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The only thing that cannot be shared is the throne. That was a lesson instilled in Daenerys since childhood. Her brother Viserys, for all his many flaws, had indeed upheld this principle.
He had died with a crown upon his head, even if not by his own choosing.
His weak neck had been unable to bear the weight of the crown, and once he departed from the world, the burden of their family's vengeance fell upon Daenerys's far more delicate shoulders. And that, too, was never her choice.
When she was still very young, she believed that when she grew up, she would be married to her elder brother, the one who used to torment her. Though his 'waking the dragon' often left her wounded, she had endured it all in silence.
"Daenerys, remember this well. The usurpers stole our father's throne. Our destiny is to return to that land and bring fire and blood to those treacherous rebels."
Daenerys had never forgotten those words. Only when he spoke like that did her brother resemble a true king—at least, that was how she had always felt.
She had long believed herself to be alone in this world. Even though the red comet had gifted her three children, they were just that—children. They could not understand her heart or her thoughts.
Everyone who surrounded her, everyone who followed her, was drawn to the weight of her name. Targaryen—such a glorious name. It carried the strongest claim to the Iron Throne across the Seven Kingdoms, and she knew this all too well.
No matter what they professed, Daenerys saw them only as followers, as subjects beneath her. She knew the throne was narrow, far too cramped to hold more than one.
And yet, within the quietest corners of her heart, there lingered a yearning—for someone who could speak to her as an equal. Someone who would take on the endless troubles plaguing her. Someone who could rally armies on her behalf and help her reclaim what was stolen.
And now, that very person had appeared, suddenly and without warning, descending from the sky atop a dragon of his own, outshining all her pride and glory. Daenerys no longer knew how to face this man.
A violent tempest had risen again over the sea, and it reminded her of the storm into which she had been born. Perhaps it had been just as fierce, just as wild.
Within the confines of her cabin, her body swayed gently with the great ship's rhythm. But Daenerys had long since grown used to such motion. Not even a hint of nausea could reach her now.
The planks forming the walls of her cabin groaned softly, creaking with the motion of the waves. In her pale lilac eyes danced the flickering reflection of a candle flame, wavering in tandem with her fair, bare form—an eerie, enchanting shimmer.
Dusk was fast approaching. That man, Clay Manderly—yes, that was his name, was it not? Clay Manderly—he had flown off on that massive blue-and-gold dragon, Gaelithox, she believed it was called, taking her three children to hunt over the open sea.
She did not know what thoughts stirred within her. Perhaps she had no clear thoughts at all. Yet she was painfully aware of one thing—his face, so young and so vividly etched into her mind, refused to leave her.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
A dull knock upon the door pulled her from her thoughts. Daenerys knew someone was waiting outside.
"Come in," she said softly.
She did not know who it was, but she could tell it was not one of her handmaidens.
With a slow creak, the damp oak door swung inward. The first thing that caught her eye was that unmistakable long white beard.
Arstan. It was him? What did he want with her?
Daenerys gathered herself immediately, straightening her posture and erasing all emotion from her face. She pointed to the wooden cask opposite her at the table, the ship's makeshift seating.
"Please sit down, Astan. What brings you here? I must apologize, I've nothing to offer you at the moment."
She forced her restless thoughts to scatter, replacing them with a composed smile, polite and fitting. Her voice was warm, addressing the man whose age surpassed even that of her own father.
"There's no need for anything, Your Grace. I've come to speak with you about this Clay Manderly,"
Ser Barristan seated himself across from her and, with a single crisp sentence, revealed his reason for disturbing her. The moment the words left his mouth, the old knight noticed Daenerys's expression shift.
"Arstan, you're from Westeros. Do you know anything about this Clay Manderly?"
She drew in a long breath, pressing down the tide of emotions stirring within her. Fixing her eyes on Barristan, she finally voiced the question she had always wanted to ask.
She wanted to know about Clay Manderly's past. She feared he might be deceiving her. Perhaps even the name was a lie. And yet, despite that fear, she yearned to know everything.
Daenerys could not understand what was happening to her. This tangled knot of emotion unsettled her, for she had never felt anything like it in all the years of her life.
She had not truly expected Barristan to give her an answer. It was merely a passing thought, a strange impulse that compelled her to ask the question. Yet to her surprise, after a moment of deep frowning and contemplation, Barristan slowly nodded his head.
"I do know of him, Your Grace. From his time at Winterfell."
The old knight had long harbored the feeling that he had heard the name somewhere before. And now, at last, the memory returned. It had been during the time he accompanied King Robert to Winterfell, when an incident occurred involving a conflict among the nobility.
