"You're infected with the Grey Plague. It's different from Greyscale—it's far more contagious. You can't go to the docks, and you can't enter the city. I'll arrange for a rowboat to tow your ship to the quarantine center."
"I built a manor fifty kilometers west of the city, specially for treating Greyscale patients."
"Is there a cure?" the blond-haired man asked anxiously.
"The antidote is still in clinical trials. The Imp is currently testing it. He's afraid the stony scabs from Greyscale will spread too quickly to wait for the final version of the drug."
"Are you willing to wait? I should warn you, the current potion can treat the disease, but the side effects are pretty bad—diarrhea," Dany said.
"Diarrhea?" Quentyn gave a bitter laugh. "When have we not had diarrhea? The Grey Plague is far more intense than Greyscale—it spreads rapidly, and the symptoms hit hard. Vomiting and diarrhea are normal."
"Alright, I'll go get the medicine for you."
Understanding their decision, the Dragon Queen raised her hand to the sky.
"Hiss—GRAAAH!"
A thunderous roar rang out as a massive shadow veiled the faint starlight—Black Drogon's silhouette loomed over them.
Suddenly, a dark red fireball the size of an egg appeared out of thin air, illuminating the dragon's ferocious teeth and jaws.
The magma-like fireball swirled and expanded, lighting up the area around them.
As Quentyn and the others stood dumbfounded, the fireball, now as large as a washbasin, spiraled down gently.
It floated like a fire sprite through the air and came to a halt before the Dragon Queen.
"I'm off now!"
She waved, then stepped forward. The fireball suddenly stretched upward, transforming into a three-tiered crimson fire platform.
She stepped onto it. With each step, another level of fire extended diagonally upward, forming a burning staircase.
Like a joyous fire spirit, the Dragon Queen ran up the floating stairs. Her skirt billowed, and her long silver hair danced amidst the crimson sparks. Her figure was graceful and light.
"Hiss—GRAAAH!"
Black Drogon flew past the edge of the fire stairs, and the Dragon Queen stepped onto his back as easily as walking onto solid stone.
Once the dragon and the beauty vanished into the night, Quentyn reluctantly turned his gaze away. He watched as the fiery staircase, still suspended above the sea, slowly dissolved into a cloud of golden-red smoke and faded into the darkness.
"We're doomed, Quentyn," whispered Blond Garris as he hugged his companion with a mournful wail. "I've wronged you. The Queen has taken my heart. I think... I've fallen in love with her too."
"Sigh, wake up. A goddess-like Queen like that would ever notice you?" scoffed the burly bald man, Archibald.
Garris shrugged indifferently. "I've loved many women—I don't need them all to love me back. The real issue is Quentyn. He must be feeling torn right now.
The Queen isn't the monster the Ghiscari claimed she was. He should be glad.
But she's divine in her beauty, her majesty, her magic. And Quentyn... he's just a man. That's going to be a problem!"
"I have..."
Quentyn shifted his boots slightly, feeling the stiff envelope of cowhide hidden in the seam.
I have a betrothal!
But... would she really marry him, just because his father wished it?
He looked toward the distant, dim lights of the southeastern city, his expression clouded with doubt.
When the Queen returned to the Great Pyramid, the feast hadn't ended. Everyone was still waiting for news from the plague ship.
Once they learned it was an allied spy vessel carrying Stone Men, outrage exploded.
"Your Grace, we must strike back. The slavers have no conscience!" Grey Worm roared.
"Your Grace, launch the southern campaign at once. At the very least, punish the allied fleet of New Ghis," Ser Jorah urged.
The crowd raged for a long while before the dragon guard Qhoro finally spoke coldly, "Your Grace, why not have your dragon drop the Grey Plague corpses on New Ghis, on Qarth, on Volantis, and on the heads of the Martallis allies? Without losing a single soldier, we could bring the alliance to its knees."
At his words, the once-chaotic garden instantly fell silent. Everyone stared wide-eyed at the young centaur, both fearful and excited.
In an instant, this somewhat handsome young centaur seemed to morph into a terrifying demon from the underworld.
Even Dany was shocked by Qhoro's ruthlessness... and the clever, sinister logic behind his words.
"Your Grace, you are the savior of suffering slaves. You fight not for territory or conquest," Aemon solemnly reminded her. "If those who prayed day and night for your help all die, what meaning would your victory hold?"
"Yes. We are a righteous rebellion. Our enemies' shameless cruelty is not something we should emulate. Their sins will become the very stones that build our throne of glory," the Dragon Queen declared firmly.
Qhoro still isn't clever enough, she thought. Even if we were to throw corpses, we mustn't say it out loud! Not even think it! At most... quietly act.
No. We mustn't act. I am a just and noble knight-queen, a liberator, the beacon of hope for countless slaves.
The dark thought had barely formed before Dany reflexively began to self-reflect and—yes—self-brainwash.
Suddenly, she snapped out of it.
Something about it all felt... off.
Was Liu Bei like this back then too? Harboring dark thoughts, yet imprisoned by his reputation and identity?
No. I'm not Liu Bei.
I have dragons. I can wield magic. I have a solid base of power and countless knights who trust and fight for me.
If I can win this war beneath the sunlight, crowned in rainbow light and flowers and cheers—why crawl at the edge of hell and turn myself into a monster?
With that thought, everything suddenly became clear to Dany.
"I swear, one day I will bring justice to those despicable slavers. But spreading plague is the work of demons. We are human. We cannot become demons just to defeat demons," she said to her gathered followers.
