Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

The next match was announced after the arena was cleared of the corpses. First to enter were a group of Ghiscaris riding chariots. Leading them was a man wearing an exaggerated ceremonial bronze helmet adorned with colorful feathers—shaped like a toilet bowl. His subordinates were bare-chested, each wielding black whips over ten meters long.

Missandei explained that these were Ghiscar whipmasters, tasked with controlling the empire's countless slaves with their long whips.

The second group emerged wearing elegant black smoke-colored armor. Even without an interpreter, Dany could guess they were imitating the Valyrian Dragonlords.

The last group of Ghiscaris entered with golden shields on their left arms and shining golden short swords in their right hands. They wore spiked golden helmets, sleeveless gold leather armor, black leather shorts, and tall golden boots. They bore a resemblance to the Unsullied but were far more ornate.

When the golden warriors appeared on chariots, the arena erupted in deafening cheers, and even the Great Masters rose to their feet, bowing in respect.

"They are the Golden Warriors of Old Ghis, the strongest soldiers of the empire, the foundation of Ghiscar's ancient dominion," Jorah said with disdain, waving dismissively. "Fake. Imitations. The Sons of the Harpy revel in the glory of an empire that's been dead for 5,000 years, yet they've forgotten its fall."

Dany's eyes lit up with excitement. "Are they going to duel as well?"

"Yes. Look," Jorah pointed to the center of the arena, where three chariots had come together. The Ghiscar warriors aboard were solemnly exchanging gold-painted parchment scrolls.

"They're reenacting the ancient Ghiscar tradition of exchanging war declarations before city-state battles," he explained. "The fight will begin soon."

"Wonderful. Watching Ghiscaris slaughter each other is far more thrilling than slave gladiators," Dany said quietly, a smirk playing on her lips.

If only all the Ghiscaris could die here. Even better, if those eight Great Masters joined the fray themselves.

Jorah snorted. "Your Grace, today's slave masters don't have the guts to enter the arena. Just wait and see."

As the crowd roared, the three Ghiscar "generals" raised their scrolls high, paraded their chariots around the arena three times, and then exited one by one through the tunnels.

On the other side, three gates creaked open, and three groups of bare-chested warriors emerged, each donning differently colored capes.

The colorful capes represented the whipmasters led by Ghiscar generals, the black capes symbolized the Valyrian Dragonlord imitators, and the yellow capes belonged to the fiercest of Ghiscar warriors—the Golden Swordsmen.

What followed was a chaotic clash in the narrow arena, with 150 fighters wielding spears, short swords, curved arakhs, and long whips.

They fought with unrelenting ferocity, as though their lives and those of their opponents were worth less than a copper coin.

The battle was more brutal than the earlier 10-on-10 matches. The once-dry ground had turned into a swamp—not an exaggeration but a literal mudfield, drenched in blood like after heavy rain.

Below, a true "R-rated gorefest" played out. Above, the Ghiscar audience roared with bloodlust, consumed by a fervor that seemed to transcend time: they weren't just watching a fight. They were transported 5,000 years back, reliving the days of the Old Empire, conquering Valyria's Freehold, trampling the Rhoynish water wizards, hearing the Andal knights wail beneath their swords, and envisioning 300 dragons lying dead at their feet.

It was a spectacle of thrilling, blood-soaked nostalgia.

Dany, however, felt a strange sense of calm wash over her turbulent thoughts. Everything around her seemed vividly real yet detached, as though she were watching a story unfold from a divine, omniscient perspective.

"This is hell. Let's leave," she said suddenly, standing and addressing Jorah and the others.

She noticed their reactions: Barristan and Jorah looked uncomfortable, Missandei's face was deathly pale, while Belwas and the horsemen seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Even Irri and Jhiqui, caught up in the atmosphere, were shouting excitedly, their cheeks flushed.

"You're right. Such a place shouldn't exist in this world," Barristan agreed.

The Great Masters were unfazed by Dany's departure. Kraznys and another master even mocked her loudly, calling her weak and foolish.

The bloodshed in the arena was so gruesome that Dany couldn't stomach a bite of the food brought by the slaves at noon. Barristan and Jorah abstained as well, but Belwas devoured it heartily. For him, and for the Great Masters, the blood-soaked spectacle seemed to enhance their appetite.

By the time they returned to the ship, it was nearing dusk. Dany ate a simple meal of fruit and white bread, bathed, and fed her three dragons.

Though night had fallen, she went to her room to rest early.

Lying in bed, Dany tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The scenes from the arena replayed vividly in her mind. Then, images of the Unsullied came to her—stoic and unyielding. She even imagined the Unsullied killing puppies and babies, a memory that haunted her.

Finally, her thoughts turned to the tasks ahead in the coming days.

Her restless movements eventually woke Irri, who had been snoring softly after a day of satisfaction from the spectacle and a hearty meal.

"Khaleesi, you can't sleep?" Irri asked groggily.

In the darkness, Dany responded with a soft "Hmm."

After a moment of hesitation, Irri extended her hand and asked, "Do you need my help?"

"Help with what?" Dany asked, puzzled.

"I learned some techniques from Doreah. I can please you," Irri said, her calloused hand reaching into Dany's bed.

