The former Temple of Grace, now known as the Temple of Light, was a pyramid-themed architectural complex.
Though its pyramid was not as tall as Dany's Great Pyramid, the platform at the top was much more spacious.
There was a clear swimming pool, a red rose garden, a pale purple vineyard, a grove of green olive trees, and clusters of white laurel blossoms.
Women draped in red gauze posed seductively on the stone steps by the pool, awaiting the guests' selection.
All around the garden echoed with the sounds of men and women in pleasure—music from strings and flutes, the clinking of wine cups, even low moans and cries that stirred the imagination.
Tyrion stood at the garden gate, looking triumphant like a general returning from war. With a loud voice, he said to a stunned Aegon beside him, "Now do you understand the real reason I brought you here?"
"I'm not going to thank you," Aegon replied stubbornly.
"You hopeless boy," Tyrion shook his head with a sigh. "Without facing battles big and small, how can one become a seasoned veteran? And without encountering women of all sorts, how can one distinguish true love from false affection?
If I had the experience I have now back then, I would've seen through Jaime's lies in an instant."
"How do you tell the difference?" Aegon asked, dazed.
Tyrion patted him on the back, speaking with a complex expression, "Can you tell the difference between new shoes and old ones?
Sadly, I drifted through life for years before I finally understood this simple truth.
But now, you get to enjoy the benefits of my hard-won wisdom without going through the hardship yourself. Consider yourself lucky."
With that, the dwarf strode confidently into the pleasure garden, arms wide open, shouting, "My devout sisters, your Lord Wildfire is here to join you for evening prayer!"
"Ah, Lord Wildfire, pick me! Pick me!"
"General Wildfire, burn my passion with your green flame!"
The redwood sisters on the steps all waved and cheered.
"Who is that dwarf, and why is he so popular?" a puzzled sea trader asked within the garden.
"That's General Wildfire," a red sister beside him replied. "The great hero who brews wildfire for the Queen."
"Great hero?" The sea trader looked even more confused.
"The wildfire is for the allied army. If he makes a single mistake while testing it, he'll die on the spot. If that's not a hero, what is? Before General Wildfire meets a tragic end, we should take good care of him."
"Ugh..." The sea trader's face twisted.
An hour later, during one of Tyrion's little games, Aegon suffered a crushing defeat.
"Ah—!" Not long after, a scream of terror echoed through the pleasure garden.
The screaming nun was a blue sister by day, and donned red gauze at night to enter the garden.
"Ahhh—!" A moment later, Tyrion also let out a terrified scream.
"Ahhh—!" Aegon followed with a despairing cry.
"Ahhhhh—!" Panic swept through the pleasure garden. Nuns and patrons fled, shrieking in terror.
Dany was awakened from her sleep by the commotion. Upon waking, she immediately ordered the Unsullied to bring everyone involved to the top of the pyramid.
At the break of dawn, from the top of the pyramid, one could see a gray-white sea mist blanketing the city like cotton candy. The golden morning light spilled playfully across the deep indigo sky to the far east.
A cool sea breeze stirred the fog, brushed Dany's cheek, and jolted her fully awake.
"What happened?"
Aegon and Tyrion, disheveled and wrapped in blankets, slumped in lounge chairs like mourners. They sat four or five meters away from everyone else.
Clinton looked grim, his eyes flickering with unease.
The Green Priestess, Grazda, wore such sorrow that it seemed to drip like water from her chin.
"Your Grace, there's been an outbreak of Grey Plague in the city!" she wailed.
"What? Grey Plague? Are you serious?"
Before Dany could react, old Aemon leapt to his feet.
"Yes, it's the Grey Plague. Lord Wildfire has already been infected, and Prince Aegon is likely…" The Green Priestess hesitated, visibly torn.
"Waaah!" Aegon suddenly burst into loud, pitiful sobs.
"Seven hells! Aegon, you're infected too?" Old Aemon's face turned pale and he nearly collapsed.
"Sob… I was probably infected by the little demon…" Aegon wept in despair, tears streaming down his face. "Oh Seven, it was my first time… and something like this happened. If I had known, I would've never gone with him, not even if you beat me to death!"
"Your first time?" Aemon asked curiously.
"Prince Aegon and General Wildfire went to the pleasure garden last night," the old High Priestess explained.
Under Clinton's and old Aemon's reproachful glares, Tyrion sighed, "I did it with the best of intentions. The young prince is seventeen. In Westeros, he would've already received a proper 'noble' education. You both should know that better than I do."
"He could've gone to a maid," Clinton said through clenched teeth.
"In the Queen's palace? A maid of the Queen?" Tyrion mocked.
"Going to the pleasure garden isn't a big deal," Dany waved it off, then added with a frown, "Let's focus on how the Grey Plague got here in the first place."
Of course she knew what the Grey Plague was.
It shared similar symptoms with Greyscale, only differing in severity.
Strictly speaking, Greyscale wasn't that terrifying. If one avoided touching the infected area, the chances of catching it were low.
But Greyscale could mutate into the highly contagious Grey Plague.
To put it simply, if Greyscale was like the common cold, then the Grey Plague was a mutated superflu.
Even so, Dany wasn't particularly alarmed.
She didn't believe any virus could infect the Unburnt.
"General Wildfire was infected with the Grey Plague, but he didn't know it himself. It was during the fifth technique of the Spring Cry Ritual with Goti that she noticed the gray-black blotches on the inside of his thigh."
