Daenerys Targaryen's fingers traced the rim of her teacup. After a pause, she said, "Ser, how many men are we short?"
Ser Jorah Mormont answered respectfully, "Princess Daenerys, we need at least thirty to forty more."
With the measure clear, the silver-haired princess was decisive. "Ser Jorah, I authorize you to hire fifty outright. When you choose them, weed out anyone likely to cause trouble. What this city needs most is stability."
Jorah bowed hand to breast. "As you command, Your Highness."
Daenerys nodded gently, about to ask more about the tourney when Dick hurried in.
He saluted the silver-haired princess first, then glanced at Ser Jorah, his eyes flicking restlessly as ever.
Watching the thief-like manners of Dick, Daenerys curved her lips. "Quick-witted Dick, where is my brother?"
Dick shot another look at the big knight, hesitating.
Daenerys smiled and shook her head. "Dick, everyone here is someone I trust. Speak."
Ser Jorah inclined his head and stepped aside, his dark eyes fixed on Dick.
"Your Highness," Dick said, "King Viserys is receiving several mercenary captains."
Daenerys lifted a brow. "Mercenaries?"
She was surprised. Why would her royal brother lower himself to meet "lowborn" sellswords in person? Sudden, and strange.
Cautiously Dick answered, "Your Highness, His Grace plans to hire mercenaries to serve as his guards."
A flicker passed through Daenerys's violet eyes. She met Ser Jorah's gaze, then asked Dick, "Mercenary loyalty is bought with gold dragons. Does my brother have enough?"
In far-off King's Landing, the Usurper's court still set a heavy price on the heads of the Targaryen siblings—and mercenaries cared little for honor. Did Viserys not see the danger?
Dick leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Your Highness, His Grace ordered me to find out where you keep your three dragon eggs."
Ser Jorah said with contempt, "He asked me the same thing days ago."
Daenerys could hardly believe it. "What is my brother thinking? Could it be—"
"I fear His Grace means to steal your eggs," Jorah said coldly.
Dick gave a firm nod at the stunned princess, confirming Jorah's guess.
Daenerys was speechless for a moment. Then: "They're only stones. Why would he set his sights on them?"
"Rubies, diamonds, fire opals—they're stones as well," Jorah explained. "But fossil dragon eggs are rarer by far. With three eggs, Viserys—His Grace—could hire many mercenaries."
Daenerys had never weighed the eggs' value. She recalled the day she received them. Who had sent such a costly gift—and why?
Viserys is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne… Her small face could not hide her hurt. "He is my brother. He could have asked me openly. Why choose this way? I'm his own sister…"
Seeing her pain, Jorah's heart tightened. Yet for her safety, he had to speak plainly.
"Forgive me, Princess. If you gave the eggs to His Grace now, he would rage—he would take your generosity as condescension."
Daenerys's good mood had scattered utterly. "Even so, it is better than taking them behind my back."
"Perhaps," Jorah said with a curl of the lip, "he does it to fool himself."
Her brother's distrust always pierced Daenerys's tender heart. She had warned herself not to shed tears before others, but her eyes burned despite her resolve.
After a long moment she mastered herself again. She would not be weak; she was the blood of the dragon.
"Dick," Daenerys said quietly, "find a proper moment to tell our King Viserys…"
She paused, then went on, "Tell him you heard the mercenaries discussing how much the Usurper would pay for the heads of the Targaryen siblings."
For once, Dick wore a solemn look. He bowed his head, accepting the charge.
A faint smile touched Jorah's mouth. He bowed. "Permit me to praise your wisdom, Princess Daenerys."
She managed a small smile and motioned for Dick to withdraw.
When he had gone, Daenerys rose and walked to the window, her petite, well-shaped figure lifted toward the light.
Jorah stood behind her in silence.
After a time, Daenerys's eyes shimmered. Softly she said, "He taught me what the game of thrones is. I asked him why, and he said: knowing this, I could better protect myself—or when I faced something terrible, at least I would have a different choice."
"He is a wise man," Jorah said, gazing at her captivating silhouette.
Daenerys laughed lightly. "He is a sham wildling."
Then, almost to herself: "He is strong—and kind…"
She stretched a hand toward the sun-washed sky; her fair skin shone. "He lets me sleep in peace… laugh without care… When I was most desperate… he gave me hope…"
A breeze stirred, carrying the silver princess's gentle voice.
Gawen Crabb? Jorah's eyes trembled. Love long buried surged up. He dropped to one knee before he knew it.
The knight of Bear Island raised his eyes to her, voice raw. "Dany, let me protect you. I will guard you always. I swear it—until death."
Daenerys's violet eyes stayed on the sky, filled with yearning, untouched by his confession.
She seemed to ignore him, and color drained from his face—disappointment, sorrow, and, most of all, regret for his rashness. Would she banish him? Fear took him. He could not bear to leave her. He knew he could not live without her.