Dany froze for a moment, then realized what Irri meant. Blushing, she turned away and said, "No, not that. I'm thinking about what happened in the arena."

The bloodriders of Drogo were dead, and the other horsemen dared not touch Dany's handmaidens. Yet, after so long, the three women had grown restless. Dany had even caught glimpses of Doreah with the others.

"What about the arena?" Irri asked, her tone neutral, as if she had merely been asking if Dany wanted water.

As she mentally noted the horsemen's brazenness, Dany replied, "People should have limits. The pursuit of beauty and goodness is what separates humans from beasts. Kindness and compassion are among humanity's finest qualities. But today, I saw too many people acting less than human."

After a pause, Irri spoke softly. "I don't know who my father was, but I had a mother and brothers. They were all killed by Drogo's warriors. Yet, after becoming your handmaiden, I consider myself yours completely.

To me, this is just how the world works. We've all endured it. I don't know how it could be better."

Irri, Jhiqui, Qotho, and Qarlho hadn't been part of Drogo's original khalasar. Their khalasar had been destroyed by Drogo, leaving them as half-slaves—status higher than slaves but lower than full khalasar members.

Later, Daenerys married Drogo, and the four of them joined her khalasar, thus obtaining the "citizenship" of Drogo's khal.

"I know what kind of world is better, and I intend to change the world as it is," Daenerys said.

"I believe in you, Khaleesi. You are the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the miracle blessed by the Great Stallion," Irri said, holding her hand.

The two then fell silent. Not three minutes passed before the horsemaid's breathing grew heavy once more.

Daenerys stared wide-eyed at the pitch-black ceiling. She could hear the faint creak of the wooden ship's hull, the sound of waves striking against it, and footsteps on the deck above her.

In the stillness, she suddenly caught the sound of a third person breathing. Startled, she half sat up, peering into the darkness and calling out softly, "Doreah? Jhiqui?"

"They're asleep," a woman's voice replied, "all of them."

The voice came from dangerously close to the bed, as though the speaker stood at its edge, leaning over Daenerys.

"Shit… Quaithe?" Daenerys recognized the voice, her expression turning to shock. "Why are you here in Astapor? Where are my guards? Didn't they stop you?"

"It's me," Quaithe replied, seemingly stepping closer. In the dim light, Daenerys could barely make out a vague shadow in the darkness.

"This afternoon, while I was meditating, I once again foresaw a world-changing event. I saw your figure standing amidst blood and fire, surrounded by mountains of corpses and seas of blood," Quaithe said calmly.

Daenerys' face changed. She trembled slightly as she asked, "What do you know?"

Damn this world's prophecy magic! Daenerys cursed inwardly. I haven't even fully formed my plans, and yet you already sense something? (PS)

"I know nothing. I'm puzzled," Quaithe replied. "So, will you tell me?"

Her words brought Daenerys a great sense of relief.

"I don't even know the basics of meditation, let alone prophecy," Daenerys said.

In the darkness, Daenerys could sense Quaithe scrutinizing her. Just as Daenerys was about to question how Quaithe had bypassed her guards, Quaithe spoke again.

"Daenerys, remember this: To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To move forward, you must go back. And to find light, you must pass through shadow."

Her voice grew fainter with each word, and the final sentence was almost inaudible.

Daenerys' heart skipped a beat. She called out, "Drogon, light!"

From a corner of the room came the sound of chains dragging. The black dragon stirred from its slumber, its dark red eyes glowing like two nocturnal jewels. "Hiss—"

Drogon opened his mouth slightly and exhaled a thin flame. The firelight banished the room's darkness, allowing Daenerys to glance around—but the sight sent a chill down her spine. The door was shut and latched securely, yet there was no sign of the woman with the red lacquered mask.

A locked-room mystery?

No, not quite—a locked-room infiltration? Or escape?

How did Quaithe get in? And how did she leave?

"Oh my gods!" Daenerys suddenly slapped her forehead and muttered, "Damn it, it must've been the glass candle!"

If science couldn't explain it, then magic must. Glass candles supposedly had the ability to communicate across great distances and project visions.

Even if it wasn't a glass candle, it was likely some similar sorcery.

To confirm her suspicion, Daenerys threw off her blanket, put on a cloak, and opened the door. Outside, Doreah and Jhiqui were sleeping on low cots. In the corridor and on the top deck, four or five Dothraki warriors patrolled back and forth.

Daenerys also spotted Barristan Selmy resting in a sleeping bag near the entrance to the cabin. The moment he heard footsteps, the old knight sat up, instantly alert.

"Princess?" Selmy asked.

"It's me. Did you see Quaithe?" Daenerys asked.

"No one entered. I can recognize the footsteps of any stranger," Selmy replied confidently.

Daenerys' cabin, originally the captain's quarters, was located at the innermost part of the third deck. The only path in and out passed by where Selmy was stationed.

"Ah, Quaithe visited me," Daenerys sighed.

(PS: This isn't an exaggeration. In the original text, Quaithe also visited Daenerys the night before a major event, though not as directly as in this adaptation.

Every time Daenerys reached a major turning point in her life, Quaithe seemed to foresee it beforehand, as if practicing prophecy on her.)

(End of Chapter)

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