Chapter 138: Reborn, Part 1
"Chapter 138: Reborn, Part 1"
Daenerys smiled and said, "Ser Jorah, I am very grateful for your counsel. I will need you to continue offering me advice, and I promise I will listen carefully."
Jorah, his face downcast, placed a hand on his chest and bowed slightly.
Daenerys Targaryen's lips curved into a smile, and she nodded softly.
She tilted her head to look at the disdainful Viserys Targaryen.
"Brother, Ser Jorah is not some vagrant; he is the Princess of Dragonstone's sworn shield. I have entrusted my safety to him."
Ser Jorah abruptly raised his head to look at Daenerys. His pupils dilated and contracted a few times, and though his lips moved, no sound came out.
"Ha~!"
Viserys shot to his feet, his expression somewhat contorted. "Daenerys~ my dear sister, did I hear you correctly? Are you defying a king?"
He stood up and shrieked, "I am King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, Viserys, Third of His Name, the one true king on the Iron Throne!"
As he spoke the last words, Viserys's voice seemed to turn into an angry roar.
Daenerys's gaze wavered. When did her brother become like this? She could no longer clearly remember. It seemed to have started after he sold their mother's crown; that was when he became so quick to anger.
Daenerys remembered the dress Magister Illyrio had given her. She had never seen such beautiful clothes and couldn't help but put them on immediately, feeling so happy at that moment. But before long, her brother had found her in a fit of rage and ripped the dress from her body. The handmaiden who had always taken such good care of her ended up losing her life.
From then on, unless it was something her brother personally brought her, Daenerys never dared to accept gifts from anyone else. Even Illyrio had to pass things through her brother… until she met Lord Glyn.
Many things had happened since then. She still clearly remembered how she felt back then. The constant fear and anxiety, day and night, had made her secretly consider escaping from her brother many times.
But Viserys was her only family. Daenerys could not bear to leave him.
Because he was family, no matter how afraid she was, Daenerys would always stay carefully by his side. But what if it were someone else?
In the past, when her brother flew into a rage, Daenerys's heart would be filled with only terror. But now, she felt more helplessness. Would the people of the Seven Kingdoms ever love King Viserys?
…
Daenerys expressionlessly used the back of her hand to wipe away a tear that had not yet fallen.
"Brother, no one denies that you are our king, I promise!"
Viserys's cold smile deepened, his voice filled with sarcasm. "Good sister, I find myself growing more and more suspicious of your promises."
Daenerys said sincerely, "Viserys, Khal Drogo needs less than a year. Please, leave it to me, won't you? You will get the army you need to take back the Iron Throne."
"The Iron Throne…"
Viserys murmured the words, his face breaking into a smile. "My good sister, of course I believe you. The king will keep his promise, but don't make me wait too long!"
He shot a hateful glare at the expressionless Ser Jorah and added, "Sooner or later, I will show you the consequences of betraying your king."
After Viserys left, Daenerys bowed her head and said softly, "Ser Jorah, you have never betrayed anyone. I apologize to you on Viserys's behalf."
Daenerys was mentally and physically exhausted, a weak smile on her small face.
After a moment of silence, Jorah said solemnly, "Your Grace, I paid it no mind. A Mormont does not waver."
When Daenerys tried to stand up from the chair, her body swayed from the sheer pain. She clutched the armrest tightly and then raised a hand to refuse Jorah's offered help.
Daenerys wiped the cold sweat from her forehead and said with forced lightness, "I never imagined that marching would be so exhausting."
Jorah glanced at Daenerys, a worried expression flashing across his face.
"Your Grace, it is always like this at the beginning. You will get used to it soon. You are much stronger than most people I have met."
…
Evening.
Because the skin on her inner thighs was chafed raw, Daenerys could not bathe. With the help of her handmaidens, she could only wipe herself down with a damp cloth.
Daenerys curled up on the bed and wept silently.
During the day, Daenerys had to be the strong Princess of Dragonstone, but at night, when she was alone, she couldn't help but shed tears.
Her plan had been well-laid, but she now understood that thinking and doing were two entirely different things. In her heart, she was truly terrified. She didn't know if she could persevere, or for how much longer.
The night was deep, but Daenerys was in too much pain to fall asleep.
"Daenerys, don't be afraid..."
The man she longed for had appeared beside her at some unknown time. He was softly comforting her, looking at her deeply… there was only her in his eyes.
Daenerys's heart was both shy and secretly joyful. Her body suddenly stopped aching, leaving only a thick, syrupy sweetness.
Daenerys reached out her hand, wanting to caress the man's face, and then… she would bravely respond to his love. They would entwine, never to be parted again.
