Daenerys woke up slowly.
Her head was heavy, her body still. She blinked at the ceiling—wooden, old, and low. A tiny chamber, lit by a single hanging lantern that swayed gently with the ship's movement. The smell of salt filled the air.
She tried to move, but her hands were tied.
She stared at them, numb at first. Then came the fear.
Where am I now? Who has me this time?
Outside, she heard footsteps. Slow. Careful. Getting closer.
She sat up as best she could, arms stiff behind her. Her heart beat faster. She didn't call out—what if it was someone worse?
The door creaked open.
And a man stepped in.
Not one of the men in black.
Not a slaver.
Not her brother.
But a man with a worn face, tired eyes, and armor that had clearly seen better days.
"Ser Jorah?" Daenerys whispered.
She knew the name. Knew the face. He had been around before—quiet, watchful. One of the exiles who served her brother. She had never looked at him twice.
But now he was here. In this room. With her.
He knelt beside her without a word and started working on the ropes.
"You... why are you here?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"I don't know," Jorah said. "But I couldn't let them take you."
She looked into his eyes, confused. "Why?"
Jorah didn't answer right away. His hands were rough but careful.
"I've done enough wrong," he muttered. "Let me do one thing right."
The ropes fell away.
Daenerys didn't know how to feel.
She wasn't safe. Not yet. She didn't even trust him fully. But something inside her—something small and scared—was touched by his choice.
He helped her stand.
"Come," he said. "We have to move."
She followed him through narrow halls. The ship creaked beneath their feet. Every step was uncertain, every turn a risk.
Then they reached the deck.
And stopped.
Five men were waiting there.
Clad in black. Standing still as statues.
Behind them, more crew moved around, pretending to work. But Daenerys could feel it—they were watching. Waiting.
Jorah's hand moved to his sword.
"They know," he said quietly. "They saw me come aboard."
Daenerys stood behind him. The wind tugged at her dress, her silver hair brushing her cheeks. The sea stretched out around them, gray and endless. Mist clung to the horizon like a veil.
One of the black-clad men stepped forward. His voice was calm.
"We saw you," he said. "We let you come. We wanted to see what you'd do."
Jorah didn't answer. His stance didn't change.
"We're not here to hurt her," the man said. "Not unless you make us."
Daenerys watched their faces—cold, unreadable. They weren't slavers. They weren't Dothraki. They moved like killer, but not from Essos.
And they were patient.
They weren't rushing.
They were waiting for something.
Then it happened.
The mist broke.
First came the sound—thoom... thoom...—oars cutting through water with heavy rhythm.
Then the shape.
A long, low warship glided out of the fog. The Dromon.
It moved like a predator, sleek and sure. The oars beat in perfect unison, pushing it forward fast and smooth.
At the very front of the ship, a massive dragon head jutted out—carved from dark bronze, mouth open wide in a frozen roar. Smoke hissed from its throat. Its eyes were hollow and deep, and something inside them pulsed with firelight.
It wasn't just decoration.
This was the weapon.
The Greek Fire cannon.
Built right into the mouth of the dragon, hidden in its jaw like a secret breath waiting to be unleashed. Pipes ran back along the deck, feeding whatever fuel burned inside.
The sight of it made even the bravest men uneasy.
There was no mistaking what it could do.
The other towered like a floating castle. Heavy, wide, with cannons and sails that stretched high into the sky. A banner flapped at its top—gold-lined, nameless, proud.
And behind them, a smaller ship followed.
...
Daenerys stared.
Even the men in black turned their heads, eyes narrowing.
"Who are they?" she asked.
Jorah stepped forward, tense. "I don't know. But they're not flying any known banner."
The mist had fully cleared now. The sunlight touched the sea. The three ships approached their ship.
The Galleon slowed first, dropping anchor close. Its size cast a long shadow over the smaller vessel where Daenerys stood. Ropes were thrown. A plank dropped. Men boarded quickly—dark clothes, leather armor, quiet but efficient. Trained.
Daenerys stepped back.
Jorah did too, his eyes scanning the ship. More men were climbing aboard from every side, surrounding them in a slow tightening circle.
He drew his sword. It glinted under the sun. His breathing slowed, but he didn't lash out.
Not yet.
Then something strange happened.
He turned, gently took Daenerys by the arm, and suddenly—pressed the blade to her neck.
Even she froze.
Her eyes widened, lips parting. For a moment, she felt betrayed. Even him?
But then she noticed something.
The men stopped.
They didn't rush. They didn't shout. They hesitated.
Her heart raced. Not with fear—but with understanding. Jorah wasn't turning on her.
He was bluffing.
Using her as a shield to buy time. Hoping they'd hold back. Hoping they wouldn't risk the prize.
Her lips trembled slightly. She said nothing, but her eyes met his.
And in them, she saw it.
He wasn't going to hurt her. He never was.
But someone else was.
A whisper of footsteps. A flicker of shadow behind them.
Neither of them saw it in time.
Steel slid in.
Jorah's breath caught. His eyes widened in pain. Blood bloomed across his chest as a blade came through from behind.
His sword dropped.
"So… sorry… princess…" he said, his voice dry and broken.
She reached out—but too late. His body collapsed beside her.
Daenerys staggered, her knees buckling. She fell to the deck, eyes locked on the man who stood behind Jorah now.
He wore dark cloth. His blade dripped red.
She stared, her chest rising and falling. No screams. No words. Only the shock and pain in her eyes.
The ship rocked gently, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
And above, the Galleon loomed.
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