One year after the engagement announcement
Marcos stood in the newly constructed Imperial War Room, staring at a massive three-dimensional map of Essos that he'd created using a combination of Minecraft blocks and magical projection.
It was beautiful. It was detailed. It was terrifying.
Because painted in red across Slaver's Bay were three cities that represented everything he hated about this world: Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen.
"You're brooding again," Daenerys said, walking in with two cups of tea. She was fifteen now, and the transformation was complete. No longer a frightened girl, but a confident young woman who commanded respect naturally.
She wore practical leather armor—not for show, but because she'd just come from morning training with Garrett's elite guard. Her silver-gold hair was braided in a complex warrior's style. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly who she was and what she was capable of.
Marcos was trying very hard not to stare.
And failing miserably.
"I'm not brooding," he protested, taking the tea. "I'm strategically contemplating."
"You've been 'strategically contemplating' that same map for three hours." Daenerys moved to stand beside him, studying the red cities. "The campaign against the slavers. You're finally ready to move."
"We're ready," Marcos corrected. "It's not just me anymore. It's an empire. Our empire."
In the year since their engagement, the Empire of Astoria had grown exponentially:
Population: 3,500 citizens across twelve settlements Military: 4,000 trained soldiers, including 200 elite guards Economy: Stable, backed by the Iron Bank of Braavos Alliances: Formal treaties with Braavos, Norvos, and Pentos (yes, Pentos—Illyrio had been forced to negotiate after losing power in internal coup) Territory: Controlled approximately 200 square miles of eastern Essos
But most importantly, they had something no other power in Essos had: unity of purpose.
"The council meeting is in an hour," Daenerys reminded him. "We're voting on the campaign timeline."
"I know. And I know what they're going to say." Marcos turned to look at her. "Garrett will advocate for waiting another six months. Mero will want to attack immediately. Mira will present seventeen economic scenarios. And you..."
"I'll tell them we need to move now," Daenerys finished. "Because every day we wait, more people suffer in those cities. More children are sold. More families are destroyed."
"You've become terrifyingly pragmatic in your moral certainty."
"I learned from the best." She smiled. "You taught me that power without action is just privilege. We have the power. Now we need the action."
Marcos felt something warm in his chest. Pride. Love. Something between terror and admiration.
"When did you become so wise?"
"Around the same time you taught me how to use a sword without stabbing myself." Daenerys laughed. "Which was, coincidentally, also when you stopped treating me like fragile porcelain."
"You were never fragile. I was just... cautious."
"You were sweet. And patient. And respectful." Daenerys stepped closer. "And I love you for it. But I'm fifteen now, Marcos. In one more year, by even your world's standards, I'll be an adult. We've waited. We've built trust. We've built something real."
"Dany..."
"I'm not asking for anything you're not ready to give," she said softly. "I'm just saying: I'm ready. For whatever comes next. Whenever you are."
Before Marcos could respond, the door burst open.
Garrett stood there, looking like he'd run the entire way.
"Jefe—sorry, Marcos—we have a situation."
"What kind of situation?"
"The good kind. Or possibly the terrifying kind. Still determining which." Garrett was grinning. "Khal Drogo is here. With a gift for the wedding he heard you're planning."
"We haven't announced a wedding date," Marcos said.
"Try telling that to Drogo. He brought fifty horses, a wagon full of Dothraki weapons, and apparently a 'surprise' he won't tell anyone about." Garrett paused. "Also, he challenged you to that rematch you promised him."
"Of course he did." Marcos looked at Daenerys. "Rain check on this conversation?"
"Always." She was already strapping on her sword. "But Marcos? We're having this conversation. Soon."
"I know."
As they walked toward the gates where Drogo was waiting, Marcos realized something: his life had become a strange combination of empire building, relationship navigation, and apparently fighting Dothraki Khals for fun.
And somehow, impossibly, it was exactly what he wanted.
The Training Grounds
Khal Drogo stood in the center of the arena they'd built specifically for military training. He looked exactly as Marcos remembered: massive, intimidating, and grinning like this was the best day of his life.
"Maegi! You got fat!" Drogo called out.
Marcos looked down at himself. Thanks to daily training and the passive enhancement from Anos's powers, he was actually in the best shape of both his lives.
"I'm literally more fit than I've ever been."
"Exactly! Too much muscle! Slow! I will destroy you!" Drogo laughed.
"You say that like you didn't lose last time."
"Last time was fluke! This time, I know your tricks!" Drogo cracked his knuckles. "Also, last time I went easy on you. Out of respect. This time, no respect. Only glory."
"You're saying you lost on purpose?" Marcos raised an eyebrow.
"I'm saying I will not lose on purpose this time." Drogo's grin widened. "Subtle difference."
"That's not subtle at all."
"Then fight me and prove me wrong!"
By this point, half of Astoria had gathered to watch. It wasn't every day you got to see your leader fight a Dothraki Khal in single combat.
Daenerys was in the front row, looking amused.
Garrett was taking bets. (He was betting on Marcos, which was loyal if not necessarily smart.)
Mero was already drunk, despite it being 10 AM. (It was impressive in its own way.)
"Rules," Marcos called out. "Same as last time. Hand to hand. No weapons. No magic. First to yield or can't continue loses."
"Agreed." Drogo stripped off his vest. "But this time, when I win, you give me gift."
"What gift?"
"That thing you do. The creating blocks from air. Teach me." Drogo looked serious. "I want to build permanent home for my khalasar. Not just tents. Real buildings. Like yours."
