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Chapter 339
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 12:25:12 +0000 UTCHis entire body trembling, a mix of nervousness and hope surging within him, Petyr Baelish felt his heart hammering as if it would leap from his throat. How many years had it been since he’d felt this way?
Rationally, he told himself that his concern for the queen stemmed from her being his only path back to Westeros. Yet, a whisper in the depths of his mind insisted otherwise.
Since losing his duel with Brandon Stark for Catelyn Tully and being banished from Riverrun, twenty long years had passed. He had thought himself hardened, incapable of feeling genuine worry for anyone else. But Daenerys Targaryen had a strange power about her—one that could turn the impossible into reality.
Standing on the edge of Meereen’s great pyramid terrace, Littlefinger instinctively stood on tiptoe, straining his eyes, pouring all his willpower into spotting whether the massive black dragon bore the figure of a queen.
The black dragon had grown significantly since its last sighting, enough for Petyr to doubt whether it was Drogon at all. The beast circled the pyramid’s summit with elegance, its wings beating with an unearthly grace, a stark contrast to its immense size.
Under the clear, cloudless sky, the sunlight caught something on the dragon’s dark back—a gleaming shimmer like a silken banner. Silver hair. Targaryen hair.
...
The sight of the black dragon immediately drew the attention of everyone within the city and the pyramid alike. Within moments, five or six core members of Meereen’s new ruling council joined Petyr on the terrace. They watched in rapture as Drogon circled above, its presence announcing the queen’s return to the entire city.
Then, with a mighty gust of wind, the dragon descended onto the terrace’s edge with a grace that belied its size, lowering its massive head and folding its wings like a creature utterly at peace.
And there she was—the slender, unmistakable figure everyone knew. Daenerys Targaryen descended from Drogon’s back, stepping down onto the stone platform. The dragon had positioned itself deliberately, its wing and body forming a natural staircase for its rider.
The sunlight illuminated her pale skin, unblemished and radiant, as if she had no capacity to tan under the sun. Her long journey had left her visibly fatigued, yet it did nothing to dull the queen’s breathtaking beauty. Even Petyr, with all his calculating charm and sharp wit, swallowed his prepared complaints and questions.
Daenerys might have begun to trust and respect him, but it was far from affection or favoritism. He remained a senior advisor, nothing more. He needed to stay in his place.
“Welcome back, Your Grace,” Petyr greeted her smoothly, bowing slightly. “The entire city has been awaiting your return.”
...
A moment later, Daenerys sat in a small hall on the upper floors of the pyramid, attending a council meeting she had already missed dozens of times.
To be precise, it was an expanded council meeting—around the small circular table, a familiar face was absent, yet several new ones had taken its place.
"Where is Daario?" Daenerys glanced around the room and asked instinctively.
Petyr frowned. This was a meeting of great significance, yet the queen’s first concern was the whereabouts of her lover—an immensely awkward start. Despite his displeasure, he still answered truthfully, "I sent him to the eastern part of the city to protect our trade route with the Lhazareen, ensuring that your people can eat and stay warm."
"I hope he’s up to the task." I also hope it’s not a dangerous one, Daenerys thought. Realizing that her words had been somewhat inappropriate, she swiftly changed the subject. "And these new friends are…?"
"They are Ironborn warriors who sailed here from thousands of miles away to aid in your return to Westeros," Petyr explained. Like most of the people from the Seven Kingdoms, he disliked these pirates, but that didn’t change the fact that they had proven their worth in battle. "During last month’s defense of Meereen, they launched a surprise attack on the Yunkai’i navy from Slaver’s Bay, then landed and struck at the enemy’s flank, significantly easing the pressure on the Unsullied's frontal assault. In addition, the smoked ham, salted pork, bacon, and grains brought aboard their fleet’s merchant ships have helped alleviate the food shortages plaguing your people in Meereen."
"We bought them on our journey from Westeros," said a burly representative of the Iron Fleet, his tone filled with pride. He made sure to emphasize the method of acquisition: "Paid with 'iron coin.'"