He recalled that a northern nobleman had, right there on the spot, slain a minor Lannister who had come as part of the queen's retinue. King Robert had been furious and had ordered the man thrown into the dungeons. And now, as the memory came back in full, he recalled the name of that northern lord—it had been Clay Manderly.
Regrettably, he had not seen the man with his own eyes back then. Had he done so, perhaps he would have recognized Clay's face at their first meeting, without the slightest doubt.
Hearing Barristan's answer, Daenerys was momentarily stunned. Then her eyes widened sharply, a spark of urgency flaring within them as she pressed forward.
"Arstan, tell me everything you know. Every detail about him."
Her reaction caught Barristan slightly off guard, but he chose not to dwell on it. Carefully omitting any hints of his true identity, he began to recount, from the perspective of a distant observer, what little he knew of Clay Manderly's deeds in the North.
…
Time passed gently, swaying in rhythm with the rocking of the ship's cabin. No one could say how long it had been when Barristan finally concluded his recollection. Silence followed, broken only by the hush of water outside and the soft breaths of Daenerys, who sat deep in thought, her expression unreadable.
"Your Grace…"
His quiet voice brought her back. She blinked, her gaze focusing again as a flicker of embarrassment flashed across her face. It vanished just as quickly. After a moment's pause, she composed herself and spoke, her tone calm but laced with reflection.
"In other words, what you know about him is that he is... a young northern nobleman, somewhat reckless when it comes to protecting his family. Brave too, it seems. Bold enough to strike down a Lannister right before the Usurper's eyes."
There was no disguising the satisfaction in her voice. Daenerys found something pleasing in the thought of Clay having shown no mercy to a Lannister. In her eyes, her father might have erred in his dealings with the Starks and Baratheons during the Rebellion. He might even have borne some share of the blame for the war itself.
But the Lannisters… That family was a different matter altogether.
Tywin Lannister had served as her father's Hand for years, wielding power from behind the throne. Her father had placed his trust in him, again and again. In return, the Lannisters had offered betrayal stained in blood. It was they who had butchered her family, not in war, but in cold, deliberate treachery.
To Daenerys, she could one day forgive those who had once stood against House Targaryen. She could even come to terms with their rebellion. But the Lannisters—no. They were etched into her soul as enemies to be destroyed, names marked for death.
"Perhaps so, Your Grace," Barristan replied carefully, "but I must remind you—I never saw his face. Even now, I cannot fathom how a descendant of House Manderly could possess the ability to command a dragon. To my knowledge, there has never been a union between the bloodlines of Aegon and that of the Manderlys."
His gray brows drew together in thought. It was a puzzle he had been unable to solve. By all known laws of blood and lineage, such a thing should have been impossible.
Daenerys recalled the words Clay had once spoken to her, but for now, she set the mystery aside. Turning her gaze back to Barristan, she addressed him directly.
"Ser, you still haven't told me what it is you wanted to speak with me about. This is your time now."
Yet the very next moment, she found herself regretting having said that, for what Barristan said in response left her utterly unprepared, her thoughts scattered in all directions.
"Your Grace, if Clay Manderly's identity is confirmed… then as one who has sworn to serve you faithfully, I must advise you to consider forging with him a betrothal. One that all of the Seven Kingdoms shall know."
Daenerys was no longer the girl she had once been, fragile and uncertain. Yet even all her growth and experience could not help her maintain perfect composure in this moment. She had entertained the thought before, fleetingly and in solitude—but she had not expected it to be voiced aloud, and certainly not by a man like Ser Barristan, her subordinate.
"Ah… this… That's a little sudden, Arstan. Could we not speak of this, at least not for now?"
For reasons she herself could not fully name, her voice softened. The steel edge that often underlay her words was gone, replaced by hesitation and a faint embarrassment that she could not entirely suppress.
Barristan studied her carefully, watching the shift in her expression. A strange, unreadable smile curled faintly at the edge of his lips, but he did not press her further. Still, his voice remained firm.
"Your Grace, I will speak no more of it now, but I urge you to consider the matter seriously. Clay Manderly hails from Westeros. You have met him now. If he does not stand with you…"
"Then he and his dragon will become an enemy I cannot afford to face."
Daenerys finished the thought without missing a beat. Barristan nodded slowly, the approval in his eyes quiet but evident.
"You have seen it yourself, Your Grace. That dragon of his—the great beast of blue and gold—your three young dragons are no match for it, not as they are. Dragons will grow, and when his grows larger still, how will you stand against him then?"
"When your dragons reach their prime, you may one day command all traitors to kneel with the fire and blood of House Targaryen. But the question now is… how will you command another who also holds the power to rain fire and blood upon his enemies, in the name of House Manderly?"
When Daenerys remained silent, Barristan knew that his words had struck deep, that she was turning them over within her heart. And so, he offered a final piece of counsel.
"Your Grace, even if you cannot yet bring yourself to consider him your future consort, I strongly urge you—do not make him your enemy. Your dragons are not yet a true force of war, but with him by your side, you could raise an army across Essos. One large enough to rival any host in Westeros."
"And when that time comes, you will fulfill your brother's dream. Your dream. You will return to Westeros and reclaim the Iron Throne that rightfully belongs to House Targaryen."
…
Far from the cabin where this conversation had taken place, Clay, who had taken four ravenous little dragons on a hunt, remained entirely unaware. Nor was he particularly concerned with the inner workings of Daenerys's little entourage.
Eventually, they would all become his subordinates or vassals. Whether that happened sooner or later made little difference to him.
He knew full well that Daenerys would not treat him with outright hostility. That much, Clay was confident of. What truly occupied his attention now was Gaelithox, who was currently squabbling with the three young ones over the spoils of their meal.
To put it bluntly, only Clay and Daenerys now hold a monopoly on the most powerful resource in the known world—dragons. Clay enjoys the first-mover advantage, holding a decisive lead.
Because of this, he felt no pressure from Daenerys at all. From the moment he appeared before her, the course of many events had already shifted beyond the influence of those who surrounded her.
As for that fool Jorah Mormont, Clay had exposed him purely because he found the greasy old knight unpleasant. And in truth, he had other plans for him—plans that would unfold through Daenerys's own hand.
Once their feast above the sea had concluded, Clay took Gaelithox and soared toward the ship where Daenerys waited. By then, they had reached the waters near Slaver's Bay, and there was no avoiding detection.
But that did not concern him. Sooner or later, someone was bound to spot them anyway. Clay did not command Gaelithox to unleash dragonfire upon any witnesses, for he had no interest in unleashing his wrath upon helpless commoners.
He could already imagine how the merchant ships and caravels sailing these waters would react to the sight of one large dragon accompanied by three smaller ones—soaring across the sky in a majestic formation, a spectacle truly worthy of being called a flight of dragons.
Even now, there must be vessels, sails billowing in full wind, racing back toward Astapor, desperate to bring news of the dragon flight to the good masters seated high upon their thrones.
But that was fine. Let them spread the word. Let the flames of fear begin to smolder. Let them prepare everything they believe they need. When Clay finally descended upon Astapor in full might, he would burn away every ghoul and parasite the slavers had gathered in their defense.
He was not Daenerys. He had no intention of charging headfirst into reforming the political landscape of Slaver's Bay. But fire and blood—they too were tools he would wield. And there were certainly some who needed to taste their fury.
A Dragonlord must possess the aura of a Dragonlord And if the slave masters represented the greatest concentration of violence in Slaver's Bay, then the only way to bring them to heel was to demonstrate a force even greater.
"Let's go. Time to drop these three off first."
Clay gave Gaelithox a firm pat. The massive blue-and-gold dragon let out a resounding roar to show he understood, then swept his enormous wings with sudden force, surging forward toward the direction from which they had come.
Gaelithox could not remain on the ship for long. It was a mere wooden vessel, only a few dozen meters in length, not some great steel behemoth like an aircraft carrier. With a body so vast and a deck so thin, no matter how reinforced, it would not endure. A few too many landings and the ship would fall apart before reaching Astapor.
So Clay had decided to part ways with Daenerys for now. It would give the young queen some time to think—something she sorely needed.
As for himself, he would take Gaelithox on a brief tour of Slaver's Bay. He intended to understand how these infamous cities truly operated, to see with his own eyes the inner workings of this empire of chains.
If he wanted to transform this land into a solid military base for raising armies in the future, there were only two options. Either his violence had to be great enough to crush the old systems into dust, or he had to ensure the system remained useful until the time came to destroy it.
Because if the violence was not thorough enough to break the foundation, then any attempt to change things by force would only provoke backlash.
For now, with neither he nor Daenerys possessing an army of their own, the wisest course was not to charge headlong into a fight he could not yet win. He would join the game cautiously, biding his time. When his strength had grown beyond doubt, he would decide when and how to sweep the board clean of slavers.
Clay's sense of morality was... flexible. Everything he did began and ended with his own interests. As for what kind of morals he would demand of others, or when he would invoke those standards,—well, that was something only he had the right to determine.
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