Across the Narrow Sea from Westeros, in Essos.
Name: Little Griffin
Age: Fifteen
Abilities: Yang Family Spear, Swordsmanship, Mera Mera no Mi, Unburnt, Valyrian Language, Dothraki Language...
Faction: House Targaryen
Little Griffin opened his eyes, and a transparent panel appeared before him. His violet eyes revealed determination, with flames seemingly raging within them.
His silver-gold hair draped over his shoulders, swaying with the breeze and shining under the sun.
A hint of a wicked smile often hung on his face, which took away from his otherwise handsome features.
He extended his right hand, and with a thought, pitch-black flames burned in his palm. Despite contact with such intense heat, his hand felt no discomfort, and even his skin remained uninjured.
He gazed at the flames with his pupils; this was the ability of House Targaryen: the Unburnt effect in action, and also the manifestation of the Mera Mera no Mi.
Although he was well-acquainted with his abilities, he still could not use one technique—the Fire Clone.
Moreover, compared to the elemental form of the Mera Mera no Mi, he was different; when he elementalized, his body did not turn into fire, but into a black shadow.
Because of this, his techniques regarding shadows were superior to those of fire.
Little Griffin snorted coldly and clenched his right hand, causing the flames to vanish. With them vanished his silver-gold hair; the moment the flames disappeared, his silver hair instantly turned blue, which made Little Griffin somewhat displeased.
He gripped a Valyrian steel longsword in his left hand and walked out of the room into the blinding sunlight, bumping into a burly man the moment he stepped out.
He recognized this man at a glance; he was the former Lord of Griffin's Roost, former hand of the king, Jon Clinton. Oh, no, now he should be called by his alias: Griffin.
His beard was trimmed extremely neatly, and his original grey-red hair had been dyed blue. His figure was extremely tall, and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. A rival who had once crossed swords with Robert could no longer escape the erosion of time.
Behind him stood thousands of warriors clad in golden armor; this was the mercenary company founded by the noble bastard "Bittersteel" Aegor Rivers, born to Aegon Targaryen IV and Barba Bracken.
The Golden Company had always been regarded as the largest, most famous, and most expensive mercenary company in the Free Cities. Although mercenaries had always been notorious for being fickle, the greatest honor of the Golden Company lay in the fact that they never broke a contract. Their motto was "Our word is as good as gold."
Jon Clinton looked at the longsword in Little Griffin's hand, feeling quite nostalgic. The first time he saw this sword was when he was exiled by The Mad King Aerys and first arrived in Essos.
"Gold on top, Bittersteel below. My King, have you rested well?"
"Thanks to you, I rested well."
"In that case, it is time for us to set off for Vaes Dothrak. News has come from Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos; he has recently arranged a marriage between Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo, and he even gifted her three fossilized dragon eggs at Daenerys's wedding. My King, the opportunity you once spoke of has arrived."
"Fire and Blood! It seems I should go and meet my two down-and-out elders. A chaotic age is coming, magic is reawakening, but I do not know who the true dragon is..."
Her titles were Queen of the andals, the rhoynars and the first men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles/Chains, Queen of Meereen, Princess of Dragonstone, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Mhysa (Mother), Silver Queen, Silver Lady, Dragon Queen, and so on.
Yes, she was Daenerys Targaryen. She was petite and breathtakingly beautiful, with the typical silver-gold hair and purple eyes of the Valyrians.
However, she had nothing to do with the above titles right now.
She was now just a little girl, exiled, timid, and lacking self-confidence.
"Our little princess has finally put on clothes worthy of her." Her brother arrived. In her impression, her brother Viserys was always happy to mock and abuse her. Ever since she was born in a storm, she had been drifting in foreign lands.
According to her brother Viserys, the king currently sitting on the iron throne, Robert Baratheon, had stolen the power of their House Targaryen by despicable means and slaughtered the blood kin of House Targaryen.
And her brother Viserys would one day lead thousands of troops to kill their way back across the Narrow Sea, slaughter the treacherous subjects in Westeros, retake the iron throne, and restore the glory of House Targaryen.
Of course, this was just her brother's own claim. In fact, she had always understood clearly that her brother was just indulging in wishful thinking.
The only object her brother dared to bully was Daenerys herself. While abusing her, he would also threaten that he was awakening the "sleeping dragon's wrath."