"Your Grace, Goti is an excellent Blue Sister!" the old High Priestess emphasized.
The Temple of Grace once had seven colored priestesses. The Green Priestess was the High Priestess, the Red Priestess was a sacred courtesan, the White Priestess was a noble virgin intern, and the Blue Priestess served as a healer.
There were also the now-symbolic Pink, Gold, and Purple Saint Maidens, who once served exclusively the Valyrian Dragonlords.
Seeing that the "Seven Saint Maidens" coincided with the Seven Gods, Dany decided to retain the institution. She redefined the Pink Saint Maiden as a priestess of song and dance, the Gold one as a scribe, and the Purple one to take on the duties of the Silent Sisters.
This girl, Gody, not only knew medicine but also mastered the seven techniques of the Spring Cry.
A doctor by day, a licensed entertainer at the Garden of Delights by night—what a talent!
"Are you sure it's greyspring?" Dany asked.
Greyspring resembled greyscale in its symptoms. Without large-scale outbreaks, it was hard to tell the difference.
"I've never been touched by a greyscale-infected person, so it must be greyspring. Only greyspring is airborne—it infected me without my even realizing it," Tyrion said in despair.
"No, not necessarily," Clinton suddenly said.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hidden it from you."
He sighed, then removed his long deerskin glove, revealing a palm mottled with gray-black spots.
Half of his middle finger had already turned to stone, entirely gray.
"Ah!"
Tyrion froze for a moment, then suddenly leapt up, pointing at Clinton and shouting in rage and anguish:
"It was you! You gave me greyscale! Back at the brickyard when we tested wildfire bombs—you grabbed my old cock with that very hand! Seven hells! Jon Clinton, you vile bastard!"
"I kept asking if you felt anything, didn't I?" Clinton replied, awkward and defensive.
"You bastard! If you were sick, why didn't you just say so?" Tyrion yelled.
"I—" Clinton was speechless.
"Ser, when were you infected with greyscale?" Dany asked.
Clinton glanced at the furious Tyrion and sighed. "About four months ago, at Grief Hold. Tyrion had been pulled into the river by the stone men. I jumped in to save him. During the struggle, one of them grabbed my hand."
The rage on Tyrion's face froze.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he asked hoarsely.
Clinton gave a bitter smile and shook his head. "What good would it have done? Greyscale is incurable. It's a death sentence. The curse has entered my bloodstream—it flows through every part of me.
Chopping off the right hand offers only the slightest chance of survival. And it's my dominant hand.
I still need to help Prince Aegon take the Iron Throne.
At the time, I didn't know the Queen had vowed to 'end the Long Night,' or that she had already traveled to Westeros.
I thought she would marry the Prince immediately, then fly to Pentos, ally with the Golden Company and Illyrio's fleet, and reclaim the Iron Throne first.
That way, Prince Aegon would become King of the Seven Kingdoms. Even if Her Majesty failed in Slaver's Bay, she could always come home."
"So long as I could help House Targaryen reclaim the throne within two years and redeem myself from the failure at the Battle of the Bells, I would return to Griffin's Roost and live out the rest of my days in the redwood forest where I first met Prince Rhaegar."
The room fell silent. Everyone was visibly moved, and no longer looked at Clinton with blame or resentment.
Dany sighed inwardly. This was a true knight, one of the old guard—just like Barristan, the White Bull, and the Sword of the Morning.
How was it that, under the rule of a mad king, so many knights of such noble character emerged?
Old Aemon let out a long breath and slowly said, "As long as it's not greyspring, it's not a major issue. Immediately isolate anyone who had close contact with Tyrion, and use a knife to poke the areas he touched. If—uh..."
The old man's face twisted. He could barely continue.
"Seven save us… the Lord of Wildfire has gone to the Garden of Delights nearly every night these past few days. Most of the girls there have… and our girls still take clients. This is..." The Green Saint Maiden looked devastated.
"Aegon, you only went there today, right?" Aemon asked hopefully.
"Waaaah…"
Called out by Old Aemon, the little prince—who had been sitting there blankly—suddenly snapped back to awareness and burst into tears.
"The Imp invited me to play a game. I—I couldn't resist. I joined in… Waaaah!"
What game?
Dany really wanted to ask.
"Don't worry. The blood of House Targaryen carries great power. We have a strong resistance to curses. Throughout history, almost no one with Valyrian blood has caught greyscale," Old Aemon reassured Aegon.
And it was true.
The Valyrian genes had been refined over generations—rarely did they suffer colds or fevers.
Many diseases that afflicted ordinary people didn't affect the Valyrians at all.
But there were two prerequisites: first, the blood must be "pure" enough; second, you must have a dragon!
"Stannis's daughter also had Targaryen blood, but she still caught greyscale," Dany said.
"Waaaah…" Aegon cried even harder upon hearing this.
"Shireen is different from Aegon. She's three generations removed from Princess Rhaella. But Aegon is your nephew—he carries the purest bloodline."
Aegon stopped crying, gazing tearfully up at his Aunt Dany.
"Lady Green Saint, close the Garden of Delights immediately and conduct a thorough inspection. Grey Worm, suspend the trip to Meereen.
Deploy all eight thousand Unsullied and five thousand trainees. Lock down the entire city. Go door-to-door using the household registry. Strip everyone and inspect them one by one.
Remember, all Unsullied must wear leather armor, gloves, and masks."
At that point, Dany turned around and asked Aemon, "How do you kill the virus… I mean, the curse?"
(End of chapter)
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