Her clear voice rang out. "You are a warrior I trust."
Daenerys turned her face slightly; the calm in her violet gaze carried a princess's authority. "I have a beloved. Do your duty, Ser Jorah Mormont."
Jorah lowered his head. His lips trembled before he managed, grief-stricken, "As you command, Princess."
"Rise, ser," Daenerys said, turning to face him.
He looked up. Her expression was as gentle as ever, yet he felt a solid wall had risen between them—one he must not cross. He regretted his impulse all the more.
When he stood, Daenerys gave a faint smile. "Ser Jorah, my trust in you will not waver. I will not forget my promise."
She had once promised to help restore his lost honor and lands.
"Thank you for your grace, Your Highness," he said.
Back in her chamber, Daenerys's gaze went to the three dragon eggs resting on dark velvet. She walked to them.
Her fingers brushed the black egg—then stopped. Her pupils shrank. A pulse. She had felt a pulse!
When she probed more carefully, it was gone. Had she imagined it?
Was it merely her longing for dragons? She frowned… No. She had felt it.
The moon… the egg… an explosion… Yes—explosion! Daenerys seized the thought.
She ordered a brazier lit, then dismissed her maids. She would try her sudden idea with no eyes upon her. Perhaps it was some instinct sleeping in true dragon's blood.
Cradling the black egg, she set it into the burning coals. The black scales seemed to drink the heat and gleam; tiny tongues of red licked the stone. Soon she placed the other two with it, the three eggs nestled together.
She watched, motionless… The eggs would crack in the blaze; from the flames a dragon would return—that vision would be beautiful beyond words.
But the coals burned to ash. Heat shimmered around the eggs, and still the vision did not come.
Daenerys stared sadly into the brazier. Ten thousand years ago, they had lived; now they were only pretty stones. What had she expected?
She shook her head at herself. How could a fossil egg become a dragon? True dragons flew and breathed fire; they were living flesh, not lifeless rock.
She sat lightly on the bed's edge. Her most trusted knight had bared his heart, and she had refused him. She had kept her face composed, yet found she no longer dared to trust Ser Jorah as she once had.
Was it this unease that made her long all the more for a mighty dragon of her own? She dreaded returning to those days when every hour was fear.
She lay on her side and stroked the space beside her, slow and gentle. In dreams, he was always there… A tender smile touched the silver princess's lips.
The Vale—she would win it for him. She could. Her eyes grew firm—firmer than ever.
Stark camp south of the Neck.
News arrived that Renly Baratheon had declared himself king in the south. Robb Stark at once called his bannermen to council.
His blue eyes swept the tent, keen and cold. "Lords, Renly is not the lawful king."
From Deepwood Motte, Galbart Glover spoke first. "Lord Robb, we cannot bend the knee to Joffrey, can we? Our Lord Eddard was killed by them!"
Robb's voice was steady. "That proves they are evil—but it does not prove Renly is king. Joffrey is the lawful son of Robert the First; by the realm's laws, the Iron Throne is his. If he dies…"
A glint of ice crossed his gaze. "Forgive me. I burn with hatred for those who harmed my father."
Heads nodded all around. This was the North—first men repay blood with blood.
"Even if he dies," Robb continued, "there is a younger brother. The succession passes to Tommen."
Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort said coolly, "Stannis does not lie. Tommen is a Lannister through and through."
Robb inclined his head. "Just so."
"And even if both were dead, it would still not fall to Renly to claim the crown. He has an elder brother. As Bran cannot precede me as Lord of Winterfell, so Renly cannot precede Stannis in the succession."
Lady Dacey Mormont nodded firm approval. "Stannis is indeed more entitled than Renly to sit the Iron Throne."
Roose's voice rustled like a winter wind. "My lords, Renly already has Highgarden and Storm's End. Dorne will hardly stand idle.
"If Winterfell and Riverrun join him, five of the Seven Great Houses would answer his call. Should House Arryn also march, that would be six of seven!
"Six against one—my lords, in less than a year we could set the heads of the Whore Queen, the Bastard King, Lord Tywin, the Kingslayer, the Imp, and Ser Kevan all upon our spears.
"We need only join King Renly to gather such rich fruit. Why cast all aside to follow Lord Stannis? What profit is there?"
Robb ignored the murmurs of assent and held fast. "By law, Stannis's claim stands before Renly's."
As the tent fixed on him, he went on, "The Lannisters say my father was a rebel and tried to murder the king. We all know that is a shameless lie. But if Joffrey is lawful and we take up arms, then we are truly rebels."
Harwood of Hornwood—Lord Halys Hornwood—glanced at Bolton's ice-cold face and said, "Lord Robb, we might simply watch and wait—let the two kings fight each other to death. When they're done, we can bend the knee to the victor—or raise our banners in revolt. The choice would be ours."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.