Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

"What do you think I should do?" Dany countered, her gaze fixed on Ser Jorah.

Despite owning the world's only three dragons, no matter how bright the future seemed, she knew she had to remain patient and hidden.

Staying low and farming was the only way forward. Parading around with three fragile, vulnerable dragons would be a true act of folly.

Jorah thought for a moment and replied, "There isn't enough food here—not the kind needed to sustain three growing dragons. It's said that Aegon's Balerion could swallow an entire wild bull in one bite or even a woolly mammoth from the frozen wastelands of legend.

"With the appetite of your hatchlings, within a year, they'll have devoured every horse in your khalasar. But a single year won't be enough for them to grow into mighty dragons."

Dany picked up Drogon from the basket strapped to her back and cradled him in her arms. She tried to stick her pinky finger into his mouth. The searing heat of his saliva stung her finger slightly, but she couldn't even reach his throat.

When would he grow big enough to swallow a mammoth in one bite?

"Didn't I just send Rakharo to search for prey nearby?" she said, teasing Drogon as he squirmed in her arms.

"Have we encountered anything larger than sand lizards or feral dogs on our journey here?" Jorah retorted. "Carnivores need herbivores to survive, and the Red Waste doesn't have the resources to sustain prey animals."

"A dragon shouldn't rely on others for food. Starting tomorrow, I'll train them to hunt for themselves," Dany declared.

"If there's no prey, what use is hunting skill?" Jorah said, exasperated.

"I don't expect them to grow into Balerion here. I just need them to become strong predators so they won't be easily killed by those who covet, fear, or hate them."

Dany's eyes sparkled as she turned her gaze to the knight. Her tone became enigmatic. "Viserys told me that the lords and common folk of Westeros secretly sew banners of the three-headed dragon. They await the return of true dragons. What do you think?"

Jorah gave a bitter smile. "Your Grace, I wouldn't lie to you.

"The great lords are engrossed in their games of power. The lesser lords and merchants care more for fine wine, women, and the glory of jousting tournaments.

"As for the common folk, they only dream of endless summers—of orchards heavy with fruit, fields brimming with golden wheat, and sweet melons.

"They hope their lords show some mercy: not to ravage their wives and daughters, not to turn their sons into arrow fodder.

"They don't care about kings. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter. Kings have no bearing on their lives."

"So even if I left here, where would I go?" Dany spread her hands, her tone indifferent. "I'm not like Viserys. He wasn't naive; he simply had no choice but to arm himself with lies.

"Regardless of what I want, once the Usurper learns the last Targaryen has hatched dragons, he'll send his strongest, most ruthless assassins after me and my dragons.

"I spent years wandering Braavos. I know it's the most powerful and prosperous of the Free Cities. I also know it harbors the world's deadliest assassins: the Faceless Men.

'Valar Morghulis'—all men must die. For the right price, they'll kill anyone. They're said never to fail.

"The bounty on my head would undoubtedly be immense. But to a king, what's the cost, no matter how high?"

Jorah furrowed his brow, pondering her words. After a moment, he reassured her, "The Usurper is unlikely to send the Faceless Men after you. The wine merchant who tried to poison you in Vaes Dothrak wasn't one of them."

"How can you be so sure? Things are different now—I have dragons," Dany replied.

Because I'm here, Jorah thought silently.

Dany recalled a critical scene from Game of Thrones. When King Robert learned of her pregnancy, he convened his Small Council to discuss ending the Targaryen line once and for all.

Ned Stark, outraged at the suggestion of killing women and children, had quarreled with his closest friend and resigned as Hand of the King in fury.

That had happened about a year ago. And just three months ago, someone had nearly succeeded in poisoning her in Vaes Dothrak.

The Council's Deliberation

That fateful meeting of Robert's council was, for the king and his Hand, Ned Stark, a debate over whether to kill the last scion of House Targaryen. For the king and the other council members, however, it was a discussion on how to kill Daenerys and her "abomination."

One proposal was to hire the Faceless Men, a motion that nearly passed.

However, Robert, a king notorious for his extravagance, had drained the treasury and amassed crippling debts. Littlefinger, the Master of Coin, advised using a more cost-effective method.

Enter Jorah Mormont.

Yes, the very man standing before her now—a tall, broad-shouldered figure with an earnest expression.

Jorah had been a spy, an informant sent by King's Landing to monitor Daenerys and, if necessary, eliminate her.

But Dany wasn't worried about Jorah betraying her. Beyond the unreliable bonds of affection, there was no incentive for him to do so.

King's Landing had offered to rescind Jorah's exile and restore his title as Lord of Bear Island.

Compared to the rewards he could gain by staying loyal to Daenerys—the honor of serving a queen and dragonrider—what was that offer worth?

Bear Island itself held little value, and Jorah hadn't even lost his family's land. His aunt had already taken over as Lady of Bear Island. It was merely a stew simmering in the same pot.

In truth, without Jorah's protection—or if he'd genuinely wanted her dead—Daenerys would have been killed long ago.

The real concern was whether, upon discovering Jorah's unreliability, King's Landing might send the Faceless Men after her.

