Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

"Gandhi, for the great Daznak family, for Yunkai, for Slaver's Bay, for the post-Ghiscari Empire, and for the peace and harmony of the world's people—go forth! To embrace the Lord of Light, R'hllor, is a noble fate." The Great Master spoke, his eyes red as he gazed at his nephew, whose chains clanked against the stone floor.

However, his eyes weren't red from grief, like someone holding back tears. Instead, they resembled those of a leader who had lost a fortune gambling in Macau, gritting his teeth as he placed his final desperate bet on the table.

"Great Master, you've made a mistake. Your nephew will not enter the realm of the Lord of Light. The one you are sacrificing him to is the Shadow Demon, His Eminence R'hllor!" A peculiar-looking old crone chuckled beside him.

She leaned on a cane, her back hunched. Her aged skin was yellowish-black, her hair sparse, and her wrinkled cheeks embedded with two red gems. She wore a tight black garment that exposed both her breasts.

Judging by her attire, she likely came from one of the three fortress cities founded by the descendants of the Haelkoron people.

The Haelkoron successor state had been destroyed by the Jogos Nhai, and the remaining survivors had fled to three fortresses, gradually forming the cities of Shamiriana, Kayakayana, and Bayasabhad.

Perhaps too many men had died in the wars. Perhaps they found men useless and unworthy of the legendary hero Haelkoron (Azor Ahai). After being annihilated by the zebra-clad invaders, the remnants of Haelkoron society evolved into a purely matriarchal nation.

In this new era, girls learned to ride and climb before they could walk. From childhood, every woman was trained to master the bow, spear, dagger, and sling.

Those who passed the warrior trials embedded red gemstones in their faces.

As for the men?

Sadly, there weren't many left.

The three fortress cities strictly enforced a policy: for every hundred men, ninety-nine were castrated and assigned service roles—scribes, priests, scholars, servants, cooks, farmers, artisans, and so on.

Was this policy good or bad?

Even the maesters of Westeros couldn't say. But ever since women took power, the zebra-clad warriors of the east, the mounted raiders of the west, and the mountain savages had never again dared to bully the Haelkoron descendants as they once had.

And this old crone before them was one of their fiercest warriors.

The New Ghiscari had spent six months bringing her from thousands of miles away.

The Great Master cast her a sidelong glance and said, "Isn't the Lord of Light and the Shadow Demon both R'hllor?"

Deep in his gaze lay a profound fear.

The Great Master was no fool. He wouldn't blindly trust an old woman from the distant eastern lands.

A few days prior, when the fleet commander had solemnly introduced her, the Great Master had given a direct ultimatum: unless she could prove the existence of real divine power, he would rather waste time traveling to the Red Temple in Volantis to seek the High Priest of the Red God than hire her.

In response, the old crone had put on a performance of "Specters Unbound" within his Great Pyramid.

That night, under the flickering red glow of the firelight, countless demons crawled out of the walls, dragging away the souls of ten slaves offered as sacrifices.

Watching twisted shadows tear a second shadow from living bodies with his own eyes, the Great Master no longer dared to conduct sacrifices within his own pyramid.

The old crone cackled. "The Lord of Light is the Red God, the God of Flame. But the Shadow Demon is the shadow of light—the demon of darkness.

God and demon are one; together, they form the complete R'hllor.

If you wish to retrieve the soul of the lost dragon from the realm of the dead, you must turn to the god of darkness—the demon R'hllor.

The Lord of Light's domain belongs to his followers, the priests of the Red God. But the Shadow Demon R'hllor rules over the realm of the dead—the underworld. Do you understand?

Your nephew is going to hell!

Your previously sacrificed grandsons, granddaughters, illegitimate daughters, and illegitimate sons—fifteen of your kin—are already waiting for poor little Gandhi in hell. Oh-ho-ho-ho."

The Great Master's face turned deathly pale, and he murmured, "So it's true… We were right to forbid the spread of the Red God's faith in Slaver's Bay. R'hllor is a demon! A god of devils!"

The old crone let out another eerie cackle. "If the great R'hllor is a demon, then what does that make you, praying for miracles from Him?"

She sneered.

"I told you already—the Lord of Light and the Shadow Demon are entirely different. The priests of the Red God who worship the Lord of Light are nothing like me, a sorceress of the dark arts.

I don't believe in the Lord of Light at all. And even if a priest of the Red God were willing to help you conduct this ritual, it would only be because they had also mastered the dark arts.

That's why the New Ghiscari brought me, an expert in 'Demonic Sacrifice Rituals,' from thousands of miles away, instead of seeking the High Priest of the Red God in Volantis.

You fool, do you understand now?"

This old crone was much like Mirri Maz Duur, the sorceress who had cursed Daenerys. She worshiped her people's traditional gods, yet studied the dark sorcery of the Shadow Demon as a scholarly pursuit.

And the Shadow Demon R'hllor did not care whether dark sorcerers worshiped Him or not. As long as they mastered the rituals of sacrifice, He would respond in accordance with the offerings made.