"Do you still remember the story I told you about the 'Great Plague of Oldtown'?"
The banquet ended. On the way down from the garden to the palace, Aemon asked in a low voice,
"That time when the Citadel was nearly wiped out?"
"Mm," Dany replied.
Hearing "Citadel," Aemon was reminded of Dany's criticism of its incompetence. Compared with her developing a cure in just half a month, a trace of unease flickered across the old man's face.
"Count Quentyn Hightower had no dragons. He couldn't drive the rats away like you did. All he could do was order the burning of every ship in the harbor—including his own vast fleet.
He also shut the gates, sealed Oldtown, and strictly ordered the execution of anyone attempting to flee. Men and women, the elderly and the young, even infants—none were spared."
The old man asked, "Do you think he was right?"
"His methods were harsh, but the Citadel was incompetent and couldn't develop a cure. His measures effectively halted the spread of the plague and indirectly saved more lives. The Reach, and even the Seven Kingdoms, were kept safe because of it," Dany said.
"But once the plague subsided, the survivors revolted. They tore Count Hightower and his son to pieces.
Mind you, the count had maesters at his side, along with the Hightower bannermen and knights, and a large city guard.
Yet it all happened right before their eyes. You could even say they tacitly allowed it.
Because everyone who had lived through the plague carried hatred and sorrow in their hearts—they needed someone to take it out on. Dany, do you understand what I mean?"
Old Aemon looked at the Dragon Queen beside him and advised solemnly, "As a ruler, never let your hands be stained too deeply with the blood and resentment of your own people.
A nation is built upon the lives of countless subjects.
I advised you not to dump bodies on New Ghis, Qarth, or Volantis—not solely out of mercy, nor because of your title as 'Breaker of Chains.'
I'm not naïve. If slaughtering a million people would secure the Targaryen reign for generations, and you wouldn't do it, I would encourage you to.
But it's clear—you don't need such cruel methods to win this war. We all know the Long Night is coming, and Slaver's Bay is overflowing with grain.
You're destined to win. You will surely surpass our ancestors and be crowned Queen of the World.
The cities that oppose you today will one day be your realm. The enemies of today will one day be your people.
Don't stain your hands with the blood of your people. Quentyn Hightower stands as a warning, and your father is an even bloodier lesson."
Dany had been listening quietly the whole time. When the old maester finished speaking, she gave him a strange look and said, "I thought you would always urge me to be upright, kind, and just—like Barristan, who pursues honor above all."
The old man sighed. "Of course I hope you'll be like that. But on one condition—that your actions don't undermine your rule. You're not just a knight. You are a queen.
I've lived for over a hundred years, experienced glory and hardship alike. But the fall of House Targaryen remains the most painful memory of all.
Back then, I would've traded all the honors of my lifetime to change the outcome of the Battle of the Trident."
"Actually, you worry too much. I will never become a Quentyn Hightower."
Dany paused to think, carefully choosing her words so as not to provoke Aemon.
"If I were in his place, I would've played dead," she said.
"Played dead?" Aemon looked confused.
A deadly plague hits your domain—and you pretend to be dead? That won't stop the plague. If you do nothing, it spreads further, and pretending could turn into actually dying.
"Surely some of the Hightower family died in the plague too?"
"Mm."
"Then I could use that as an excuse. Claim I'm overwhelmed with grief at the loss of loved ones. Meanwhile, I appoint someone of modest status but strong ability to handle the outbreak on my behalf.
From there, it's simple. If his actions help contain the disease, I continue to 'grieve.' If he makes mistakes, I quietly correct them.
Once the deaths are largely over and the plague is under control, I step forward to claim the credit.
Let him retreat to the background while I lead the people of Oldtown through the final phase of the epidemic.
That way, even if the public is angry, they won't direct it at me.
At the same time, no one can accuse me of doing nothing during the plague, because technically, I did appoint someone."
Dany's expression was calm. There was no trace of pride or smugness. She spoke as if discussing family matters—plain and direct.
Old Aemon, however, stared wide-eyed in shock, stunned: All this time, he had failed to realize—this generation's Targaryen queen was this cunning?!
He had clearly worried too much.
But then again, times were hard, and vassals were growing more and more devious. A queen had to be even more devious to survive.
Aemon finally felt at ease. Then, recalling the unexpected arrival of the Martells, he asked curiously, "What is Prince Doran's son doing in Slaver's Bay?"
Dany shook her head, her tone calm. "There's clearly a hidden agenda, but there were too many people around at the time, so I couldn't ask.
Honestly, Dorne doesn't have the power to alter my plans or change my mind. No matter what they intend, it won't affect me."
She then proceeded to explain Quentyn Martell's experiences in detail.
"So the Windblown betrayed you? Mercenaries are fickle by nature. You shouldn't have counted on them," said Aemon, frowning.
"I truly didn't expect anything from them before. The allied army meant little to me. But now, old man, don't you think this is a signal?"
"A signal?"
A glint flashed in Dany's eyes as she said quietly, "Mercenaries will always side with the winner. I'm very curious—what secret weapon do the allied forces have to give the Ragged Prince such confidence?
Once word spreads through Slaver's Bay about the ships full of stone men... once word spreads that greyscale has been cured...
If the Windblown still haven't given me an explanation by then, it means the allies have something else up their sleeve. At that point, I may need to strike first and disrupt their plans!"
(End of Chapter)
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