Chapter 49 — Hearts Are Ever-Changing
Drogon glanced at Shireen and motioned for her to open her bundle.
From his jaws, he gently pulled out a thick cotton coat, nudging it toward her.
Shireen obediently slipped into the padded jacket, wrapping herself so tightly that only her small face peeked out.
No wonder Drogon told me last night to dress warmly… so he planned to take me flying.
A quiet thrill warmed her chest.
Once she found a steady seat between his neck spines, Drogon kicked off with startling force.
His wings struck the air—once, twice—and without even needing a running start, they rose sharply into the sky.
Shireen's face went pale.
She clung desperately to the ridge of scales at Drogon's neck and pressed herself low against his back, not daring to move an inch.
Only when Drogon leveled out into a smooth glide high above the sea did she slowly open her eyes again.
From overhead, the ocean stretched endlessly beneath her like a rippling sheet of sapphire.
Above, the sky was a boundless blue.
In that moment, Shireen felt as if she had become a small bird soaring freely on the wind—the kind of freedom she had always dreamed of.
---
Far behind them, the boatman rowed across the waves.
Worried for the little girl he had dropped off, he looked back one more time at the barren shore—yet could no longer see her tiny silhouette.
Instead, his gaze was captured by a massive shape gliding across the heavens.
The sight shocked him so much he nearly toppled into the sea.
What… what is that?
So immense—far beyond anything he had ever imagined.
A half-forgotten legend stirred in his mind.
A dragon…? Could it truly be a dragon?
Then it made sense—why someone would abandon a child on such an empty stretch of coast.
She wasn't being abandoned at all… she was being retrieved—by a dragon.
The boatman rowed on, his simple thoughts spinning in disbelief.
---
Drogon hadn't dared take Shireen directly from Dragonstone.
The Red Woman—or worse, someone sharper—might have seen him.
That was why he had Varys arrange for her to be brought to remote island, where they could take off without prying eyes.
Carrying Shireen, Drogon didn't push for speed.
Two hours later, they reached the skies over Pentos.
He descended near a secluded coast far from the docks, awaiting the people Varys had arranged to receive her.
Shireen slid down from Drogon's back with lingering reluctance—her cheeks still flushed from the exhilaration of flight.
She had fallen in love with the feeling of the wind, the height, the infinite sky.
Even on this remote stretch of coast, a few fishermen had spotted Drogon's silhouette.
But Drogon paid it little mind.
Daenerys's power was already rising; Westerosi lords were too busy tearing each other apart to spare time hunting him across the sea.
And even if some fool tried, Drogon no longer had any reason to fear.
The world was changing—so were hearts.
And Shireen's heart, for the first time in her life, was filled with hope.
After shrinking back to his smaller form, Drogon shared a quick meal with Shireen.
Not long after, the boat arranged by Pentos arrived offshore.
Once Shireen confirmed the sailor's identity, she boarded. Drogon took flight again, shadowing the little vessel from above.
When they reached land, Shireen was escorted to a secluded courtyard—simple, but safe—and assigned a maid to look after her needs.
Only after seeing that she was fully settled did Drogon finally lift away, returning to Yunkai.
It was the longest stretch he'd ever spent away… and the hungriest.
He diverted to the Dothraki Sea, devouring a hearty meal before winging back to the city.
Not finding Daenerys in her chambers, Drogon flew toward the council hall.
As soon as he entered, he sensed something off in the air—tension like a storm waiting to break.
Daenerys's brows were slightly drawn, but the moment she saw Drogon—after two days apart—they softened.
She raised a hand, beckoning him closer. Drogon landed upon it, and she gently stroked the scales of his back before brushing his small head against her cheek.
Only then did she lift him onto her shoulder.
From that perch he listened quietly, and the situation became clear.
Varys's "little birds" had arrived with news:
In Astapor, a butcher named Cleon was rallying the populace to overthrow the ruling council Daenerys had left behind, enslaving the families of former masters, castrating their sons, and training new Unsullied.
Nor was Yunkai calm.
Though its masters had been captured, their followers spread whispers everywhere—rumors that Daenerys planned to unite Essos, Slaver's Bay, the Bay of Ghis, and the Summer Isles; that she would abolish slavery outright and execute every slave master.
Worse, the leaders of New and Old Ghis had already begun coordinating resistance.
Drogon wasn't surprised Astapor would fall into chaos—but he hadn't expected it this quickly.
A city built on a thousand years of slavery couldn't be stabilized simply by killing a few masters, installing three powerless advisers, and leaving behind no garrison.
But Daenerys had no better option.
The only commanders she truly trusted were Jorah and Barristan—and neither could stay behind.
The newly freed Unsullied were loyal, yes, but she couldn't strand them as occupation forces.
She had burned the masters of Astapor and freed their slaves; conquered Yunkai and captured its leaders; broken chains for hundreds of thousands—then prepared to march on Meereen.
Of course every other slaver-city now trembled and plotted.
Slaves were the foundation of their wealth and authority.
To liberate them was to tear the heart from the ruling class.
If Daenerys meant to break their chains and imprison their masters—how could they not fight back?
After long discussion, Daenerys and her advisors agreed:
the assault on Meereen would be postponed.
First, they must crush Cleon's rebellion.
Varys's birds would monitor Yunkai and nearby cities, reporting to Daenerys at once.
Daenerys would remain in Yunkai.
Jorah and Grey Worm would sail with three thousand Unsullied to Astapor.
The newly captured fleet—over thirty ships—was just enough to carry them.
Once the general plan was set, Daenerys leaned back, massaging her temples as she contemplated the aftermath.
They would need to leave part of the Unsullied as a stabilizing force—but also someone trustworthy and competent to govern Astapor itself.
The lesson stung: mercy alone had not been enough.
[Mercy alone won't rule a kingdom.
You need fire and blood.
A ruler who is only merciful is no ruler at all.]
Drogon's inner voice echoed softly from her shoulder.
Daenerys straightened instantly, resisting the urge to look at him.
He was right—she had been too merciful.
She never imagined a former slave like Cleon would rise up to enslave the children of masters—and that most of Astapor's people would approve.
Perhaps Drogon really was the reincarnation of Balerion the Black Dread—
two centuries of memory passed down in ancient dragon blood.
How else could he speak with such political instinct?
The old tales said dragons could inherit memory… perhaps they were true.
Daenerys's voice cut through the chamber:
"Bring Cleon and the other ringleaders to Yunkai.
I will sentence them personally.
All others who took part—imprison them where possible.
If there are too many, record their names and assign punishment later."
She had originally planned only to execute Cleon and forgive the rest.
But Drogon's words reshaped her resolve.
Barristan and Jorah exchanged glances—quiet approval flickering in both their eyes.
Drogon himself hadn't expected her shift to be so decisive…
but yes—such severity would send the message clearly.
Daenerys then turned to Missandei:
"After the rebellion is put down… who should govern Astapor in my stead?"
Her eyes gleamed with a sly light.
Missandei lowered her gaze, thought for a moment, then surveyed the chamber.
A tinge of embarrassment colored her voice:
"Your Grace… I do not believe you currently possess such a person."
Drogon pondered as well.
Tyrion could serve as Hand—if he ever escaped his fate—but not as a city governor.
Varys had his own path to walk.
Then Drogon's thought stirred again within Daenerys's mind:
[If the Queen established her own academy—like the Citadel—
and trained administrators, diplomats, scholars, generals…
would she ever lack people capable of ruling Astapor, Slaver's Bay—
or even the Seven Kingdoms?]
Daenerys's eyes widened—then slowly glimmered with possibility.