ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 52: The Shadow in the East
POV: Queen Daenerys Targaryen (303 AC)
From the high balcony of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the world seemed to surrender to a deceptive silence. Below, the deep waters of the sea glinted under the fierce light of the Eastern sun, washing over the harbor of the city I had taken by force. That bay, which for centuries had been known as the infamous Slaver's Bay, now bore a new name baptized in blood and liberation: Drogon's Bay.
I rested my hands against the warm stone parapet, feeling the balmy breeze blow through my silver hair. Looking out at the distant horizon, it was impossible not to find myself reflecting on the absurd trajectory that had brought me to this summit. I was no longer the timid, frightened girl whom Viserys had sold to Khal Drogo in Pentos; I was no longer the weeping bride who feared the dark of the Dothraki sea. I was Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, and the Queen of Meereen.
And though my winged children had been born from the fire of Drogo's funeral pyre, a monumental share of the political success and stability of my journey in the East was owed to a single person.
I turned my body slowly, casting my gaze back into the interior of my private solar.
Loungeing with lazy grace upon a sofa of white silk sat my chief advisor. She wore a flowing dress of deep blue silk that contrasted perfectly with her pale skin and the long, wavy golden hair cascading like a shimmering waterfall down her back. Resting over her face, covering the upper half of her features, was an elegant mask forged from dark metal.
It was a starkly different look from the one she bore when our paths first crossed.
In Qarth, when I was desperately seeking aid and ships to cross the sea, I met her under the name Quaithe. Back then, she wore a rustic painted wooden mask that covered her entire head, dispensing cryptic prophecies and riddles that confused my mind far more than they clarified my path. However, after the grim events in the House of the Undying and the fall of the greedy merchant Xaro Xhoan Daxos, she revealed herself once more in my journey.
I remembered questioning her presence at the time. I had asked her what a shadowbinder from Asshai stood to gain by aiding a beggar queen in the middle of the desert. She had merely replied that seeing dragons reborn into the world was payment enough for her existence.
It was then that Ser Jorah Mormont, consumed by his eternal paranoia and jealousy, tried to intervene. The exiled knight assured me that the woman was no simple Qartheen seer, but rather one of the magical leaders of the Northern Empire—an agent sent directly by King Stark to monitor my steps. Jorah had urged me to banish or execute her on the spot.
The woman's response, however, completely shattered Jorah's moral standing. With a cold laugh, she ridiculed the knight, declaring that preferring the company of a man foolish enough to try selling slaves under the watchful eyes of Ned Stark and Arawyn was a mark of far greater idiocy than any advice she could ever give me.[1] She made it clear that if the Northern monarch wanted me dead, he would never need to resort to spies or subtle infiltrators in the East.
That confrontation had left me torn, unsure of whom to trust. It was then that the sorceress did something that froze the blood in my veins.
Before my eyes and those of a jaw-dropped Jorah, she raised her hands to her head and removed her mask.
The face revealed beneath was one of breathtaking, provocative, and timeless beauty. Her features seemed sculpted by ancient gods, framed by golden hair that shone like sunlight. Yet the most striking detail was her heterochromatic eyes—one displaying the deepest ocean blue, while the other burned in a magical emerald-green. An overwhelming sensation of familiarity and ancestral blood sent a shiver down my spine that very second.
"— Who are you? —" I had asked, swallowing hard.
"— I have had many names throughout the centuries, girl... —" she had replied, a enigmatic smile gracing her crimson lips. "— But the name your people's history books should record best is **Shiera Seastar**."
The legendary Shiera Seastar. One of the Great Bastards of King Aegon IV Targaryen, the woman whose beauty and sorcery had incited wars and driven men to madness in Ancient Westeros. When asked how it was possible for her to still be alive after more than a century, Shiera merely cited high blood magic—the very arts she had been accused of and persecuted for in the past.
Upon discovering that I had another living relative of Valyrian blood in the world outside the North, it was impossible for me to send her away. That decision proved to be the greatest blessing of my reign. Shiera's counsel possessed implacable lucidity, and her magical knowledge had saved my army and my life on countless occasions during our march through Slaver's Bay.
"— You continue to stare at the city with that tragic expression, Dany dear, —" Shiera's smooth, faintly mocking voice broke through my memories.
She adjusted herself on the silk sofa, settling the dark metal mask back over her face.
"— Daznak's Pit is already packed for the opening of the games, —" I continued, turning toward her. "— It is the price of the political compromise I sealed with Meereen's nobility by marrying Hizdahr zo Loraq."
"— A useless compromise, —" Shiera commented, letting out an annoyed sigh. "— I have told you dozens of times: the problem with the Sons of the Harpy is not solved with marriages of convenience or diplomatic concessions. If you had listened to me weeks ago and let me execute every noble from the great families of this city, the funding for that terrorist group would have ended overnight."
"— I am a Queen, not a bloodthirsty tyrant, Shiera, —" I retorted firmly. "— I will not order the slaughter of dozens of noble families without direct proof of guilt."
Even under the mask I know that Shiera arched an eyebrow behind the slit of her mask, offering me a look laden with silent sarcasm that spoke louder than a thousand words.
Hours later, when I was seated in the royal box of the Great Pit of Daznak beside my new husband, Hizdahr zo Loraq, fate proved in the most painful way possible that my advisor had been entirely right.
The roar of the crowd, the cries of gladiators in the sand, and the smell of dust and blood hung heavy in the warm afternoon air. Beside me, Hizdahr smiled with arrogant complacency, gesturing toward the nobles in the stands. A short distance away, little Missandei—my loyal fourteen-year-old translator and scribe—cowered timidly against the stone structure, keeping herself under the attentive protection of Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont.
Suddenly, chaos erupted.
Shrieks of terror echoed through the upper terraces. Men wearing noble tunics and the terrifying golden-bronze masks of the Harpy emerged from every corridor, brandishing curved daggers and poisoned blades. The city watch was stabbed in the back before they could even draw their steel.
"— It is a trap! —" Grey Worm bellowed, positioning his shield in front of me.
Hizdahr zo Loraq took two steps forward, attempting to shout for order before the attackers, but his attempt at authority was brutally cut short. Two Sons of the Harpy lunged at him, driving their daggers repeatedly into his chest and neck. My new husband collapsed heavily onto the marble steps, choking on his own blood.
Panic gripped the crowd. Dozens of masked assassins surrounded the royal box, sealing off all emergency exits. Little Missandei let out a terrified cry, clinging to my tunic while Grey Worm and the few Unsullied present formed a desperate wall of spears around us.
Shiera Seastar, who remained standing beside me with chilling composure, clicked her tongue in annoyance.
"— Dammit... I hate it when these fools interrupt my afternoon, —" she muttered, her voice devoid of any fear.
She took two slow steps to the rear of Ser Jorah Mormont. The exiled knight wielded his sword with desperation, but his body was fighting against exhaustion. Years ago, his combat runic matrices had been summarily deactivated by the magical power of the Northern Empire as punishment for his past crimes of slave trading, reducing him to the strength of an ordinary man.[2]
Shiera extended her fair hand and gently touched the crown of Jorah's head.
"— Just this once, mind you... you fool, —" she whispered in a amused tone.
In the next second, a wave of mystical power filled the air.
The runic inscriptions carved into Shiera's arm flared to life in a deep, pulsating blood-red glow—the ancient master runes of her blood magic. That crimson energy flowed directly into Jorah's body, forcibly reactivating the dormant Northern combat matrices embedded in the knight's flesh.
Upon Jorah's body, his Northern-style combat runes ignited with vibrant power. The man's muscles surged, his veins bulged, and his eyes burned with superhuman fury. A wild, famished grin shaped the exiled bear's features.
"— For the Queen! —" Jorah roared, his voice carrying the power of thunder.
And for the first time in my life, I witnessed firsthand the terrifying force that had transformed the North of Westeros into an Unbreakable Empire.
Ser Jorah charged the horde of assassins like a living storm. His movement was a blur of speed and devastation. Every sweep of his blade cleaved masked nobles entirely in two, shattering bronze daggers, shields, and bone as if they were dry straw. Two Sons of the Harpy managed to strike the knight's back with their curved blades, but the steel simply bounced harmlessly off his rune-enhanced body without leaving so much as a scratch. It was a one-sided slaughter executed by a single man.
Yet despite the carnage wrought by Jorah and Grey Worm, the Sons of the Harpy were too numerous. Dozens of fresh attackers continued to pour up the stairways of the arena, pressing us against the balcony parapet.
