The large ship surged out from the turbulent Trident's mouth, drifting swiftly into the Summer Sea. The scene suddenly opened up; an endless blue ocean filled the horizon.
Since hatching the dragon at Skyreach, Samwell had promptly fled. After navigating through the Red Mountains to Ghost Hill, he had boarded a ship that sailed downriver toward Eagle's Nest. Now, as they glided from the mouth of the Trident into the open Summer Sea, the air was tinged with the faint salt of the ocean, and dolphins and flying fish flitted through the waves alongside the vessel.
Overhead, a small, milky-white dragon circled the mast. It was no bigger than a cat, but still enough to make the captain nervously look up every few seconds.
"Lord Caesar," he said, his gaze darting to the bright flash of the dragon above, nervously swallowing, "might you consider caging your dragon? It could set fire to the ship..."
Samwell laughed heartily. "Don't worry. It won't breathe fire without my command, and even if it did, it wouldn't be enough to destroy the ship. If it causes any flames, we'd handle them quickly."
Reluctantly, the captain stepped away, instructing the crew to set out several barrels of seawater on deck, just in case.
"Sam, you mustn't cage your dragon," Margaery reminded him gently. "Back in King's Landing, the Targaryens built a massive dome called the Dragonpit, where they confined their dragons. It was vast enough for fifty horses to ride side-by-side, yet every dragon raised there was stunted, twisted, and short-lived. Some maesters believe the extinction of the Targaryen dragons was because stone walls and domes suppressed their growth."
"Nonsense," scoffed Melisandre, the red priestess. "If walls stunted growth, nobles in castles would be giants compared to farmers in huts."
Margaery wrinkled her delicate nose, somewhat indignant. "Humans and dragons aren't the same, and it's not worth the risk."
Samwell chuckled, trying to diffuse the tension. "Don't worry, Margaery. I would never confine my dragon as if it were a kennel dog. Even if walls wouldn't stunt its growth, they would certainly curb its wild spirit."
Margaery smiled brightly, clearly pleased he agreed with her. "So, Sam, have you thought of a name for it yet?"
"Yes." Samwell watched the young white dragon skim over the water, his mouth curving into a smile. "I'll call it Cleopatra."
"Cleopatra?" Margaery's brows knit. "Was that an ancient King or is it a of a forgotten God? I've never heard of it."
The name Cleopatra comes from the Queen of Egypt—no wonder you haven't heard of her, he thought with a chuckle. Caesar's mount should carry this name; it's only fitting.
"It's a name I heard in the flames," he explained vaguely. "It could be a message from the gods."
Melisandre's eyes sparked with fire as she contemplated the name's possible meaning, wondering if the Lord of Light, R'hllor, had given another prophecy.
As if it sensed the call, Cleopatra beat her wings, creating a shimmer of steam from the sea, and glided to Samwell's side. The small dragon stretched its snakelike neck, giving a soft, affectionate hiss.
Samwell reached into a pouch, pulling out a piece of raw fish and holding it out to the dragon.
"Dragon Fire," he commanded softly.
Cleopatra gave a sharp cry, releasing a jet of orange flame that seared the fish, before tearing it apart with razor-sharp teeth.
"Sam, what language was that?" Margaery asked, chin resting in her hand as she observed the dragon with fascination.
It's Chinese.
"That was... well, it's a phrase I made up," Samwell said, stroking the dragon's triangular head. "I'm training it to respond to commands, so I'm using a unique phrase no one else is likely to say by accident."
"Oh." Margaery reached out hesitantly, as if wanting to pet the dragon but unsure. "May I touch it?"
"Of course, with me here, it won't bite."
Gingerly, Margaery brushed her hand against Cleopatra's translucent wings, then pulled it back quickly, laughing. "It's hot!"
"A dragon's flesh is forged from fire," Melisandre said reverently. "And fire is power."
"Cleopatra," Margaery repeated, trying out the name.
The dragon, however, ignored her.
Margaery pouted slightly, then laughed at herself. "The name sounds feminine—do you think it's a female?"
"You can't classify dragons by mortal notions of gender," said Melisandre.
"What does that mean?" Margaery tilted her head. "Are dragons neither male nor female?"
"Indeed," Melisandre nodded. "They have no fixed gender; they shift, like flame."
Intrigued, Samwell grasped Cleopatra and flipped her over, checking for himself. True to Melisandre's words, he found nothing to indicate gender.
The dragon squirmed in his hands, seemingly displeased by the position, flapping its wings and hissing. Samwell quickly released it, placating it with another piece of fish.
"How long do they live?" Margaery asked, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
"Ancient records from Asshai say some dragons have lived a thousand years," said Melisandre.
