"And how do you think I should choose?" Daenerys asked, turning the question back on him. She held the black dragon in her arms, feeling its warmth against her skin. With the only three dragons in the world, her future was a thing of unimaginable potential. But for now, that potential was fragile, and she was a queen with no kingdom. Lying low and building her strength was the only path.
Jorah thought for a moment. "There is not enough food here," he said, his gaze fixed on the small creature in her arms. "I mean, for them. They say Aegon's Balerion could swallow a whole buffalo in one gulp. With your young dragons' appetites, all the horses in this khalasar will be gone in less than a year. And a year is not nearly enough time for them to grow to their full power."
She tried to poke a finger into the black dragon's mouth. The mucus inside was scorching hot, but his jaw was not yet strong enough to do more than gum at her skin. When would he be able to swallow a buffalo?
"I have sent Rakharo to search for prey," she countered, her head bent as she teased the squirming dragon.
"And what has he found? A sand lizard no bigger than a dog?" Jorah retorted. "The red waste cannot support large herds of prey."
"Then they must learn to hunt for themselves," she said. "I do not expect them to grow into Balerion here. I only need them to become strong enough that they cannot be easily killed by the men who will one day come for them." Her eyes, bright and intense, lifted to meet his. "Viserys used to tell me that the people of Westeros are secretly sewing three-headed dragon banners, that they pray for the return of their rightful queen. What do you say to that, Ser?"
A bitter, weary smile touched Jorah's lips. "Your Grace, I will not lie to you. The great lords are obsessed with their game of thrones. The lesser lords and merchants care only for wine, women, and the glory of the tourney grounds. As for the common folk…" He sighed. "They only pray for a long summer, for orchards heavy with fruit and fields of golden wheat. They pray for a lord who is kind, who does not take their wives and daughters, or use their sons for target practice. They do not care who sits the Iron Throne. Their lives are the same either way."
"So even if I leave this place, where can I go?" She spread her hands, her face a mask of indifference. "I am not as naive as my brother was. He had to arm himself with lies, because the truth was too terrible. But I see the truth. The moment the Usurper learns that the last Targaryen has hatched dragons, he will send his most ruthless assassins after me." She thought of the stories she'd heard in the back alleys of the Free Cities. "The Faceless Men of Braavos. Valar morghulis. They say they have never failed."
Jorah's brow furrowed. "The Usurper would likely not send the Faceless Men," he said, perhaps a little too quickly. "The wine merchant who tried to poison you in Vaes Dothrak… he was no Faceless Man."
"Why are you so certain?" she asked, her gaze sharp. "I have dragons now. The game has changed."
Because I was the cheaper option, a cold voice whispered in Jorah's mind.
Dany watched him, a flicker of calculation in her eyes. He was too quick to dismiss the threat. Too certain. Was it because he knew of their plans? Was he their man? Perhaps. But his loyalty to her now, she could feel, was real. Whatever his past, his future was with her. It was a risk she would have to take.
"Besides," Jorah continued, his voice firm again, "the Kingsguard of old knew how to counter their tricks. And I am your Queensguard now. Your Ironguard."
"I am relieved to have you," Dany said, her smile genuine. "But for now, we will stay here, for as long as we are able."
She extended a hand, an invitation. Together, they climbed the winding stairs of the white tower at the city gate. When they reached the top, she let her dragons go, and they soared into the sky, their joyous cries echoing in the hot, still air.
Days passed. The black dragon, then the white, then the green, all learned to master the wind and to breathe fire. Dany would spend hours on the tower, watching the three brightly colored creatures chase each other against the endless blue sky, their thin, translucent wings catching the sun, refracting a hazy, beautiful glow.
"Dahei was the first to fly," she said one afternoon, a deep pride in her voice. "He was only seven days old. How does that compare to the dragons of old?"
"I do not know, Your Grace," Jorah shook his head. "If only we had a maester… But why did you choose such… plain names for them? Aegon's dragons were Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes—the names of old Valyrian gods."
"My dragons and I are still weak," she said bluntly. "I do not want aggressive names that will invite fear and suspicion. And… I wish to draw a line between myself and the Targaryens of the past."
"Why?" he asked, shocked. In his world, a noble's entire identity was tied to their ancestors.
"Because I am not like them," she said simply. The legacy of her family was a burden of madness and ruin. Her foundation was not some crumbling dynasty an ocean away. It was here, with her Dothraki, with him, with her dragons. "But enough about me," she said, changing the subject. "You know my story. I know so little of yours. Tell me of yourself, Ser Jorah."
"Me?" he said, his voice suddenly dry. "What is there to know?"
"You were the Lord of Bear Island, in the far North. How did you come to be in Essos, tens of thousands of miles from your home?" She turned her head, pretending to watch the dragons. "And you seem to know the value of a woman's jewels. Are there gemstone mines on your island?"
"If Bear Island had mines," the knight said with a bitter laugh, "I would not be an exile." He picked up a creamy white stone and began to sketch a rough map of Westeros on the slate floor. "Here," he said, pointing. "Bear Island. In the Bay of Ice, so far north it is almost beyond the Wall."
His voice grew softer, tinged with a deep, aching nostalgia. "It is a beautiful place, but wild. An island of ancient oaks and towering pines, and in the spring, the hawthorn forests are everywhere in bloom. But it is poor. The hall of my house is made of giant logs, not stone, with only a wooden palisade for a wall. My people are fishermen, mostly, living hard lives. A merchant ship might call on us only once every few years, to trade cloth and salt for our furs."
He paused, staring at the crude drawing. "It was a simple, barren life, but I was content there. I was never short of a woman to warm my bed… fisherwomen, peasant girls… they would not refuse their lord." A look of shame crossed his face. "Before I was a man grown, my father arranged a marriage for me. A girl from the House of Glover. I am not certain that I loved her, which is a shame to me now. She was a good woman, despite her plain face. We were married for ten years. She had three miscarriages, and after the last… she never recovered. She faded, and then she was gone."
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .