Chapter 342

"During the journey here on the Ironborn’s ship, there wasn’t a single day I didn’t use the flames to divine your circumstances, Your Grace." Though Marqilo couldn’t read Chinese, it didn’t stop him from reveling in the satisfaction of the 'prophesied one' walking right into his hands. His pitch-black eyes locked onto Daenerys’s violet ones. "You were lured by illusions and deceit to that shadowed land, where you were tricked and made to suffer great losses to your strength. The only fortunate thing is that you encountered no mortal danger. The inhabitants of Asshai possess the most mysterious and powerful abilities known in the world, but precisely because of this, they fear the Lord of Light’s prophecy more than anyone. You, as the prophesied one, are a prize they covet deeply, yet they dare not seize by force. Instead, they used deception, hoping you’d willingly hand over what they desired."

Everyone present was utterly confused, unable to grasp what Marqilo was talking about, much less how to respond. Daenerys, however, looked startled, her expression growing increasingly peculiar.

"Heh—" Petyr Baelish broke the silence, unwilling to let the Red Priest’s theatrics sway the Queen. "Forgive my bluntness, but these words are vague and could apply to nearly anyone returning from a long journey. Anyone with enough imagination could weave a story to fit these ambiguous hints."

Marqilo smiled faintly. He appreciated the presence of sharp minds among Daenerys’s advisors. As a Red Priest, he followed the same principles as his brethren when interpreting divine revelations: keep it vague, encourage interpretation, and nudge imaginations in the desired direction. Clear and specific explanations risked eroding the Lord of Light’s mystique in the eyes of the faithful and made it harder to recover from mistakes if the interpretation proved wrong.

But with the prophesied one, such rules could be bent. A higher principle took precedence: he needed Daenerys’s absolute trust and had to guide her through every obstacle, ensuring she fulfilled her destiny and overcame the enemies of the Lord of Light.

"The one who provided you with the dragon-taming technique made an unreasonable demand," Marqilo said after a brief pause, deciding to be more explicit. "You paid a price you should not have paid for what was already rightfully yours."

A price? What had she sacrificed to obtain the dragon-taming technique?

Petyr glanced at Daenerys, his body stiffening as a realization dawned on him. Months ago, when their young queen had unexpectedly flown east on Drogon, she had taken nothing of value with her—no wealth, no possessions—only herself and her dragons. Now the black dragon had returned, larger and stronger than ever. Could it be that...?

The thought twisted Littlefinger’s expression. Daenerys Targaryen, his lawful queen and the only hope for reclaiming Westeros, had sold herself to acquire the dragon-taming technique?

His mind raced with damage control strategies. He knew all too well how a ruler’s reputation could be destroyed by such a “scandal.” Robert Baratheon’s debauchery was tolerated because his position was secure, bolstered by his family’s support. But Daenerys was a queen fighting for a throne, and worse, a woman in a world far harsher on female rulers than their male counterparts. A king could indulge in debauchery, but a queen could not.

While Petyr wrestled with his thoughts, Daenerys took a deep breath, relaxing her posture. Marqilo’s words weren’t mere insinuations—they revealed a truth only someone who had witnessed her journey could know.

Yes, she had paid a price for the dragon-taming technique. In plain terms, she had "sold herself."

But not in the sordid way Petyr’s mind was imagining.
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Asshai was a city steeped in magic. Sorcerers, alchemists, moon singers, necromancers, pyromancers, and blood mages openly practiced their craft, holding bizarre ceremonies and performing chilling spells. It felt as though every supernatural power, artifact, and event in the world had converged in this one place. When Daenerys crossed mountain ranges and rivers to arrive on Drogon, she quickly noticed something strange: the people here treated her and her dragon differently. They watched with curiosity, pointed at Drogon, but showed no fear or awe. It was as if they were admiring a fine horse they could never afford.

This unnerving normalcy made Daenerys realize that if anywhere held the secret to taming dragons, it was this city.

Finding it was surprisingly easy—there was no need for unraveling mysteries, exploring ruins, or braving dangers. The technique was displayed openly, like merchandise on a shop shelf, available to anyone who could pay the price.

But therein lay the problem. The cost far exceeded the wealth of Meereen’s treasury, not to mention that Daenerys had brought no gold with her. She also knew instinctively that a deal like the one she made in Astapor—offering Drogon as a decoy—would not work here.

Negotiations began. The proprietor refused her proposal of payment upon return and instead demanded Drogon himself. Without the taming technique, her dragons were untamed forces of destruction. With it, she could control the remaining two dragons and even breed more in the future.

It was a reasonable offer—but utterly unacceptable to Daenerys, a mother to her dragons. She firmly rejected it and left, spending her nights camped in the wilds around Asshai, pondering her next move. Then, the mysterious figure who had appeared in her visions—who had guided her here—suddenly stood before her.
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Drogon flew off in search of his midday meal, while the enigmatic figure stood by a river of black water, cloaked in the same hooded robe as before. The red lacquer mask beneath the hood gleamed faintly in Asshai’s dim sunlight.

"I thought I’d never see you again," Daenerys said, unsure if this was reality or a dream. But this time, she wasted no time on pleasantries. "To reach Duskendale, one must go east; to find light, one must pass through shadow. It seems I did not misinterpret your message. You wanted me to come to Asshai, and I am here."

"You have shown wisdom, Daenerys Targaryen. That pleases me."

"Flattery is abundant in Meereen’s court," Daenerys said sharply, disliking the figure’s cryptic tone. "I’ve found what I need, but I can’t afford it. You claimed you’d guide me—so help me now."

"Reason tells you untrained dragons will destroy your kingdom, and experience warns you not to trade them for the solution. Following both is wisdom. Do not mistake genuine praise for empty flattery." The figure extended a slender hand, holding a rolled-up book. "As for what you seek, it is here."

Daenerys’s violet eyes widened as she recognized the book: The Dragonbinder’s Codex, the very manual she had seen in Asshai.

"You want it," the figure said, placing the book on a flat stone. "Without it, you cannot reclaim your kingdom. But without a teacher, you will never understand its secrets."

"I’m tired of riddles and cryptic advice!" Daenerys brushed a strand of silver hair from her face, fighting the urge to grab the book. "If you’re my ally, then help me master this technique!"

"I can help you," the figure replied. "But it will come at a price."

"And what is that price?"

"You’ll know soon enough."

"I don’t want 'soon,' I want now!" Daenerys raised her voice. "By the authority of a queen, I command you—"

"Rest well," the figure interrupted. "If you’re curious, begin by reading this book. Prepare yourself, and then we will proceed."

As suddenly as she had appeared, the figure vanished. By the river of black water, only the book remained, lying silently on the stone.