Iron coin? That just means looting. Daenerys, who had already learned much about Westerosi customs from Littlefinger, shook her head internally. But she also understood that, as a beneficiary, she wasn’t in a position to make a fuss about it.
If Petyr’s introduction had given Daenerys an initial impression of the Ironborn at a -10, then this man’s crude behavior and the way he stared at her face dropped it another -10. However, this fleet was the first organized force from Westeros to pledge itself to her cause—and that alone boosted her favorability toward them by +50.
Although she had already claimed the title of "Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," even Daenerys knew that was little more than self-consolation and symbolic posturing. The reality was that very few in Westeros truly anticipated her return.
The arrival of the Ironborn filled that void, greatly strengthening Daenerys' confidence in the future.
"This lord, may I ask your name?" Daenerys did her best to appear friendly, smiling as she spoke softly.
"I'm no lord. Your Grace can call me 'Barber' Newt," the sailor replied. "When I was younger, I had a talent for throwing axes—so precise I could shave a man’s head or trim his beard with one. That’s how I got the nickname."
Then, suddenly furious, he stood up and pointed at the man beside him. "Furthermore, I must expose this demon immediately! It was his cursed whispers in Captain Victarion's ear that caused the Iron Fleet to lose its leader!"
The other sailor shot up as well, just as enraged. He declared that the sorcerer beside him had no place at this meeting and should instead be tied to a stone and thrown into Slaver’s Bay as a sacrifice to the Drowned God.
....
"I told Lord Greyjoy that he didn’t need to blow the horn himself, but in the end, he chose to take the risk. He was a warrior, and he paid the price for his bravery."
The man accused of being a demon defended himself in a deep, resounding voice, speaking flawless Common Tongue. Daenerys had already taken notice of him. She had traveled across half of Essos but had never seen a man quite like this: taller than Daario by a full head, with a waist three times as wide, and a belly so large she could probably curl up inside it. His face was covered in a tangled mass of bone-white beard, resembling the mane of an albino lion.
His skin was black—not the pinecone-colored brown of the Summer Islanders, nor the ruddy bronze of a Dothraki khal, but pure black. Blacker than coal, blacker than obsidian, blacker than a raven’s wing… He looked as though he had been burned, Daenerys thought. The red tattoos covering his cheeks and forehead seemed to flicker like fire, and the freshly donned red robes left no doubt as to his identity: a follower of R'hllor.
“Lies! You must have bewitched Captain Victarion with your dark magic—only under some wicked sorcery would he have done something so foolish, practically seeking his own death!”
“Friends.” Petyr coughed lightly, displeased by the bickering between the new arrivals. “I don't fully understand the details of your quarrel, but I must remind you—this is the Queen's council chamber, and this is the first time any of you have been granted an audience with Her Grace.”
That shut them up immediately. The two furious Ironborn sat back down, though their eyes still burned with anger as they glared at the red priest. The latter, however, remained composed throughout, as if the two men did not exist. He simply observed Daenerys with great interest.
Daenerys was well aware of the effect her beauty had on men, but there was no lust in the priest’s gaze. Instead, he looked at her as if she were some priceless treasure, filled with fervent admiration and joy. The intensity of it unsettled her, but oddly, it did not stir the sleeping dragon within her—she felt no anger.
Shifting slightly in her chair, she took the initiative and asked, “Those two are members of the Iron Fleet. So… Priest, may I ask why you are here? And why have you come into conflict with them?”
"I am Moqorro, as you can see, a faithful servant of the Lord of Light from the temple in Volantis," the enormous black-skinned man said, puffing out his chest and speaking solemnly. "I was sent by the High Priest Benerro to offer guidance and aid to you—the Prince That Was Promised."
"The Long Night is dark and full of terrors. A pair of cursed eyes watches you, unknowing, and the servants of the Great Other conspire to overthrow you. You are in grave danger… And in the west of Essos—the land of your birth—a throne of iron awaits the return of its rightful ruler. A final war, one that only you can win, is already in motion, and in the frozen extremes of the North, your strongest potential ally—one of the three heads of the dragon—bears the burden that should be yours, standing alone to protect the world. He is desperate for your aid. Your time is running short, Your Grace. You must seize every moment and take your rightful place as soon as possible!"