Then, a colossal shadow blanketed the entirety of Daznak's Great Pit.
A deafening roar, capable of making the stone foundations shudder and shattering the box's glasswork, echoed down from the heavens. A violent gust of wind swept the arena, and in the next second, a massive mass of black scales and colossal wings crashed down from above.
Drogon had landed in the center of the sand.
My black son roared with primal fury, opening his massive jaws and unleashing a column of red and black fire that instantly incinerated over twenty Sons of the Harpy. He whipped his spiked tail, crushing assassins against marble columns and devouring those who tried to flee.
However, the Sons of the Harpy, driven by desperate terror, began hurling iron spears and darts at the dragon's body. Drogon roared in pain and rage as two spears pierced the membrane of his left wing. He began thrashing violently, blindly attacking everything moving around him, threatening to collapse the very structure we stood upon.
I felt my heart leap into my throat. A mixture of dread and fascination paralyzed my feet.
Suddenly, I felt a firm, warm touch upon my shoulders from behind. I turned my face to find Shiera Seastar standing directly behind me. Through the slits of her dark metal mask, her heterochromatic eyes—blue and green—stared at me with an intensity so profound and ancestral that a shiver of fear ran through my entire body.
"— You are a Targaryen, girl... blood of the Dragon and daughter of Ancient Valyria, —" Shiera declared, her voice resonating like a spell directly in my mind. "— Now is the time to prove your lineage. Go... claim what is yours by right, through fire and blood!"
Shiera's words acted as a catalyst within my core. The dread that had frozen my legs vanished completely, replaced by a searing heat that emanated from my very soul.
I stepped away from the guards' protection and strode firmly toward the enraged dragon in the sand.
Drogon swung his massive head in my direction, his ember-red eyes locking onto my body. He opened his jaws, letting out a low hiss as black smoke and glimpses of red flame began to form in the depths of his throat.
Recalling ancestral lessons and channeling the authority of my bloodline, I raised my hand and shouted in High Valyrian:
"— *Lykirī, Drogon!* (Calm down, Drogon!) —"
The dragon hesitated for a microsecond, but his hot blood still throbbed with the stress of battle. He let out a defiant roar and stepped forward, tensing his neck to unleash his fiery breath upon me.
Remembering Shiera's implacable posture, I grabbed the leather whip at my waist. I took another step forward without backing down a single millimeter and shouted in an imperious tone of pure royal command:
"— *Dohaerās, Drogon!* (Obey, Drogon!) —"
I snapped the whip hard against the sand floor.
The sharp crack echoed through the arena. Drogon halted his advance abruptly. The fire in the back of his throat died out, replaced by a low, confused growl.
I shouted once more:
"— *Dohaerās, Drogon!* —"
I walked directly up to his immense head, extended my bare hand, and touched the hot, rough surface of his black scales near his snout.
The instant my skin made contact with the dragon, I felt something deep and ancient realign within my core. Drogon's mind and my soul merged into a single pulse of consciousness.
Without hesitation, I walked along the side of his neck and began to climb. I fitted my legs between the massive spikes on his back, securing my stance upon his spine.
From up there, I looked back at the ruined royal box. I saw Grey Worm dumbfounded, little Missandei staring up at me with wide eyes of pure wonder, and Ser Jorah covered in the blood of the Sons of the Harpy. And in the center of them all, Shiera Seastar held her chin high, her eyes shining with ancestral pride behind her mask.
Even over the din of the arena, I could hear Shiera's mystical voice echo in my mind:
*— Do it, girl... —*
I leaned my body over the black dragon's neck and shouted Valyria's supreme command:
"— *Sōvēs!* (Fly!) —"
Drogon roared to the heavens, beat his immense black wings, and launched himself skyward with overwhelming force.
The sensation of flight was the pure definition of liberation.
The fierce wind whipped my face and silver hair as we spiraled above the great city of Meereen. The monumental architecture of the pyramids turned into mere miniatures down below. We climbed higher and higher, piercing the cloud layers until reaching a point where the world seemed infinite. I raised my right hand and touched the soft, cold clouds—which were no longer distant and unreachable, but my new domain.
