Chapter 59 - Silver, Blonde, & Red I

"House Tyrell is lost."

Having won over the ancient Slaver Cities, Daenerys focused on consolidating her power and rule. With her trusted advisors in the airy room of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, she paced left and right beside the windows, her slender, refined charm gleaming at the sunlight falling in. But her brows remained creased in a frown.

"They stood by my house when the usurper rose against my family. Is there truly nothing we can offer to aid them, to bring them to our cause?" Daenerys asked.

"Another missive has arrived, Your Grace. It's from your self-proclaimed friend in the Red Keep." Ser Barristan rose to his feet to hand her the letter. "Perhaps this may contain some answers."

"You haven't read it?" She amusedly asked and took the rolled paper. A hint of keenness was noticeable as she unrolled it.

"I wouldn't dare, Your Grace."

So Daenerys chose to read the missive in silence and only share the content if she deemed it fit. But to her own and everyone else's surprise, she smiled as soon as she read it.

Greetings, my silver-haired friend across the sea. Trying to outdo Aegon, are you? Three Slaver Cities conquered—I'm as envious as I am impressed. I guess that grants me some bragging rights of my own.

The Tyrells, in their foolishness, thought they could assassinate me at my own wedding with a goblet of poison. Imagine their shock when I forced that withered old hag Olenna to confess her plot and made my treacherous would-be bride drink the very wine meant for me. But of course, their true aim was my weak-willed little brother—easy to control, easy to manipulate.

I truly despise these old schemers who think the young ones like us are blind to their schemes… Ah, I'm ranting now. Apologies, Mother of Dragons.

Daenerys chuckled openly and leaned against a window while continuing to read. So engrossed in the words that she failed to notice her shocked council members.

How are those three? I reckon they'd be big by now. Have you ridden their backs? Seven Hells, I'd trade the entire realm to mount on—oh, wait, I'm already doing that. I hope you've not forgotten the promise—Did you show them my portrait? I hope they don't burn me when you land here.

Just in case, I've sent another painting of my chiseled, handsome visage. I'm growing my hair out a bit—just refining my noble style.

Daenerys changed the page and there it was. Joffrey Baratheon's face in the painting—winking at her of all the things. More than anger, she just couldn't help but be more curious about this strange man's personality.

However, the next part of the letter made her turn serious.

I heard Yunkai crawled back to its chains the moment you turned your back. Disgusting, but expected. By all means, Daenerys, come for the Iron Throne. But what's the point if nothing changes? After your father came mine, after me there shall be you—Maegor the Cruel, or Baelor the Blessed—the smallfolk suffer the same.

"So he believes he can teach me how to rule," she scoffed, yet continued to read.

King's Landing was on the verge of breaking into a riot a few months prior. But by merely mending the sewers, and rationing food, the smallfolk became happy, loyal, and loving towards their King. It doesn't matter how many fishes you feed the hungry, for they will forever depend on you. What matters is if you can teach them how to fish.

A slave's first thought at dawn is not freedom, but food. A slave master's first thought is not food, but gold—Aegon didn't conquer the Seven Kingdoms without burning a few castles and toppling bloodlines.

Daenerys fell into a deep, inner silence. Her vision turned a little hazy and she remembered not killing all the Wise Masters in Yunkai, or even trying to set up a new ruling system. She simply let nature take its course.

"This man." She chuckled at the next and the last paragraph.

By the way, what's your favorite food to eat? I'm compiling a new tome discussing the favorite cruise of all the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms starting from Aegon. I'd appreciate it if you wrote back to me. I'm also curious about what your three dragons are called. I'd appreciate a portrait too so I know when my true silver-haired friend has arrived to meet me… Ah, on second thought, dragons will be proof enough.

Good luck on your journey. May the Great Masters of Meereen make the soil fertile through their ashes.

Daenerys put the stack of papers down and mutely looked at her council. In all honesty, she felt conflicted. Before, she wanted to kill anyone related to Robert Baratheon. But, Robert was already dead, and killing his children was similar to Robert trying to kill her—which he did try.

But Joffrey? He had done nothing against her yet.

"Was he always this wise?" She asked, turning towards Ser Barristan.

"He was a spoiled brat," Ser Barristan replied, though the firmness in his voice wavered. "I don't know anymore. The word is that he faced a life-altering trial during Stannis' siege at Blackwater Bay. Perhaps the fires of battle tempered him… But from this distance, who among us can truly say?"

"Don't trust any word he says, Your Grace. He's a Baratheon," Jorah added.

But Daenerys remained unmoved by his warning. She wasn't blind to his biases.

"Why waste breath on a boy across the sea? We have better things to celebrate." Daario Naharis walked into the airy room and took a seat.

Ser Barristan scoffed at his disrespectful attitude. "That 'boy' took down a house that boasted an army of a hundred thousand. All without so much as unsheathing his sword."

"So he's lucky," Darrio said.

Jorah didn't like him much either. "Luck is the last thing that keeps one alive in Westeros."

Danereys looked down at the sheets of missive in her hand and let out a deep sigh. She rolled it as it was and moved closer to the table. "Things to celebrate? Such as?"

"The Second Sons have taken the Meereenese Navy."

"Who told you to take the Navy?" She interrogated, annoyed.

"No one." Daario, even more casually, grabbed a fistful of dry fruits on the table and relaxed.

"So why did you do it?"

"I heard you like ships."

Daenerys looked away, hiding the smile. She liked the idea of those ships; Or more so the idea of what they could grant her. An opportunity to go and meet this 'friend' of hers.

"How many ships?"

"Ninety-three, Your Grace," Ser Barristan answered.

"How many men can they carry?"

"Almost ten thousand."

Daenerys clenched on the missive and stared at Jorah. "Would that be enough to take King's Landing?"

Jorah ran the numbers in his mind, his brow furrowing with concern. "The Lannisters hold more, Your Grace. Joffrey Baratheon now commands House Baratheon and its forces. If his cunning matches our fears, the Reach could soon fall under his sway. He's sired a bastard with Sansa Stark, which may well tie House Stark to his cause. The Vale, too, is within his grasp, with young Robert Arryn bound to him as a squire."

"So only Dorne remains?"

Jorah shook his head solemnly. "I cannot say, Your Grace. Joffrey gifted the Mountain to Dorne, and they may choose to stand neutral."

Daenerys' mood dipped for the worse.

"The only thing we can do now is to wait for the dragons to grow bigger, Your Grace. When they're mighty enough to set cities ablaze, the noble houses will rally to your cause. But I beg you, do not take his words lightly." Jorah suggested and noticed her grip on the letters. "He has Tywin Lannister at his back, a man whose appetite for deceit is as relentless as a lion's thirst for blood. Caution, Your Grace, for they're as dangerous as the beasts they bear on their banners."

"And mine has a dragon," she responded, irked.

"Ser Jorah is right," Ser Barristan said. "We should wait for the dragons to grow."

Jorah continued at that. "But before we turn our gaze to such distant shores, we face urgent troubles here and now. Word reaches us from Yunkai—without the Unsullied to uphold your command, the Wise Masters have seized control of the city once more. The freedmen who chose to remain have been reenslaved, and a bitter vengeance is sworn against you. In Astapor, the council you set in place has been cast aside by a brute named Cleon, who now proclaims himself 'His Imperial Majesty.'"

"Please leave me," Daenerys demanded all of a sudden. "Not you, Jorah."

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