"You—" The Great Master's long, thin face turned a mix of green and red with rage. He gritted his teeth and said, "I have sacrificed fifteen of my kin—no, including my three sons burned to death by dragonfire, eighteen blood relatives have entered R'hllor's domain!

So why hasn't the dragon egg hatched yet?"

The old crone shrugged indifferently. "I wouldn't know."

"Are you playing me for a fool?" The Grand Wise Master erupted in fury.

The old crone sighed helplessly and said, "I told you long ago that, in theory, by sacrificing blood relatives, one could trade with the Shadow Demon to obtain fragments of a dragon's soul. I even demonstrated it to you—using ten slaves to bring back a dead person—"

The Grand Wise Master waved his hand impatiently, cutting her off. "Bringing back a mute, thoughtless idiot!"

"Yes, you were lucky to get an idiot," the old crone nodded seriously, as if stating an undeniable fact.

"Lucky? Are you out of your mind?" The Grand Wise Master sneered.

A sinister glint flickered in the old crone's dark red eyes as she chuckled. "Hehehe… Do you know who exactly you are sacrificing? And from where the returned soul fragments originate?"

"The Shadow Demon R'hllor, fragments of a soul from the depths of Hell!"

"And what does Hell have to offer? Anything that returns to the mortal world isn't a peaceful spirit—if it's not a crazed wraith, you should be shouting, 'Praise R'hllor, Lord of Light!'"

"Fine!" The Grand Wise Master clenched his teeth as he finally understood the old witch's implications. **"Even if I hatch a brainless dragon, as long as it can fly and breathe fire, I'll accept it.

But that woman lost only three close relatives and hatched three intelligent, flawless dragons. Why is it that I sacrificed eighteen of my kin and didn't even get a single mad dragon?"**

The old crone cast him a look of disdain and retorted, **"Are you stupid? Do you even know the difference in bloodlines?

That woman—what is her lineage? And what is yours?

Sure, your ancestors were once part of the Valyrian nobility, but after so many generations of mixed blood, what's left?

Apart from the purest Valyrian bloodlines, how many dragons have the Targaryens successfully hatched throughout history?

Those dozens—hundreds of dragons are all dead now, returned to the realm of the dead. But the moment their master calls, they break free from death's chains and return from the depths of Hell.

Take that black dragon, for instance—it's surely the reincarnation of Balerion.

Your family? You have no dragons to call from the underworld. The best you can do is beg the Shadow Demon for a mere fragment of a dragon's soul."**

"Then how do I earn even a shred of His mercy?" The Grand Wise Master roared.

The old crone stared at the golden dragon egg on the stone altar for a long time before murmuring in an eerie, ghostly voice, **"Perhaps… He has already answered you. I see traces of tiny shadows within the egg.

Grand Wise Master, understand this: The gods have never been merciful. And demons… are crueler than the gods.

Trading a few distant relatives for a mighty dragon? Such fortune will never be yours.

Think about the Dragon Queen—her father, eldest brother, nephew, niece, mother, loyal servants, second brother, husband, and only son… all dead.

In the end, only one Targaryen remained in this world."**

She turned to look at the Grand Wise Master, her dark red eyes cold and mocking. "And you?"

The Grand Wise Master stumbled back a few steps, his face pale as he averted his gaze. His voice was hoarse as he muttered, "Does it really… have to be that way?"

"You should be asking yourself— even if you do all that, there's no guarantee you'll get what you want. Just like when you wanted a complete, living person… yet I could only resurrect an idiot."

Perhaps it was because Daenerys Targaryen's tragic past so eerily mirrored the dark magic theory of 'sacrificing the living for the souls of the dead' that she casually spoke of things she had once seen theorized on a forum in a past life.

Yet the others, upon hearing her words, had a moment of enlightenment, as if they had finally discovered the truth.

The Grand Wise Master placed his trembling hands against the wall, struggling to ask, "Can I stop this?"

"Of course, you can withdraw at any time," the old crone said lightly, tapping her staff against the ground before pointing at the wailing Gandhi. "Shall we spare him today, then?"

The Grand Wise Master's expression became unreadable as he looked toward his nephew.

"Mourinho, you mule-born fool, I curse the entire Daznak family to rot in Hell! Hahaha! Do you know Dia? Your little secret lover? Her mouth skills were quite something—I tried them myself! Hahaha! Long live the Mother of Dragons! Long live the great dragons! Yunkai will fall, hahaha!"

The old crone rubbed her nose with amusement. "Well, I guess we have to continue burning."

The Grand Wise Master's face twisted in rage. He spat out a single word, "Burn!"

"Heh."

The old crone suddenly slammed her obsidian-like wooden staff against the stone floor and chanted in an ancient language from the Far East,

"Oh Lord of Shadows, You are the flame within the darkness, the one true god within the shadows! R'hllor, I offer You this blood sacrifice—grant a miracle upon those who stand beside me!"

Boom!

The spiral sigil on the ground erupted in flame.

Drenched in olive oil, Gandhi and the pile of wood around him ignited instantly.

(End of Chapter)

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