Before Daenerys, Princess of Dragonstone, was even born, her elder brother and father died in quick succession.
As the last princess, she was born during a difficult labor that claimed her mother's life. This was followed by thirteen years of wandering and hardship, until she was sold into slavery to the Dothraki.
Fortunately, Drogo, that seasoned warrior, treated her well.
But the God of Death soon found her again. Her brother was murdered by her husband, and her husband and son were sacrificed by a witch to the other face of the Lord of Light R'hllor.
This was merely the first half of her tragic life.
During her years in Slaver's Bay, she broke the chains of others while shackling herself.
After years of enduring hardship and finally returning to Westeros, she discovered she was not the prophesied child at all, but merely a stepping stone to help the true chosen one ascend to the throne.
Her loyal followers died one by one, and those who survived harbored ulterior motives. Mormont, who loved her, perished, while the man she loved betrayed her.
The dragon, once treated as her child, became a grand prize for the victor of the game of power.
(Author's Note: Daenerys is destined to die. Even if *A Song of Ice and Fire* remains unfinished, her fate is sealed. She was a reformer of the decaying old world, but what pioneer of revolution ever survives?)
It seemed like the two unluckiest people had found each other. A double dose of misfortune?
Well, Daenerys, now in a different body, certainly didn't consider herself unlucky—except for that initial moment of arrival.
She refused to live as a victim of fate. Anyone who crossed her path was the one who would suffer.
"Lynesse is a Hightower, isn't she?" Daenerys said after a moment's thought. "I remember the captain of the Late King's Kingsguard, the legendary 'White Bull,' was also a Hightower, wasn't he?"
"Yes, Ser Gerold Hightower is Lynesse's great-uncle."
"But she's a Hightower! Won't her actions bring shame upon her family?" Daenerys asked in disbelief.
"I've already brought shame upon my family. I'm a man without honor!" he said bitterly.
"She could return to her natal family. Did she ever go back?" Daenerys suggested.
"Rumor has it she's now Prince Tristifer's most favored concubine. Even his primary wife fears her," Jorah said, each word catching in his throat like a walnut.
But Daenerys needed to prolong his agony. "Have you seen her again?" she asked. "After you returned from the Norne River, did you go to Lys?"
The pain in Jorah's eyes deepened, and the tower-like man seemed on the verge of collapse.
"The Trading Prince is wealthy and powerful. I hadn't even reached Lys when he intercepted me personally. He..."
"He wanted to kill you?" she asked hesitantly.
This was a hurdle he couldn't overcome.
Daenerys didn't need to know all of Jorah's secrets, but if this wasn't clarified, what would happen if she encountered Lynesse again? Could she still trust him then?
"He merely used words to make me see the situation clearly—to avoid pointless struggles that would embarrass everyone. But if I'd insisted on harassing them, I would have vanished without a trace on Western Essos."
"I'm not afraid of his threats," the knight emphasized solemnly. "I simply ensured Lynesse hadn't been coerced in any way, and then I left on my own."
*Those two lovers probably hooked up behind your back long ago,* Daenerys thought.
"Do you still love her?" she asked, as if casually.
"Love? Love! A mix of love and hate," Ser Jorah replied, his voice strained. "Your Highness, please allow me to withdraw. I'm quite weary."
"Wait," she called out, cutting him off. "Do you... do you have feelings for me beyond those of a loyal subject?"
Like the original Daenerys, she couldn't reciprocate his affection, but she also didn't want to keep him on the back burner as a backup.
They had laid their cards on the table. If they could remain friends, they would. If not, they would part ways.
Without Jorah, without the ties to Westeros, she would rely entirely on the Dothraki, fully integrating into their society.
Ser Jorah's expression was complex, a blend of embarrassment at being discovered and delight that she had perceived his feelings. He paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "The moment I saw you, Your Highness, I thought you bore a striking resemblance to her, Daenerys."
In truth, Jorah was simply expressing his genuine, albeit veiled, feelings: the same intense affection he had felt for Lynesse upon first meeting her.
But to Daenerys, his answer was... zero points!
*You're completely screwed, you know that?*
"I bear no resemblance to her at all," she stated plainly, her rejection clear. "Even with Drogo gone, I will never marry another man."
Drogo was a complete stranger to her, but that dead man served as the perfect shield—a convenient excuse to give her suitors the "good guy" treatment.
*Who knows, if the Church of the Seven learns of this, they might even follow the precedent of Saint Baelor and bestow the title of "Saint Daenerys" upon her?*
Jorah, sensing her refusal, said, "Your Highness, I am your Queen's Guard."
After a deep bow, he turned and walked away with heavy steps.
The Kingsguard—those who renounced their ancestral lands, swore never to marry or have children, and devoted their lives to serving their sovereign—found their sole duty and honor in this oath.
As dawn broke, Daenerys mounted her little silver mare, a modified wicker basket strapped to her back. Three dragons, their serpentine necks coiled around her waist and shoulders, stretched out and nuzzled against her, occasionally letting out rough, hissing sounds.
The clatter of hooves echoed on the cobblestone streets. A thin mist hung over the silent, deathly quiet city, as if Daenerys had entered a dream world.