After minutes of pure ecstasy in the sky, I commanded Drogon to wheel around and descend. The dragon attempted to rebel for a moment, wanting to head toward the wild lands of the Dothraki Sea, but with a firmer vocal command and the pressure of my thighs against his scales, I imposed my will. Drogon obeyed, descending in a controlled dive until landing grandly in the center of Daznak's Great Pit.
I dismounted from my son's back. Drogon beat his wings and took to the sky once more to hunt nearby, but now I knew, in the deepest part of my soul, that our bond was sealed forever and that he would never abandon me.
Little Missandei ran toward me, her eyes brimming with worry.
"— My Queen! Are you alright?! —" the fourteen-year-old girl asked, her voice trembling.
"— I am fine, Missandei... perfectly fine, —" I replied with a radiant smile.
However, looking down, I realized the state I was in. My hands and the inside of my thighs were covered in chafing, friction burns, and deep cuts caused by Drogon's hot, rigid scales during the flight.
Shiera Seastar approached with calm steps, observing my condition with open approval.
"— Now indeed, girl... you have finally claimed your power by right, —" Shiera declared.
She raised her fair hand, and once again her blood magic runes flared softly along her arm. A wave of restoring crimson light flowed from her palms and enveloped my body. In a matter of seconds, the pain of the burns vanished, the cuts on my thighs and hands closed completely, and my skin returned to its flawless, healthy state.
"— And now, Daenerys... what do you plan to do? —" the ancient Targaryen bastard asked, crossing her arms.
"— Now it is time to go after everything that was taken from my family, —" I declared with conviction.
"— If that is what you wish... but do not forget the people you freed in this city, —" Shiera warned with wisdom. "— Ensure everything is properly organized and secure in Meereen before setting sail for the West. And never fear your own destiny again. With a dragon under your command, you must show the world what real power is... starting by getting rid of these cowardly rats."
Approaching the center of the arena, Ser Jorah and Grey Worm dragged one of the leaders of the Sons of the Harpy whom they had captured alive. The man wore expensive noble robes and sported an open, bloody wound in his stomach.
With a simple wave of Shiera's hand, a pulse of blood magic hit the prisoner. The man's bleeding stopped instantly, while his entire muscular system was completely paralyzed, preventing him from moving a single finger.
I observed Ser Jorah Mormont. The exiled knight's chest was still heaving, and the Northern runes reactivated by Shiera continued to pulse with power upon his skin.
"— How are you feeling, Ser Jorah? —" I asked.
The knight looked down at his strengthened hands, letting out a short, emotional laugh.
"— I feel truly alive for the first time in many years, my Queen, —" Jorah replied, bowing his head.
I looked at Shiera with an unspoken plea in my eyes, silently begging her not to deactivate the knight's runes again.
Shiera let out a low laugh, shaking her head.
"— Very well... I shall grant you this as a gift for your performance today, knight, —" she conceded to Jorah. "— Now let us bring an end to this farce."
Shiera walked over to the paralyzed Harpy leader. With a single fluid motion of her fair arm, she grabbed the grown man by the neck and lifted him off the ground as if he were nothing more than a light feather. In the next second, dark blue veins began spreading across the prisoner's face as Shiera's mind magic invaded and shattered the man's mental barriers.
After a few seconds of absolute mental invasion, the prisoner convulsed silently.
*CRACK!*
With a swift motion devoid of physical strain, Shiera snapped the terror leader's neck and tossed the useless corpse onto the arena sand.
She turned her masked face back toward me, her posture emanating ancient authority.
"— I now have the complete list with every noble family name that funded this foolish rebellion, —" Shiera revealed, her voice carrying solemn gravity. "— And now, Daenerys Stormborn... what will you give to these people and to this continent?"
I looked out at the city of Meereen in the distance, feeling the blood of Ancient Valyria and Drogon's fire burn with unshakeable conviction inside my chest.
"— They will receive fire and blood, aunt."
[1] If you find yourself wondering later on—after she has freed several cities from slavery—why she keeps someone around who was banished for selling people into slavery, the reason is that here he didn't actually sell anyone; he only attempted to. So, even though Daenerys is angry and disappointed, she still keeps him by her side.
[2] He fled when he was discovered and wasn't caught; since he broke the rules of the North, Arawyn can deactivate the runes from afar, so they serve merely as tattoos and a reminder for him.