In the original story, political chaos had distracted the rulers of King's Landing. New kings rose and fell in quick succession, and Daenerys seemed to fade from their minds.

But could she truly stake her safety on the precarious "original plotline"?

"Even the Faceless Men are not invincible assassins," Jorah said softly, attempting to reassure her. "The kings of House Targaryen had no shortage of enemies, yet none fell to the Faceless Men. For the common folk, the Faceless Men are figures of legend. But against the King's Guard—legends in their own right—their tricks lose much of their potency."

His gaze grew resolute as he added, "Don't forget, I was once a King's Guard—a knight of your Queen's Guard now."

If this were Ser Gerold Hightower or Ser Arthur Dayne saying such words, I might actually believe them. But you, Jorah...

He was undoubtedly a strong knight, but as a bodyguard, he left much to be desired.

"Yes, with you here, I feel at ease," Daenerys said, flashing him a reassuring smile. "But let's stay here as long as we can, just in case."

She extended her hand, inviting him to walk with her. Together, they ascended the white tower above the castle gate, discussing plans to fortify White Cloud Castle as they climbed.

Once they reached the top, Dany cast her three dragons into the sky, where they screeched and soared.

Days passed, and following Drogon's lead, the white and green dragons also learned to fly and breathe fire.

The three vividly colored dragons chased each other under the blue sky. The sunlight shimmered through their thin, translucent wings, refracting into radiant halos—a breathtaking sight.

Pride in Her Dragons

"Drogon was the first to learn to fly. He was barely seven days old," Daenerys remarked, her heart swelling with pride as she watched him circle the heavens. "How does he compare to the dragons of the Targaryens of old?"

"I wouldn't know. Perhaps a maester who studied dragons could answer," Jorah admitted. Then, with a puzzled expression, he added, "But why such crude names? Aegon's dragon was called Balerion. Visenya's was Vhagar. Rhaenys had Meraxes. All were named after Valyrian gods."

Dany responded without hesitation, "My dragons and I are too weak right now. I don't want aggressive names to attract undue attention."

She paused, then added, "I could have named them after my ancestors—Rhaegar or Viserys, for instance. But I wish to draw a line between myself and the Targaryens of the past."

"Why?" Jorah asked, shocked.

In this age, in this world, nobles with any sense of family history took immense pride in their ancestors. Many even named their descendants after the same revered forebears for generations.

For example, consider the countless Brandons of House Stark, or the numerous Aegons and Rhaenys of House Targaryen.

Even Daenerys herself owes her name to an earlier Targaryen princess. Her name was derived from Daenys the Dreamer, a virgin prophetess from Valyrian lore, with only a slight alteration in spelling. Over a century ago, another Targaryen princess who married into Dorne also bore the name Daenerys.

"But I'm not like them."

The strength of the Targaryens once rested in their family and bloodline. For the current Daenerys, however, her foundation lies elsewhere. The dragons are her children, the Dothraki her people. The legacy of House Targaryen has brought her nothing but burdens and threats.

"Enough about me," she said, shifting the topic with a smile. Turning to Jorah, she teased, "You seem to know everything about me, yet I know so little about you. Why don't you tell me your story?"

"Me?" Jorah hesitated, his tone dry. "What is it you wish to know?"

"You were the Lord of Bear Island in the North. How did you end up thousands of miles away here on the continent of Essos?" Daenerys turned her gaze to the dragons soaring in the sky and asked lightly, "You seem to know a lot about gems and their value. Does Bear Island have gemstone mines?"

"If Bear Island had mines, I wouldn't have ended up an exile," Jorah said with a bitter smile.

He picked up a piece of milky-white stone from the ground and scratched a rough map of Westeros onto the stone slab of the tower window.

"Here, this is Bear Island. It lies in the distant Ice Bay, nearly as far from the Wall as it is from the rest of the North.

It's a beautiful but untamed place. A 100-kilometer-deep island with ancient oak trees whose roots intertwine, towering pines, and hawthorn groves that burst into bloom every spring.

But it's too remote... and very poor.

Unlike the stone castles of other nobles, my family's hall is built from massive logs. There are no high walls around it, only a wooden palisade.

Most of my people are fishermen, scraping by to survive. There is no trade to generate wealth, and without trade, there is no taxation.

The island's only notable resource is bears—but where in the North are there no bears? Traders visit only once every few years, bringing fabrics, bronze tools, porcelain, and spices. In return, they take furs. It's almost entirely barter."

He sighed before continuing, "Though it was a barren and uneventful life, I grew up accustomed to it—and I never lacked for women. Fisherwomen and farm girls wouldn't refuse their lord. And no, Princess, I never forced anyone."

"Before I came of age, my father chose a bride for me—a girl from Deepwood Motte, the seat of House Glover, our neighboring bannermen.

I can't say for certain that I loved her, and that brings me shame. She wasn't beautiful, but she was kind and good-natured.

We were married for ten years. She suffered three miscarriages, and after the last one, she never recovered. She passed away not long after."

(End of Chapter)

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