Benerro had demonstrated his extraordinary abilities upon arriving on shore, and as a representative of a faith with considerable influence across many Free Cities, it was enough for Petyr to allow him an audience with the Queen.
Had he known in advance that the priest would spout such typical doomsaying nonsense, he would have ordered the Unsullied to bar him from entering the pyramid entirely.
But now, it was too late to reprimand him in the moment. Petyr could only furrow his brows and hope that the young queen he served would not be so easily swayed.
“Thank you for your warning and counsel.” Daenerys’ response pleased Littlefinger—she showed no reaction, her expression composed and unreadable, only giving a polite nod before turning to the other two men. “Ser Newt, and your companion… I will not conceal my gratitude and joy at seeing you travel such great distances to aid me. Can you explain who this Victarion Greyjoy is and what exactly has transpired between you?”
The two Ironborn sailors exchanged glances before "Barber" Newt finally spoke.
"Your Grace, two years ago, Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and leader of the rebellion against the Baratheon usurpers, died unexpectedly. Following the will of the Drowned God, we held the ancient Kingsmoot to elect a new ruler. In the end, Euron Greyjoy won the support of the Ironborn and claimed the Seastone Chair."
"Euron despises the usurper and his degenerate brothers, whose rule is either wanton or cruel. He longs for the peace and stability of the Targaryen era. So when he heard word of you in Slaver's Bay, he sent his brother—our fleet’s Lord Captain, Victarion Greyjoy—to lead us here to receive you, Your Grace,” another sailor added. “The Ironborn have been doing everything we can to weaken the forces of Stannis and the pretender Aegon, and we have already made all the necessary preparations in secret. As soon as you return to Westeros, we will rise in your name—to reclaim the Iron Throne and avenge your family."
"A touching display of loyalty, but hold on a moment."
Littlefinger was not one to miss inconsistencies in a story. "Euron rose to power through the Kingsmoot, yes? That means he is now the King of the Iron Islands?"
The two Ironborn representatives exchanged an awkward look before hesitantly confirming it.
"Oh dear, that presents quite the dilemma. So tell me, this King of the Iron Islands—he sends his fleet to pledge loyalty to Her Grace, but what does he expect in return? Gold and riches likely do not interest him. Does he seek official recognition of the Iron Islands as an independent kingdom? No ruler of the Iron Throne would ever agree to that—it would go down in history as the betrayal that fractured the Seven Kingdoms." Petyr’s sharp gaze locked onto the sailors. "Or perhaps… his claim to the throne is merely a strategic move. When the Queen takes the Seven Kingdoms, will he set aside his crown and kneel in fealty?"
"That… King Euron did not specify before we departed, and we do not dare to answer in his place," Newt responded, sweat beading on his forehead. "But there is an easy way to resolve this—King Euron is in his prime, yet unmarried. If Her Grace were to wed the King of the Iron Islands, there would be no need to worry about whether Westeros would remain united."
Littlefinger smirked as he glanced at Daenerys.
"Ah, so it’s all quite clear now. The Ironborn do not support you out of nostalgia for House Targaryen. What they truly seek is your dragons, the Iron Throne… and you yourself. The Queen’s husband, after all, would be the King of Westeros."
Daenerys nodded. She was no longer the naïve girl who had been sold to Khal Drogo by Magister Illyrio. She understood well that no one offered aid without expecting something in return.
This Euron, whom she had never met, clearly had great ambitions—but at least he had openly shown goodwill. As for the price he sought, that could always be negotiated.
"Then tell me, where is this Lord Victarion Greyjoy now?" she asked. "Has he been wounded in battle and is recovering somewhere in the city?"
The room was silent for several seconds before the black-skinned red priest finally answered.
"He is dead. Killed by the flames of one of your dragons—burned alive in a foolish attempt to tame it."
