The four ship captains sat with hollow expressions, the memory of the violent storm that had ravaged their fleet more than ten days prior still haunting them. The fear was fresh, a cold weight in their stomachs.
Jason listened intently as they recounted their ordeal, describing a tempest so fierce it nearly sent their entire fleet to the bottom of the sea. It was a stark reminder of the immense risks that came with sailing. He felt a chill himself, realizing just how close he had come to losing everything. Seth and his men were lucky to be alive.
"You've all earned a rest. Don't even think about going back to sea for a while," Jason announced, his tone firm but understanding. "Take a few days off. Go home to your families. In the meantime, I want to start training a new group of sailors on the White Knife River. We'll wait for the new ships to arrive, and when they do, we'll pick our moment carefully. And when we do sail," he added, his gaze sweeping over the men, "we stay away from those dangerous waters. No more unnecessary risks."
He knew recruiting experienced sailors was a slow, arduous process. It was better to train his own, building loyalty and skill from the ground up.
"Yes, my lord!" Seth replied, a wave of relief washing over him and the other captains. A few days at home with their families was exactly what they needed to calm their frayed nerves and put the horror of the storm behind them. They had truly escaped death this time; another day in that storm, and they would have been doomed.
The carriage rolled to a stop at the gates of the inner city. One by one, Seth and the other captains disembarked, each heading for their own home. They were now sworn soldiers of Jason's fleet, earning a respectable wage of twenty Silver Stags a month. The captains, bearing more responsibility, earned forty.
Jason had also recently raised the pay for his land-based soldiers to fifteen Silver Stags a month. It was less than what the sailors earned, but the dangers of the sea were unique. Sailors faced not only the enemy but the relentless, unforgiving ocean. The work was grueling, the loneliness profound, and the conditions aboard the ships were often poor, with fresh water and vegetables becoming luxuries on long voyages. In both the old world and this one, sailors were specialists, a class apart from the common foot soldier, and their pay reflected that. Experienced captains like Seth were rarer still, and Jason knew they were worth every coin.
Far away, across the Narrow Sea, on the vast plains of the Dothraki Sea, a different kind of fire was being kindled.
Daenerys Targaryen watched as the body of her husband, Khal Drogo, a man now lost to a waking death, was gently placed upon a tall wooden pyre. The wood was stacked high and soaked in oil. Around her, the few who remained loyal—a small, huddled group of the very young, the very old, and women who had nowhere else to go—watched with fear etched onto their faces.
"Khaleesi, I'm begging you, think about this," Ser Jorah Mormont pleaded, his weathered face tight with anxiety. He looked at his young queen, her expression unyielding, and knew his words were likely futile. "This is too dangerous. It's madness."
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Ser Jorah," Daenerys replied, her voice soft but laced with an iron will. A queen's majesty had begun to settle on her delicate features. "If you still recognize me as your queen, then you'll do as I command."
Clutching the three petrified dragon eggs to her chest, she walked to a second pyre, identical to the first, and sat down upon the oil-soaked wood. A third pyre stood nearby. Bound to it was the maegi, Mirri Maz Duur, the woman who had deceived her, whose blood magic had claimed the life of her unborn son and left her husband a mindless shell.
Daenerys remembered the maegi's words: only death can pay for life. She would offer the life of her son, the life of her husband, and the life of the witch. With their deaths, she would cast her own spell and see if a dragon could be born from the ashes.
"Ser Jorah. Aggo. Jhogo. Rakharo," she commanded, her voice ringing with newfound authority. "Light the fires."
Jorah hesitated, his heart heavy with dread. He didn't believe in blood magic, and he certainly didn't believe that three stone eggs could ever hatch. It was all a terrible, desperate fantasy. But the queen he had sworn to serve believed it with every fiber of her being. As her knight, he had no choice but to obey. With a heavy heart, he tossed his torch onto the pyre.
Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo did the same, and the pyres exploded into a vortex of flame.
BOOM—
The oil-slicked wood ignited instantly, and a wall of fire roared toward the sky, consuming everything in an orange-red inferno.
"Aaaahhhh!"
The maegi's shrill scream tore through the night as the flames devoured her, a sound of pure agony that chilled the Dothraki onlookers to the bone. They stared, wide-eyed and trembling, at the central fire where their Khaleesi sat, their hearts pounding in their chests. They didn't know if she was still alive, if she had been instantly incinerated in the blaze.
But through the roar of the fire, they heard no cry of pain from Daenerys. There was only the crackling of burning wood and, from within the heart of the flames, an unnerving, profound silence.
The fire burned for what felt like an eternity, but was perhaps only an hour, before it finally began to recede, the towering flames slowly dying down to embers. The witch and Khal Drogo were gone, reduced to nothing more than ash and memory.
But then, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. In the center of the smoldering ruins, their Khaleesi sat unharmed. The glowing red coals seemed to part around her, unable to singe her skin. Her clothes had been burnt away, leaving her naked body, as pale and perfect as flawless jade, glowing in the flickering light of the dying embers.
And nestled in her arms, stirring with new life, were three young dragons, each no larger than a cat. One was the color of night, another of bronze, and the third a creamy silver. They stretched their serpentine necks, opened their bright, intelligent eyes, and let out a series of sharp, piercing cries that echoed across the plains.
Daenerys Targaryen rose slowly, holding her children.
Ser Jorah's mouth fell open in utter shock. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he dropped to one knee, lowered his head, and shouted with a voice thick with emotion, "Your Majesty Daenerys, long may you reign!"
"Whoa, whoa!" Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo, the three mighty warriors who had followed her, now fully committed themselves to her cause. They beat their chests and yelled the ancient pledge, "Blood of my blood!"
The hundreds of remaining Dothraki fell to their knees as one, bowing their heads to the ground in absolute reverence, as if before a god.
Daenerys summoned her handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui, who rushed forward with a silk dress they had kept safe, draping it over their unburnt queen.
"We leave this place," Daenerys announced, her gaze turning to the sky, where a blood-red comet now blazed a trail across the stars. "We will follow the comet's path."
Her followers, now bound to her by a bond stronger than fear, began to pack their meager belongings. They would follow the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, to the ends of the earth.
Ser Jorah looked on, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He finally believed. Daenerys was the true heir of House Targaryen, the queen who could command dragons. She was no beggar king like her brother Viserys. She was a queen forged in fire.
As the Dothraki prepared for their journey, the red comet was also seen in the skies over Westeros. Some saw it as an omen of doom. The maesters of the Citadel, ever practical, declared it was merely a sign that the long summer was ending, and that a cold, dark winter was on its way.
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