Ago pushed his horses relentlessly, and within three days, they reached a village affiliated with Qarth. Daenerys and her group hadn't yet departed when a caravan of three hundred camels, laden with supplies, set off toward White Cloud City.
KhalS continued for four full days, losing seventy to eighty horses along the way. The group was nearly out of water and horse milk when they finally encountered the caravan's scouts.
Thus, the thousand-kilometer relay race finally completed its baton exchange.
Relieved, Daenerys turned her attention to her own concerns.
The two events—Mirri Maz Duur and the prophecy of the Dragon Seer—had made it clear to Daenerys: beyond dragons, this world truly held magic and sorcery.
She wanted to seek counsel from Quaithe.
As for why not the male warlock... well, merchant Xaro had been bad-mouthing him to Daenerys all these days.
"Warlocks did have a period of great power," Xaro whispered to Daenerys when the other two guests were out of earshot. "Even the dragon kings of Valyria regarded them with respect back then. But things are different now. Those blue-lipped fellows are like weak old soldiers in a dockside tavern, boasting of past glories while utterly forgetting that their strength and skills have long since abandoned them."
"They hide in the Hall of Dust, reading decaying scrolls and sipping Nightshade Water until their lips turn blue, whispering to themselves of terrible power, yet compared to their predecessors, they are mere hollow shells."
"What about Quaithe?" she asked.
"That woman..." A flicker of awe crossed the merchant's eyes as he stammered, "She comes from Asshai, the Land of Shadows. As the saying goes, 'It's better to swallow a scorpion than trust the Children of the Shadow.' Her power only makes her more dangerous, Khaleesi. Don't trust her."
Thus, Daenerys finally understood who had prophesied her existence.
It wasn't Maester Pyat Pree, the warlock who had been constantly babbling to her about arcane mysteries, but Quaithe, a woman so understated she was easy to overlook.
That woman was no simple person.
Seizing an opportunity, Daenerys nudged her camel toward the woman wearing a wooden mask and asked in a low voice, "Miss Quaithe, do you understand the art of prophecy?"
With a camel to ride, Daenerys naturally wanted to free her little silver mare.
Quaithe not only wore a wooden mask but also had an Arab scarf wrapped around her head, her face completely obscured. She turned her head toward Daenerys, her expression and eyes unreadable.
"Daenerys Targaryen," she said, her voice clear and cool, "we don't use 'Miss' in Asshai."
"Very well, Magister Quixi," Daenerys said, seizing the opportunity, "can you predict whether I will be able to have another child? Alas, my poor Rhaego... that witch Mirri Maz Duur cursed me, saying my womb can no longer bear life."
As she spoke, her eyes glistened with moisture, and her head drooped sadly.
Quaithe paused, then uttered the words Daenerys had longed to hear: "Cast aside the sorrows of the past; more important matters await you in the future. As for children... alas, I cannot predict such things."
"Why not? You've never even met me, yet you knew I hatched dragons and were still in White Cloud City?" Daenerys, seemingly unwilling to let anyone see her tear-reddened eyes, pulled the silk scarf from around her neck and wound it several times around her head.
Quaithe replied, "Prophecy is an elusive magic. When the Bleeding Star appeared, I sensed the power of magic rapidly awakening, like a sea tide surging over the towns on the shore.
So, I opened my eyes and strove to see the world's true essence. What I saw was you, taming dragons in the wilderness. Do you understand now?"
"Not entirely," Daenerys admitted honestly.
"Mortals fear and revile magic and sorcery, when in truth, it's a wisdom beyond their grasp. At its core, it's as simple and clear as seeing the eastern horizon blush with crimson and knowing the sun is about to rise," Quaithe said, looking at Daenerys as if asking if she finally understood.
"Maybe I'm just a mortal who isn't worthy of such wisdom," Daenerys replied with a wry smile, still not understanding.
"Heh heh heh, could a mortal truly stir up another magical tide in this world?" Quaithe actually laughed.
She explained for the third time: "I see the eastern sky crimson, so I know the sun is about to rise. If I couldn't see it, or chose not to look, I would know nothing.
So-called prophecy is simply the world laying information before my eyes. When I look, I understand.
As for whether you can have children in the future, the relevant information has never appeared. It can't be synthesized or deduced, so I don't know."
This time, Daenerys seemed to understand. Prophecy was somewhat like big data analysis, but while seers gathered information and synthesized it themselves, the collective consciousness of the world also secretly transmitted vague messages to them.
The dragons brought magic to this world, their influence as overwhelming as a surging Sea Tide. Thus, Quaithe could clearly see the "waves" and, beyond them, the instigators: Daenerys and her dragons.
The matter of the child might have far-reaching consequences in the future, but for now, the "Sea Tide" had yet to stir.
Before Quaithe's eyes, the sea remained calm and undisturbed.
Unless a being of greater power could pierce the depths with their gaze and perceive the turbulent currents in the ocean's abyss.
Such as the Green Prophet.
"Can you teach me about magic?" Daenerys asked Quaithe, her eyes filled with anticipation.
"Yes, you may come with me to Asshai. There you will find all the knowledge you need," Quaithe replied swiftly, her tone suggesting she had been waiting for this very request.