Marcos blinked. That was... unexpectedly thoughtful.
"If you win, I'll teach you. Or at least, I'll build something for you." Marcos stripped off his own shirt. "And if I win?"
"Then I give you the surprise I brought." Drogo's smile turned mysterious. "You will like it. Trust me."
"Trusting you sounds like a recipe for chaos."
"Yes! Exactly!"
They squared off.
And for the third time in their acquaintance, Marcos Vidal and Khal Drogo fought.
It was brutal.
Drogo had learned from their last encounter. He was faster, more cautious, less predictable.
Marcos had also improved. A year of regular training with Garrett and Mero had sharpened his skills beyond what Anos's knowledge provided.
They traded blows. Dodged. Grappled.
The crowd roared.
Fifteen minutes in, both were bleeding from split lips and breathing hard.
"You... got better..." Drogo panted.
"You... too..." Marcos wheezed.
They circled each other.
Then Drogo feinted left, went right, and landed a solid punch to Marcos's ribs.
Marcos felt something crack. (Not break—his magical reinforcement prevented that—but definitely crack.)
He retaliated with a sweep kick that took Drogo's legs out from under him.
The Khal hit the ground.
Hard.
But rolled immediately, coming up in a crouch.
"Draw?" Drogo suggested, grinning despite the blood. "We both know this could go either way."
"Draw," Marcos agreed, spitting blood. "And honestly, I'm too old for this shit."
"You're twenty-nine!"
"Exactly. Ancient."
They helped each other up, gripped arms in a warrior's embrace, and the crowd went absolutely insane with cheering.
"So," Marcos said as Elia rushed over with healing potions. "What's this surprise?"
Drogo's smile turned genuinely warm.
"Come. I show you."
The Surprise
Drogo led them to the wagon he'd brought.
When he pulled back the covering, Marcos's jaw dropped.
Three dragon eggs.
They were stone. Fossilized. Ancient beyond measure.
But unmistakably dragon eggs.
"I found them in ruins beyond the Red Waste," Drogo explained. "Heard stories of maegi who could hatch dragon eggs. Thought they were stories. Then I met you. Now I think..." He shrugged. "Maybe not just stories."
"Drogo, these are..." Daenerys had gone completely still, staring at the eggs like they were the most precious things in the world. "These are priceless."
"They are rocks," Drogo said bluntly. "Beautiful rocks. But rocks. Unless maegi can make them more." He looked at Marcos. "Can you?"
Marcos extended his magical senses toward the eggs.
And felt something.
Not life. Not yet.
But potential. Sleeping potential. Magic so old and dormant it was almost dead.
Almost.
"I don't know," Marcos said honestly. "But I'm going to try."
Daenerys was still staring at the eggs. Her hand moved unconsciously toward them, then stopped.
"May I?" she asked Drogo.
"They are gift. For both of you. For wedding I know you will have." Drogo grinned. "Consider it... advance present."
Daenerys touched the eggs.
And something happened.
The eggs warmed. Just slightly. Barely perceptible.
But Marcos felt it. And from Daenerys's sharp intake of breath, so did she.
"They're alive," she whispered. "Barely. Like a heartbeat so slow you can barely hear it. But alive."
Marcos reached out with his magic, examining more closely.
She was right. There was life in these eggs. Dragon life. Waiting for something.
For fire.
For blood.
For magic.
"Drogo," Marcos said slowly. "You just gave us the most dangerous and most valuable gift anyone could possibly give."
"Yes!" Drogo looked proud. "I am very good at gifts!"
"When we hatch them—if we hatch them—do you want one?"
"No. Dragons are not for Dothraki. We ride horses, not lizards." Drogo shook his head. "But if you have dragons, and you are my ally, then I have ally with dragons. Just as good. Maybe better."
"You're a strategic thinker, Khal."
"I prefer 'brilliant warrior with occasional good ideas.'" Drogo laughed. "Now. You promised to build something for me. I want permanent settlement for my khalasar. Not huge. Just... place to rest. Between raids."
"Done," Marcos agreed immediately. "Pick a spot within my territory. I'll build you something that will last a thousand years."
"This is why I like you, maegi. You make good deals." Drogo mounted his horse. "I go now. But I return in six months. For wedding. You will have wedding by then, yes?"
"I..." Marcos looked at Daenerys. "Probably?"
"Good! I bring more horses! And wine! Dothraki wedding gift tradition!" With that, Drogo and his riders thundered off into the distance.
Leaving Marcos and Daenerys alone with three dragon eggs.
"So," Garrett said, walking up. "Dragon eggs. That's not at all terrifying or world-changing."
"Nope. Not at all," Marcos agreed.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Hatch them." Daenerys said it with absolute certainty. "We're going to bring dragons back to the world."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Garrett asked.
Daenerys looked at Marcos.
Marcos looked at the eggs.
And somewhere in his vast repository of knowledge from Anos Voldigoad, plus his understanding of Minecraft's magical mechanics, plus pure desperate innovation...
An idea began to form.
A crazy idea.
A terrifying idea.
An idea that just might work.
"I have a plan," he said.
"Why do I feel like that's both the best and worst thing you could say right now?" Garrett muttered.
"Because it probably is," Marcos admitted.
But as he looked at Daenerys, at the hope in her eyes, at the potential sleeping in those eggs...
He knew they had to try.
Dragons.
They were going to bring dragons back to the world.
And everything was about to change.
[END OF CHAPTER 20]