"I recall Balerion, the Black Dread, who lived over two hundred years during King Jaehaerys' rule. But I don't think any of the Targaryen dragons lasted longer than that," Margaery mused, her hair billowing in the sea breeze.
"That's because the Targaryens never truly understood how to tend to dragons," Melisandre said, dismissively.
"Oh? And you do?" Margaery's voice held a hint of challenge.
"Indeed." Melisandre's voice was filled with pride, and the ruby at her throat gleamed. "Dragons were born beyond Asshai, in the shadow lands. They are servants of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, messengers of fire and flame."
Margaery interjected. "The Targaryens didn't worship your Lord of Light; they honored the Seven, just as the Valyrian dragonlords did. None were R'hllor's followers."
She remained wary of this red priestess, fearing her influence over Samwell and even the risk of him converting to her faith. She believed the Seven were central to the Seven Kingdoms' unity, and adopting the Lord of Light might alienate both nobles and commoners.
Melisandre's scarlet gaze fixed on her. "And so the Targaryen dragons died out, their dynasty overthrown, and Valyria was destroyed in fire. R'hllor punished them for seizing divine power without service."
"If your god was so generous, why didn't he grant you a dragon?" Margaery's retort was sharp.
Melisandre didn't falter. "The gifts I have been given are more than sufficient."
"Enough," Samwell interjected, stopping the rising tension between the two. "Melisandre, tell me about Asshai. What is it really like?"
He was aware of Melisandre's efforts to gain his trust and that some of her words were likely exaggerated.
In truth, the Targaryen dragons had perished because the magical tides that once filled Westeros receded. The world's magic was like the tides—rising and falling.
Dragons, being magical creatures, faded as magic ebbed. Faith had little to do with it. But with the recent appearance of the red comet, magic seemed to be surging back, which was how Samwell had been able to resurrect his dragon with fire and blood.
Decades ago, Aegon V tried a similar ritual at Summerhall but failed, not because he didn't worship R'hllor, but because magic was waning.
"Asshai lies far to the east," Melisandre began, her voice imbued with a haunting melody. "A vast city built along the Ash River, it's five times the size of King's Landing. Every structure is hewn from black stone, which absorbs all light, leaving the city dark even by day. At night, it's true blackness.
"No food can grow there, and the river is undrinkable. Fortunately, Asshai produces an abundance of gold and gems, which draws traders who bring provisions.
"Asshai is also a city of magic: warlocks, alchemists, moon-singers, red priests, necromancers, cloud-mages, blood sorcerers, torturers, inquisitors, shadowbinders, shape-shifters, the Pale Children—you can see them all there.
"There are no taboos in Asshai. There, mystics can openly perform spells, rituals, summon demons, or practice terrifying witchcraft..."
"A frightful place indeed," Margaery murmured, drawing closer to Samwell.
"I've heard the shadowbinders are infamous," Samwell said, his eyes meeting Melisandre's with a hint of amusement.
Melisandre was, after all, a shadowbinder, able to summon shadows through magic.
In Game of Thrones, she had conjured shadows to kill Stannis Baratheon's brother Renly and Cortnay Penrose, the steward of Storm's End.
During the recent conflict at Skyreach, she had offered her dark magic to help Samwell, likely intending to use similar methods.
"Yes," Melisandre admitted, her voice steady, "Shadowbinders are indeed prominent in Asshai," Melisandre continued with an unwavering gaze. "They wear lacquered masks to conceal their faces and are the only ones who dare venture upriver into the Shadow Lands."
Samwell tilted his head, his tone carrying a note of curiosity. "Then why don't you wear a mask?"
Melisandre's fiery red eyes met his, her expression unreadable, but she didn't shy away. "My service to the Lord of Light is my mask, my lord."
"You're a shadowbinder?" Margaery's eyes widened as she pieced together the implication.
"Yes," Melisandre acknowledged, her voice carrying a touch more humility than before, perhaps a hint of vulnerability in her admission.
"Yet you serve R'hllor, the Lord of Light?" Margaery pressed, clearly skeptical. "Shadowbinding seems… anything but a power of light."
"On the contrary," Melisandre replied calmly, "shadows are born from light. You cannot find shadows in pure darkness. They are servants of flame and children of the Lord of Light."
Margaery fell silent, a touch exasperated, unable to counter Melisandre's logic. She seemed to look to Samwell for support, but he only chuckled, amused by the interplay between the two women.
(End of Chapter)
TL: The MC here is actually using (Chinese) to command "Cleopatra". But we all know that's not gonna pass. So I changed it. If you notice some inconsistency with dragon commands in the future, just take note that MC is using chinese.
"Dracarys" Translates to "Dragon Fire" which translates to "( 龙火) Lóng huǒ" In chinese..