At dawn the next day, the great sun awakened beneath the eastern horizon, painting the sky with a crimson glow.
A thousand kilometers north of Oldtown, in the Crimson Mountains, a black and a white dragon flew through a veil of mist surrounding the peaks and landed on a moss-covered cliff.
A gentle breeze tousled the young girl's hair as Daenerys frowned and approached the old knight. She glanced at the red-nosed old maester, whose face was pale as death in the knight's arms, and complained,
"A petty man who violated guest rights—why didn't we just throw him from the sky and be done with it? Why bother treating his wounds?"
She had originally planned to fly 1,700 kilometers straight to King's Landing for lunch.
"I want to know exactly what the Citadel is thinking," the old knight replied, lowering his head as he carefully pulled an arrow from Perestan's thigh.
"Ahhh—ahhh—ahhh!"
Even though the white knight worked skillfully and gently, the red-nosed old man screamed like a pig being slaughtered.
"Give me milk of the poppy!"
"We didn't bring any," the white knight said, pulling alcohol and cotton from his pack and beginning to disinfect the wound. The alcohol touched raw flesh, drawing another round of bloodcurdling howls.
After over an hour of struggling, by which time Daenerys had already finished eating a charred cow haunch brought by Drogon, the white knight had finally removed five crossbow bolts and treated four broken bones.
"You're really lucky, not a single fatal injury," Daenerys said leisurely, reclining against Drogon's warm wing while sitting on a large rock.
The white knight cut off a piece of the haunch with his dagger and stuffed it in his mouth, mumbling,
"It wasn't luck. I disguised him as you, so of course I had to protect him and keep any arrows from hitting vital points."
Daenerys nodded—her spiritual projection was a crucial hidden card. Best not to expose it.
The white knight cut off a piece of blood-dripping meat and handed it to the red-nosed old man.
"Maester, how did you discover Her Majesty's identity?" he asked.
The sun had fully risen above the mountain by then, dispersing the fog. From the edge of the cliff, the green forests and dark-red ridges could be seen in crystal clarity.
Perestan's dazed and scattered gaze slowly focused. With a sigh, he took the meat and chewed absently, speaking while he swallowed,
"After Dr. Vogrev's reminder, several maesters who had once seen Queen Rhaella noticed something strange.
After all, Her Majesty Daenerys is her daughter—there are some similarities in appearance.
It's just... no one ever imagined it. Crossing ten thousand miles from Slaver's Bay to Oldtown? Insane.
But one doubt led to many, like the name 'Layla,' hailing from the Crownlands, with a father who was once a great lord who lost his lands..."
Then he turned to Daenerys with a smug look,
"More importantly, we found one of your hairs. After cleansing it with potion, sure enough—it was silver."
Daenerys sneered,
"Oh, how proud you are. And yet you've seen Ser Barristan a thousand times and never recognized him."
"He's changed too much—his aura, his appearance, everything."
The white knight's face turned serious.
"Why attack Her Majesty?"
"For the sake of the Seven Kingdoms—"
Daenerys waved her hand and cut him off.
"No—for the 'real world.'"
"You—you know about the 'real world'?" Perestan's eyes bulged in disbelief.
"I already know all the secrets of the Citadel. The Dance of the Dragons, the extinction of the dragons—all your doing."
"What?" The white knight stood up in shock.
"Why would the Citadel do such a thing?"
Daenerys gave a bitter smile and explained the Citadel's motives and the hidden truth behind the dragons' decline.
The white knight was still skeptical. He turned to the red-nosed maester, his expression complicated.
"Is it true?"
"At this point, I have nothing more to say. Just kill me," the old maester said bleakly, closing his eyes to await death.
"I saw many temples of the Red God in the lower districts of Oldtown," Daenerys suddenly shifted the topic.
"Besides Slaver's Bay, on the continent of Essos—even in Jade Sea cities and maritime trading hubs—there are Red God temples and vast numbers of devout followers.
If we marked church influence by color, the entire world would be red.
Even Westeros had a king who believed in the Red God—Stannis."
She looked at Perestan.
"So tell me, Maester—how do you plan to deal with R'hllor?"
When he remained silent with eyes closed, Daenerys smiled faintly and continued,
"True, the extinction of dragons, the fading of magical tides—even some Red Priests lost their power.
But R'hllor himself is still growing stronger.
With no more human mages or sorcerers, only the gods remain to wield the power of miracles. That's actually better for expanding faith, isn't it?"
"Hmph. R'hllor always resides in the Astral Realm. The magical tide is the bridge between that realm and the real world.
Without dragons, the tide goes silent. No matter how powerful the gods may be in the Astral Realm, they can't influence the mortal world," Perestan declared, opening his eyes.
"Well, you're not wrong," Daenerys nodded, acknowledging his point.
"But some places are special—naturally close to a god's divine kingdom in the Astral Realm.
Like Asshai. Like beyond the Wall.
Those places can even trigger a higher-level magical tide."
"There are levels to magical tides?" Perestan asked, skeptical.
"To be honest, I wasn't sure before," Daenerys said with a wry smile.
"But I've read a lot of secret tomes in your archives these past two days. With more knowledge comes insight."