Daenerys hesitated, then suddenly realized: no one would be kind to you without a reason, unless they loved you.
Clearly, Quaithe would never love her. So whom did she love?
Her dragon!
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, and it is my duty and destiny to restore the Targaryen dynasty. My path lies westward, in Westeros. I cannot turn back now."
In that moment, she was not alone in her struggle; Murong Fu stood with her.
Who could doubt Murong Fu's claim to restore the Great Yan?
Quaithe, naturally, believed him.
Thus, she reverted to her previous taciturn state, as if she would ignore Daenerys entirely if she refused to go to Asshai.
Since Quaithe's path led nowhere, Daenerys had no choice but to seek an alternative.
"Great Warlock," Daenerys asked boldly, not waiting for privacy this time, "I've heard that magic spells are a special language, separate from the common tongue?"
Warlock Pyat Pree enjoyed talking with Daenerys, alternating between boasting about Qarth's grandeur and prosperity and telling bizarre wizarding tales, their truthfulness impossible to discern.
Hearing her question, he replied with delight, "Khaleesi, you possess the courage and wisdom to explore mysterious knowledge. That's correct. This world is filled with professions that wield arcane power, such as Shadowbinders, Warlocks, Alchemists, Moonsingers, Red Priests, Dark Sorcerers, Necromancers, Cloudmages, Pyromancers, Bloodwitches, Tormentors, Judgement Knights, Poisoners, Priestesses, Nightwalkers, and Skinchangers."
The Great Warlock rattled off dozens of magical professions like a seasoned scholar, leaving Daenerys wide-eyed and dumbfounded.
*Is this the low-magic, low-martial world of Ice and Fire, or have I somehow arrived in a "Baldur's Gate" on the continent of Faerûn?*
Maester Pyat Pree caught his breath. "Your ancestors in Valyria also had their own system of blood magic. Essentially, every truly powerful mystical system has its own magical language—that is to say, its own spells."
"Why doesn't everyone share a single system of spells?" Daenerys asked, puzzled.
"This..." The Warlock's blue lips parted, his expression hesitant. "Perhaps it's because each faction of wizards originated from different places. Just like we warlocks and the Valyrian Bloodwitches—two distinct civilizations with different languages."
This explanation was utter nonsense. Even civilizations separated by a hundred thousand light-years would arrive at the same physical formulas. In their math classes, "1 + 1 = 2" would still hold true. Truth might not be eternal, but it must possess certain commonalities. How could it be so arbitrary, as he claimed?
Beyond their failure to grasp true knowledge, their spells couldn't touch the essence of the world. They were nothing more than a grand deception.
As if sensing Daenerys's thoughts, Quaithe spoke.
"What is this?" she asked, holding up a piece of wood and showing it to Daenerys.
It was a smooth, yellowish-brown stick.
She honestly described what she saw.
Quaithe nodded, then turned her palm toward Jorah. "What is this?"
"A man?" Jorah hesitated.
Quaithe nodded again, then turned her palm toward Ili, the Centaur Maid. "What is this?"
"A woman?" Ili glanced fearfully at the Shadowbinder and answered softly.
When Quaithe turned her palm toward Ago, she said it was a lion.
Finally, Quaithe fully opened her palm. In the torchlight, a small, exquisite wooden carving could be seen standing upright in her palm: a creature with three heads and one body—a short-haired warrior roaring, a long-haired woman with a gentle face, and a lion baring its teeth and snarling.
Now Daenerys understood. Quaithe had only revealed a part of the carving to each person, leading to four different interpretations.
"Do you understand now?" Quaithe's wooden mask faced Daenerys, the flickering torchlight casting shifting red and shadow across its surface.
"Even the greatest mage cannot grasp the whole truth," Daenerys nodded.
In essence, it was the wizarding world's version of "blind men feeling an elephant."
Jorah suddenly asked, "Warlock, when you mentioned Skinchangers earlier, did you mean the Children of the Forest?"
Every Northerner grew up on terrifying stories of Skinchangers. They might not have heard of figures like the Moonsinger or the Cloudmage, but the Skinchanger left an impression as vivid as the Rat Cook.
"They've vanished?" The Warlock shook his head with a wry smile. "Andals, I understand your mindset. The Children of the Forest are legends, and Skinchangers are legends too. The world is exactly as your scholars expect: devoid of any trace of miraculous power."
"They disappeared thousands of years ago," Jorah said, frowning.
"They never disappeared," Quaithe replied coldly. "They were merely deliberately isolated and forgotten. When I left Asshai to seek my destiny in the West, I even bought magical ingredients from a Skinchanger. His falcon could pluck the Red Lotus from the mountain peaks."
"So the Skinchangers all fled to Asshai?" Jorah asked, simultaneously surprised and greatly relieved. He seemed to be thinking, *It's good that all the monsters and demons are gone.*
Daenerys, however, was unsettled. She clearly remembered that the *Game of Thrones* had explicitly stated that Skinchangers were exclusive to the Old Gods.
How could there be Skinchangers outside the continent of Westeros?
-----------------------
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