"Ser Martell?" The Dragon Queen blinked, uncertain. "Dorne's Martell?"
"He's from Westeros, but it's unclear whether he's from House Martell of Dorne," the Unsullied replied.
"Most likely he is. But how did he even find Slaver's Bay?" Old Aemon asked curiously.
Standing beside the old man, Rhaella—dressed in a deep teal V-neck gown—glanced sharply, her thick lips twitching before she quietly reminded them, "Whatever the reason, he should be brought here immediately."
Aemon nodded. "Yes, Your Grace, we should bring him in—"
The Unsullied, however, interrupted anxiously, "Maester, that ship is infected. Greyscale fever!"
"Ah!" The entire garden fell silent, then erupted in startled cries.
"Greyscale fever?" Rhaella's dark face turned pale.
"Has it been quarantined?" Daenerys' expression turned grim as she asked in a low voice, "How far is the ship from the docks?"
"At least five kilometers."
Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief.
The Unsullied continued, "The patrol boat spotted the vessel three kilometers out. Before our men could board, that Ser Martell warned us verbally. The patrol then forced the ship to retreat farther from the harbor."
"Is Ser Martell infected?" Rhaella asked anxiously.
The Unsullied gave the witch apprentice who kept interjecting a puzzled glance, then nodded. "He is. Not a single soul on that ship escaped infection."
"Seven save us!" Another gasp rippled through the garden.
"Please, continue. I'll go take a look by the shore."
Without dismissing her guests—or even changing out of her gown—Daenerys went directly to the garden wall, where Drogon was lounging half-asleep. She climbed up and flew off in the direction of the docks.
Tyrion exchanged a glance with Aegon and muttered, "Your relative seems to have even worse luck than us."
"No, they're fortunate," Aegon disagreed, shaking his head. "Maester Quaithe has just discovered a cure for greyscale. They made it just in time.
"Greyscale fever isn't the same as the greyscale disease. Anyone discovered to be infected is executed and burned immediately—prince or not. Ser Martell would've been no exception.
"But now that a cure exists, it's saved their lives."
Tyrion gave the young prince a curious look. When it wasn't about the Iron Throne, the lad was surprisingly sensible and astute.
Aegon hadn't spoken quietly, and those nearby, hearing his explanation, began to calm down from their panic.
Even Quaithe, sitting beneath the persimmon tree in the corner, seemed to turn her head slightly at the sound of her name.
Tyrion noticed her and flashed a flattering grin toward the red-masked Shadowbinder. Then he raised his voice in praise, "Indeed, Maester Quaithe is the most talented among the younger generation!"
"The most talented?" a guest asked curiously.
As they asked, several eyes snuck glances toward the blue-robed, wooden-masked sorceress in the corner.
Quaithe, however, took a step back, retreating from the lamplight into the shadows beneath the branches.
Seeing this, Tyrion assumed the taciturn, reclusive Ashai witch was just being shy again.
—The truly capable masters are always this humble, always this low-key.
The dwarf couldn't help but feel admiration and made a decision: to repay the witch who had saved his life, he would help make her name known far and wide.
—Previously, only the supernatural community knew of her as the leading figure among young Shadowbinders. But after tonight, he would make sure all of Astapor recognized her status: the number one among young Eastern mages!
"There's a legend in the magical world," Tyrion began, "Lisbon of the West, wielder of flame; Quaithe of the East, Shadowbinder supreme. Lisbon is famed across Volantis, widely acknowledged as the most powerful young mage in the West.
"But while Quaithe stands as his Eastern equal, I swear to you—her strength surpasses his by leagues."
The Imp's silver tongue worked its magic.
With eloquence and authority, he detailed Quaithe's status as "the most powerful young mage of our time," complete with evidence and anecdotes.
The crowd gasped and exclaimed in wonder, momentarily forgetting all about the plague ship just beyond the harbor.
At last, Quaithe could endure no more. She stepped forward a few paces and said flatly, without a trace of emotion, "Wildfire General, it's time for your medicine."
"It's medicine time already?" Tyrion blinked, then stood up, ready to leave.
Before departing, he turned back and said grandly to the crowd, "See? See how dedicated Maester Quaithe is? She remembers my condition at every moment. Truly worthy of being number one among the youth."
"Yes, yes! She absolutely deserves it!"
Thinking of the plague ship drifting on the sea, the possible outbreak in Astapor, and Quaithe's cure for greyscale, the guests began praising her sincerely.
A sea breeze swept through the garden, tugging at everyone's robes. Tyrion rubbed his eyes. Was it just him, or was Maester Quaithe's figure trembling slightly?
Overcome with emotion, perhaps?
Heh. With all this promotion, she'll definitely put even more care into making my medicine, won't she?
Tyrion followed her downstairs, full of hope.
The ship in question was a thirty-meter-long sailing vessel. Its figurehead, a mermaid, had peeling white paint.
The Mermaid.
Four longships bearing the banner of the true dragon surrounded it on all sides.
On the longships' decks, ballistae were aimed at the Mermaid, their bolts tipped with fire, forcing the vessel to sail farther away from the docks.
The movement was sluggish.
Only two dim yellow oil lamps lit the deck, revealing four or five sailors stumbling weakly.
The sailors struggled to pull on the ropes, adjusting the sails' direction.
They had no choice. If they didn't leave the harbor immediately—or moved too slowly—the fire-tipped ballistae would unleash, turning their ship into a blazing inferno.
—Just like everyone does when encountering a greyscale-infected vessel.