"Do you remember the Red Comet two years ago?" she asked.
"No one in the world could forget it."
"That was a sign of a higher-level magical tide," Daenerys sighed, looking up at the bright blue sky.
"Let me tell you plainly—dragon hatching has nothing to do with sacrifice.
Stone eggs need two key elements to awaken: the element of fire, and the presence of an active soul."
The process of imbuing the dragon eggs with two elements is, in itself, a form of magic.
In this age of dwindling magic, where dragons no longer exist, I can still use magic to hatch eggs. That proves the magical energy required to hatch dragons exceeds the ordinary spells used by supernatural beings."
"Uh, do you understand what I'm saying?" Dany looked at the two confused faces, clearly frustrated.
After a long pause, Perestan finally nodded. "I've had an epiphany."
"What kind of epiphany?" Dany asked, a bit surprised.
"You and dragons are the same. You both stir the tides of magic. You both must be destroyed."
"You—!" Dany gritted her teeth, nearly drawing her sword to cut the old fool down right there.
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"You idiot," she snapped. "The 'Mother of Dragons' may be the source of a magical tide, but aside from a higher energy level, she's no different in essence from fire mages or shadowbinders. Whether the 'Mother of Dragons' can hatch dragons is decided by a force on an even higher level."
Seeing the old man still wearing that infuriating "go ahead and argue, I can see through your lies" expression, Dany, both angry and cunning, suddenly grinned and asked, "Do you know when the White Walkers will appear?"
"They're a myth!" the old scholar replied firmly.
"I knew you'd say that." Dany's smile turned even more sinister, sending a chill through the red-nosed old man.
She drew Clear Sky, her Valyrian steel sword, and held it above the old scholar's head. "In the name of the Queen, I sentence you, Perestan. You have violated guest rights, plotted against the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The evidence is clear. Your punishment is to don the black and guard the realm of men!"
Perestan stared in disbelief. "I'm... joining the Night's Watch?"
"Hahaha, that's right. I'm sparing your life—go defend the Wall!"
Imagining the old man facing off against an army of White Walkers, Dany couldn't help herself—she burst out laughing.
"Your Grace is truly merciful," said the White Knight beside her, visibly relieved and genuinely impressed.
They had delayed a while to treat Perestan's injuries, so by the time the Red Keep near Blackwater Bay came into view, lunch had long passed.
As the center of the Game of Thrones, King's Landing should have excited Dany. But the moment they passed through the city gates, a thick stench assaulted her—filth, rotting garbage, the stench of human and animal waste—it made her want to retch.
Big Black and Little White had dropped Dany and Barristan off in the woods along Rosby Road. Just like in Oldtown, they found a roadside inn, sold two horses, and continued southwest, entering King's Landing from the eastern Iron Gate.
The main road was wide enough for eight horses to ride abreast, paved with bluestone. But it was filthy—layers of grime and manure made the road feel like a thick, dirty carpet under the hooves.
The layout was terrible. Buildings on both sides were unevenly spaced, mostly two- or three-story houses. The front and back yards were connected to pigpens, stables, and garbage heaps. Dany had the urge to level the whole place and start over.
But the city was bustling—filled with people, mostly poor. Dressed in drab linen, barefoot, unkempt, filthy, they looked more like desperate refugees than citizens.
Even the few nobles on horseback, swords at their sides, wore dark leather tunics and armor—far less ornate than the merchants of the Free Cities.
At a crossroads, a group of beggars approached Dany. Over twenty children, none older than ten, wore only dirty T-shirts patched with holes. Dust-covered behinds were half exposed, and their twig-like arms held out broken wooden bowls as they pleaded with pitiful eyes: "Kind knight-lady, have mercy… I'm starving…"
Dany felt a pang in her heart. She was about to take out her purse and give them a handful of coppers.
"Giving money won't help. There are people behind them," the old knight stopped her, then led her and the children into a side alley, expertly navigating the maze-like slums.
The buildings here were even more cramped than those by the main road—low, muddy huts with thatched roofs, as if a thousand beggars were squeezed into a hundred-square-foot garbage dump. Narrow alleys twisted in all directions, yet none seemed to lead anywhere.
The sewers had long been clogged. Black, stinking waste water flowed freely along the roads. There weren't even bricks on the ground—just endless mud. Each step sank to the ankle, and every so often, a child would step on a bloated dead cat. With a sickening squelch, guts and white maggots oozed out of its burst belly. The smell was overwhelming.
"Milady, this is Flea Bottom—King's Landing's slum," the White Knight explained quietly.
"This poor? Seriously?" Dany frowned deeply. "I refuse to believe a million gold dragons wouldn't be enough to turn this place into clean rows of red-brick, blue-tile houses!"
"But who would be willing to spend a million gold dragons? That's an enormous sum." The White Knight shook his head and sighed.
"The King, of course. This is his kingdom, his people. Isn't that what a king is supposed to do?" Dany said matter-of-factly.
The old knight looked at her for a long moment. Seeing the earnest fury in her expression, he smiled with relief. "Milady, your way of thinking is unlike any king I've known."
"We're here," he said, stopping at a small shop covered by a dirty canvas awning.
(End of chapter)
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