"Khaleesi."
"Khaleesi, are you leaving the city?"
As she approached the gate, two Dothraki warriors emerged from the archway, yawning as they greeted her.
"I want to train dragons," she declared, "and the plains outside are much wider." She instructed the Dothraki to move the "city gate" for her—a crude wooden barrier made of planks nailed together like a raft.
Although the three dragons could already fly, Daenerys's standards were much higher. The thought of those clumsy, fat-bull-like dragons from the TV series filled her with anxiety about her future.
*Difficulty turning, sluggish movements, weak hind legs, unstable stance, collapsing upon landing, wings fragile as rags, scales no match for hand crossbows, and long, brittle necks...*
With so many weaknesses, how could they ever conquer the world?
Last night, she had melted down all of Drogo's golden medallions and forged them into gleaming, golden chains. Now, cradling the dragon in her arms, she fastened a finger-thick chain around each of its hind legs—three links, less than 10 cm long, adding about half a kilogram of weight to each leg.
"Come, Big Black, you're the eldest. Set a good example for your younger brothers." As before, she tossed the dragon into the air.
*Clatter... Splash!*
Big Black flapped his wings furiously, but flew less than ten meters before crashing face-first into the sand.
*Hiss...* The Black Dragon twisted his head and stared at Daenerys with a plaintive hiss.
"Climb back yourself," she said without looking up, continuing to fasten "shackles" onto the White Dragon.
*Splash! Plop!*
The White Dragon fared even worse than Big Black, describing a parabolic arc as it crashed to the ground.
*Hiss—Boom—*
The White Dragon angrily spewed a thin stream of red Dragon Flame skyward.
"Don't waste your energy! Come back and continue!" Daenerys shouted.
The White Dragon ignored her, spinning in circles and flailing its wings wildly as it spewed Dragon Flame haphazardly.
Annoyed, Daenerys walked over and flicked the tip of its small head.
*Gaaah—* The White Dragon roared at Daenerys, apparently angered.
Unlike the Black Dragon, Daenerys couldn't use telepathy to soothe or reason with the White and Green Dragons. Their language and gestures were difficult for them to accept, making training incredibly troublesome.
Helpless, Daenerys bent down, supported the White Dragon's body, and helped it stand upright. She guided it step by step back to the woven basket.
She refused to carry him; if she did it once, he'd expect it again.
The reason she made them walk back on their own was to train their hind leg strength and their balance on land.
After a few days of observation, Daenerys noticed that while the Dragons had an innate sense of space, they were less stable on the ground than ducks. Ducks had only two legs, while Dragons had four legs and a pair of wings that acted as forelimbs.
Walking was difficult enough, let alone running quickly.
Daenerys didn't expect them to outrun horses, but without the agility to dart and weave, a grounded dragon would easily be surrounded, trapped, and injured.
A dragon's wings could never be trained to withstand a Dragon-Slaying Ballista, and their vast span made them vulnerable. While their torsos might dodge the bolts, their wings were easy targets.
If they were forced to crash-land in enemy territory, the lack of high-speed escape capability would be disastrous.
After a morning of training in heavy flight, Daenerys didn't remove their chains at noon. Instead, she carried them on her back as she searched for food.
Dothraki were specifically tasked with helping the dragons find prey. In the morning, Avanti and the other veteran Dothraki kept an eye out for small animals in the dunes and hills while herding their horses.
The prey was truly tiny.
Big Black's first "kill" was a palm-sized scorpion.
*Boom!* A thin stream of Dragon Flame crackled as the scorpion hissed and sizzled, leaving only a pile of black ash on the sand.
"Don't burn them! They're too small—it's not worth the energy!" she said, stroking Big Black's head.
Maintaining constant contact through the Dragon Spirit, Big Black and Daenerys were almost telepathically connected.
"Khaleesi, there's another venomous scorpion here!" Avanti shouted from atop the sand dune.
This time, Big Black struck like a chicken pecking at rice. His long, serpentine neck flashed like black lightning. Daenerys' vision blurred for a moment, and the scorpion was already clamped in his jaws.
"Dodo!" The scorpion's tail thrashed wildly against Big Black's mouth, making dull thudding sounds. Daenerys saw its venomous stinger, glinting with a faint purple light, pierce the soft flesh of his mouth several times.
"Are you poisoned? Do you feel unwell?" she asked urgently. The Dothraki had told her that a single sting from these red scorpions could paralyze a horse.
The Dothraki didn't dare eat the horse's meat, so Daenerys had it smoked into jerky to feed the dragons.
Jorah had told her that in the Targaryens' centuries-long history of dragon breeding, there had never been a recorded case of a dragon being poisoned.
Dragons were made of fire, with magma flowing beneath their skin, Jorah had said.
Though dragons had muscles and bones, and their skin was certainly not magma, their internal temperature must be extremely high.
At that moment, stroking the young dragon's scales felt like holding a scorching hand warmer.
Their blood temperature should be even higher.
After a long while, when the Black Dragon showed no signs of discomfort, Daenerys finally relaxed completely.
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