Now, their only hope lay in the black-haired young man shouting at the longships from the Mermaid's side.
Once, they had hated him bitterly. Now, they pinned all their hopes on him.
They hoped his name and lineage would be enough to sway the Dragon Queen.
"I am Quentyn Martell, son of Prince Doran Martell of Dorne. I bring a letter from my father to Queen Daenerys," the dark-haired, sincere-looking young man repeated in a hoarse voice again and again.
Even though the four surrounding longships remained silent, no one responding, he did not stop. He dared not stop.
Even he, a newcomer with little experience, knew just how dangerous their situation was.
In fact, if this were Storm's End instead of Slaver's Bay, he wasn't sure whether his father would rescue them—or simply burn everything to the ground to eliminate a potential threat once and for all.
"Screeeech—"A majestic dragon roar echoed from the southern skies.
The honest young man had never heard such a sound before, but his entire body jolted, and in that moment, he understood—The dragon had come. The Dragon Queen had come.
Was she here to save them?
Or would dragonfire rain down from the heavens?
The young man raised the oil lamp high and mustered all his strength to shout, "Your Grace, I am Quentyn Martell, son of Prince Doran of Dorne!"
Boom!
Dragonfire. Crimson dragonfire, laced with the stench of sulfur, struck the deck of the ship like a blazing sword from the skies.
It's over!Feeling the scorching heat wave rushing toward him, Quentyn shut his eyes in despair. Of course—there was no cure for greyscale, and the Dragon Queen didn't even know who he was. Why would she risk everything for nothing?
"Ahhh! Long live the Queen! Long live the Dragon Queen! Long live the Queen of Flame!"
Suddenly, a deafening roar erupted around him. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices shouted with uncontainable fervor and excitement.
What was going on?
Were the sailors of Slaver's Bay truly so heartless that they cheered at the sight of the Dragon Queen burning them alive?
"Ahhh! Dragon Queen! Mistress of Flame!"
The shouts came from nearby—and among them, Quentyn could make out the voices of Gerris and Archibald.
Quentyn opened his eyes and saw a sight he would never forget:Blazing red dragonfire twisted in the sky, forming a forty-meter-long staircase of flame. A tall, graceful woman was descending step by step upon it, barefoot, her skirt billowing like the robes of a goddess. She moved with elegance, like the incarnation of flame itself.
Flames licked at her pale, jade-like feet. The heat rippling from the fire caused sparks to dance at the hem of her pale gold gown, which fluttered and swirled in the thermal currents.
She commanded fire in midair, stepping lightly upon it as if it were solid ground.
"Seven above… she's the Goddess of Flame!" Quentyn couldn't help but cry out.
The beautiful woman on the flaming staircase seemed to hear his voice. The faint smile on her red lips deepened slightly.
"It's you!" Quentyn cried again.
The blazing heat from the staircase warped the air, and from afar, her figure appeared divine—elegant and ethereal with every step—but her features remained unclear.
As she descended three-fourths of the way, the sailors aboard The Merling King finally began to see the Queen's face.
—The Dragon Queen was indeed a Targaryen. Her features were exquisitely refined.
That was what the average sailor thought.
But Quentyn and his two companions stood frozen in shock.
Beneath her flowing silver hair and smiling lips was a face they recognized all too well.
Wasn't this the same Lady Lyra they had met months ago at the merchant house in Volantis?
"Son of a Dornish wine merchant, hmm."
The Dragon Queen took one final step and landed on the deck, just two meters away from Quentyn.
With a wave of her hand, the long fire staircase in the night sky vanished like smoke into her palm and then exploded outward with a soft boom, forming a two-meter-tall ring of fire-mist around her.
It glowed like a sunset, making the Queen within look like a divine being.
Even though she had proven through experimentation that she was immune to greyscale, grey plague was something else entirely.
Daenerys kept a distance of two meters from Quentyn and surrounded herself with a thin veil of flame, hot enough to burn pathogens.
As for the fire staircase…
She had learned numerous flame spells after being around so many fire mages—was it really a surprise she'd picked up a few more?
This particular technique, the Flame Staircase, had been compiled and refined from the spells of Rib-Man Bogba and several self-proclaimed fire-stair "masters."
To be honest, this "fire-control + flame stair" combo was flashy but not exactly practical.
It had serious weight limitations: the heavier you were, the more magic it consumed—and the harder it was to control.
Forget armor—even wearing leather or light chainmail could've caused Daenerys to fall from the flame staircase, just like the unfortunate Bogba once did.
Asking Daenerys to starve herself like Bogba and become a skeleton-thin woman? Out of the question.
She wasn't just a fire mage; she was a Knight-Queen. Her strong, well-trained body, forged through hardship, was not something to be given up.
Today was an exception. The Dragon Queen had come to a banquet in a light gown, no armor. That's the only reason she could walk the flame staircase safely without falling into the water below—A pool she had dug in the Five Dragons' Cave specifically to practice this technique.
"Your Grace, I beg forgiveness. I didn't know your identity last time, I…" Quentyn glanced back at the crew behind him.
"My companions and I were terribly rude. Please, forgive us."
As he spoke, he offered a formal knight's bow.
Yes—back in Volantis, Quentyn had even asked Lyra whether the Dragon Queen was hideous, ten feet tall with a ten-foot waistline.
"How did you contract grey plague?" Daenerys asked directly.
"Your Grace, this is a spy ship used to transport stone men infected with greyscale."
(End of Chapter)
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