Just as her fingertips were about to make contact, everything around her suddenly shattered. She was now standing before a great dragon.
There was no bed here, nor was there Glyn, only Daenerys and the dragon. She clenched her fingers into a tight fist.
The dragon's scales were as black as the night, slick with moisture. For some reason, Daenerys felt it was the blood she had shed these past few days.
The dragon's eyes were two pools of molten rock. It suddenly opened its mouth, and flames shot forth. Watching the surging fire spray towards her, Daenerys heard the dragon's song. So she spread her arms wide, embraced the fire, and let it consume her completely.
Daenerys could clearly feel her flesh charring, turning black, and sloughing off, her blood boiling and evaporating, yet there was no pain at all. Instead, she felt strong and solid, as if reborn.
Dawn was breaking.
Daenerys opened her eyes. She blinked, and, for some unknown reason, suddenly turned to look at the other side of the bed.
Daenerys stared blankly at the empty space for a moment. So… it was just a dream? A look of disappointment filled her small face.
When she rose from the bed, Daenerys habitually furrowed her brow, but she felt no unbearable pain.
Daenerys discovered that the pain in her body seemed to have vanished. She couldn't help but pace back and forth in the room. She was overjoyed to find that not only had her soreness healed, but her body had also become stronger than before. Her soft thighs were now exceptionally firm. She no longer had to worry about riding a horse.
…
…
In the Red Keep, Lord Eddard strode out of the Tower of the Hand with Jory.
Today was Lord Eddard's fifth day in the Red Keep. For the past few days, he had been outwardly busy with the Hand's tourney, but secretly, he had already begun investigating the death of Jon Arryn.
An undisguised exhaustion was etched on Lord Eddard's solemn face. He was not accustomed to the duplicitous ways of the Red Keep; it wore on his soul. He greatly missed the simple directness of the North.
Regardless, Lord Eddard had never thought of retreating. A direwolf does not give up halfway just because it runs into difficulties.
…
Lord Eddard casually glanced at the bookshelves filled with tomes and various potions.
Pycelle bowed tremblingly. "Lord Eddard, I didn't expect you to come in person. I am at your service."
Lord Eddard nodded slightly, wondering whose orders Maester Pycelle truly served.
"Maester Pycelle, please sit down."
Pycelle was old and decrepit. Lord Eddard had many questions to ask, and he didn't want something unexpected to happen halfway through.
Pycelle first nodded his thanks, as if greatly moved by Lord Eddard's kindness.
After Pycelle had seated himself, Lord Eddard began, "I heard that shortly before Hand Jon passed away, he borrowed a book from you. I would like to see which one."
Pycelle's fingers twitched inside his sleeve. "That would be a volume by Maester Meryn," he said. "It concerns the lineages of the great houses. I fear you will find it quite dull."
Lord Eddard sat opposite Pycelle and said, "It does not matter. I only wish to see it."
Pycelle did not insist further. His cloudy gaze swept across the bookshelf. "I believe I put it right here. The contents are so tedious, I confess I paid it little mind. I will have an attendant find it for me shortly. I will have it sent to the Tower of the Hand before nightfall."
"Pycelle, you are most considerate."
"To serve you is my greatest honor…"
After Maester Pycelle finished speaking, he coughed a few times, his breathing growing a little rougher.
Eddard's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. "Pycelle," he said, "if your body permits, I would like to hear about the circumstances before Hand Jon passed away. I heard you were responsible for his treatment."
Pycelle sighed, paused, and then said, "Lord Eddard, Hand Jon's death was a heavy blow to us all. I am more than willing to tell you of his final days."
Pycelle struggled to straighten his back to look at Lord Eddard, the maester's chain around his neck clinking softly.
He shook his head as if in thought. "To be honest, Hand Jon was often agitated before his passing. I have worked alongside him for so many years… I assumed the affairs of the realm were troubling him. Everyone knows he carried the weight of the entire kingdom on his shoulders. At least, that is what I thought at the time… Now, I dare not presume to know."
When Eddard spoke of Jon, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow. His friend had indeed toiled for more than a decade.
"Maester Pycelle, I want to know what illness he had. I heard he passed away very suddenly."
Pycelle spread his hands, his voice a mixture of sorrow and helplessness. "Hand Jon had been gravely ill once before, but with our meticulous care, he later showed clear signs of recovery. But then one morning, he was suddenly seized by a pain throughout his body and could not even leave his bed. Maester Corman believed he had merely caught a chill in his stomach. However, Lord Arryn's condition continued to worsen, so I had to personally intervene. But the gods would not grant me the skill to save him."
(end of chapter)