned of Jorah's unreliability, would they send Faceless Men next?
In the original timeline, due to political turmoil and the rapid succession and downfall of new kings, the people of King's Landing seemed to have forgotten about Daenerys.
But was she supposed to put her safety in the hands of the unreliable "original plot"?
"The Faceless Men are not invincible assassins," Ser Jorah said softly, his voice reassuring and his expression resolute. "The Targaryen kings have faced many enemies throughout history, yet none fell to the Faceless Men. To ordinary folk, they are legendary figures, but against the legendary Kingsguard, their tricks lose their effectiveness." He added, "Have you forgotten? I am also Kingsguard—your queen's own guard!"
If the "White Bull" or the "Dawnbreaker" had said that, I might have believed them. But you, the "two-bit" knight...
Jorah was a strong warrior, no doubt, but that didn't necessarily make him a suitable bodyguard.
"I feel much safer with you here," Daenerys said with an encouraging smile. "Still, we should stay here a while longer."
She extended her hand, and together they climbed the white tower at the city gate, discussing arrangements for Whitecloud City's guards as they ascended.
At the summit, Daenerys released her three dragons into the sky. They let out piercing roars as they soared through the air.
Several days passed, and after the Black Dragon, the White Dragon and Green Dragon also learned to fly and breathe dragonfire.
The three vividly colored young dragons chased each other across the azure sky, sunlight filtering through their thin, translucent wings, casting a hazy, ethereal glow that was breathtakingly beautiful.
"Big Black was the first to learn to fly, and he was only seven days old then. How does he compare to the great dragons of Targaryen history?" Daenerys gazed at the Black Dragon soaring in the sky, her heart swelling with pride.
"I'm not sure," Jorah shook his head, puzzled. "If only there were a dragon scholar. Why such crude names? Aegon's dragon was named Balerion, Visenya's was Vhagar, and Rhaenys's was Meraxes—all names of Ancient Valyrian deities."
Daenerys spoke plainly. "My dragons and I are too weak. I don't want overly aggressive names to make others wary. I could name them after my ancestors, like Rhaego or Viserys, but I want to draw a line between myself and past Targaryens."
"Why?" Jorah asked, shocked.
In this era and world, any noble with a family history took immense pride in their great ancestors, often naming generations after the same progenitor. Think of the countless Brandons in House Stark or the numerous Aegons and Rhaenyses in House Targaryen.
Even Daenerys's name was derived from that of Dannis, a virgin maiden (with only one or two letters added), and over a century ago, a Targaryen princess who married into the Dornish royal family was also named Daenerys.
"I'm not like them."
The Targaryens' foundation had once been House Targaryen itself. Now, Daenerys the Dragon was her child, the Dothraki her people. The Targaryen legacy had only brought her burdens and crises.
"Enough about me," she said, changing the subject with a smile as she looked at Ser Jorah. "You know my story inside and out, but I barely know yours. Tell me about yourself."
"Me? What do you want to know?" Ser Jorah asked, his voice dry.
"You're the Earl of Bear Island in the North. How did you end up on the continent of Essos, thousands of leagues away?" Daenerys turned her head, gazing at the dragons soaring in the sky, and said softly, "You seem to know a great deal about jewels, their value as if you were born with it. Are there gem mines on Bear Island?"
"If there were, I wouldn't be an exile in a foreign land," the knight replied with a bitter smile.
He picked up a milky-white stone from the ground and began drawing a rough map of Westeros on the stone slab by the tower window.
"Look, this is Bear Island, located in the distant Bay of Ice. Its distance from the Free Cities is nearly as great as its distance from the North."
It was a beautiful yet wild place, an island 100 kilometers deep, with ancient oaks whose roots twisted like gnarled fingers, towering pines, and wild hawthorn groves that bloomed with tart-sweet flowers in spring.
But it was too remote and too poor.
Unlike the stone castles of other nobles, my family hall was built of massive logs, and instead of high walls, we had only a simple fence around our grounds.
Most of my people lived by fishing, barely scraping by. Without trade, we couldn't collect substantial taxes.
Our only specialty was bears, but bears were found everywhere.
Merchants visited only once every few years, bringing cloth, copperware, porcelain, spices, and other daily necessities, and taking away furs in almost barter-like exchanges.
Despite this barren and monotonous life, I had grown accustomed to it. And I was never short of women; neither fishing wives nor farm girls would refuse their Earl—Your Highness, I assure you, I never used force.
Before I even came of age, my father chose a bride for me: a girl from Deepwood Motte, the castle next to Bear Island, a Glover.
I wasn't sure if I loved her, and that shame burned me. Though her appearance was plain, her disposition was kind and good.
After ten years of marriage, she suffered three miscarriages. After the last one, she never fully recovered and soon passed away.
(End of Chapter)