In the tradition of House Targaryen, to ensure the purity of the bloodline, siblings and kin would marry each other. Since she was a child, Daenerys had believed that she would marry her brother Viserys in the future; after all, she could not find any other relatives of House Targaryen.
But now her brother, her future husband, had actually married her off to a leader of a barbarian tribe through a merchant named Illyrio. How could she accept this?
Unfortunately, what she said did not count...
Before long, Daenerys was caught up in a series of processes like bathing; it was said that this was necessary for meeting the Dothraki lord.
She submerged herself in the bath, and the scalding water made the maids beside her afraid to touch it, yet she felt incredibly comfortable. Perhaps this was what her brother often said: "A true dragon does not fear fire."
After bathing and cleaning up, the maid helped her up and picked up a towel to carefully dry her body, which was just beginning to develop. Her hair was combed until it was incredibly smooth, the silver-gold shining even more brightly under the light.
Subsequently, the old woman beside her brought out the floral essence of the Dothraki grasslands and touched a dab all over her body. This rich and pungent scent made Daenerys frown.
"Your Highness, even a beauty from a dream would be no more than this; Drogo will surely be satisfied."
Daenerys heard the voice of Magister Illyrio, who was praising her as if she were a commodity.
"She is really too thin. Are you sure Khal Drogo likes such a young woman?"
Viserys was very skeptical about whether his seller could get the price from Khal Drogo.
The tone of Viserys and Illyrio made Daenerys's heart tighten; she feared she would not escape the fate of being sold to a leader of a nomadic tribe.
She had even heard that these nomads were barbaric, irritable, and would even engage in... some kind of special activity with sheep.
Khal Drogo's palace was located by the bay, rising with nine tall towers, the towering brick walls covered with pale ivy. This was a gift from the slave owners to Khal Drogo, perhaps also to curry favor with him so that he would not bring his Dothraki cavalry to attack them.
And Khal Drogo was relatively disciplined; once he received the benefits, he would no longer make things difficult for them, which allowed these slave owners to live their comfortable little lives in peace.
When Daenerys approached, two burly attendants with rough features lifted and rolled up the curtain. Undoubtedly, these two were Khal Drogo's Blood Riders, his absolute confidants. (They could also be considered Khal Drogo's Curtain-Rolling Generals.)
Viserys walked at the very front, gripping the hilt of the borrowed sword tightly. He held his head high, trying hard to display the majesty of a true dragon.
Unfortunately, neither Illyrio nor Khal Drogo's guards took him seriously, which filled Viserys's eyes with desolation. He could not be certain whether Khal Drogo would truly grant him the Dothraki army.
How many years had it been? Since childhood, Viserys had been drifting overseas. He had to guard against the Usurper's pursuit, avoid being robbed by locals, and, even more, avoid starving to death with his sister.
For the sake of his great cause of restoring the country, he had walked too, too many roads. This road was so long, so tortuous. From Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and later to Qohor, Volantis, and Lys—this was the route of his exile.
Along the way, he kept selling royal gold and silver jewelry, kept exchanging money for food, kept living under others' roofs, and had no fixed place to live.
Over the years, he had pawned all his jewelry. By now, even the money obtained from selling his mother's crown had been spent.
In the taverns and alleys of Pentos, people gave him the nickname "The Beggar King." What a humiliation this was.
What he was most reluctant to part with was his mother's crown, because it contained proof that his mother had once existed, and it was his only reliance when he secretly cried in the night countless times. But he had no choice; he was afraid, he was afraid of being killed or starving to death in some place.
Once, he could rely on Ser Willem Darry, the man who had led them to escape the cage. Unfortunately, after Ser Willem died, those despicable servants stole all the remaining money and finally drove them out of the house. How humiliating this was for a true dragon.
Before walking into the room, Viserys turned his head and glanced at the west again. That was the other side of the Narrow Sea, the direction of King's Landing, and also the home where he had once lived.
He had fantasized countless times about leading thousands of troops to fight back to Westeros—Dorne, Storms End, The Reach, the North, King's Landing—he wanted to take back everything that belonged to him. He did not want to be bullied or despised by others anymore. He could not take it anymore. He was a true dragon, born to wear a crown, hold a scepter, and sit on the iron throne.
Daenerys followed closely behind her brother Viserys. The road was only a few dozen meters long, but she walked it with extreme difficulty. Perhaps it was because the gold-trimmed sandals on her feet were not quite comfortable, or perhaps it was because she feared the fate that was about to come.