Chapter 122: Dany's "Old Flame"

Though Baiyang Slope wasn't exactly the legendary "strategic stronghold," it was the best location for deploying troops within a 30-kilometer radius.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Dany stood on the hillside. Her left hand rested on a sharpened poplar stake fashioned into a defensive barrier, while her right hand held a monocular, scanning the distant landscape.

In the twilight, columns of smoke rose like a dense forest from the plains a kilometer away. They came from hundreds, perhaps thousands, of campfires. The flickering crimson flames swayed in the night breeze, making it seem as though the starry sky had fallen to blanket the fields.

Slave and mercenary tents dotted the land like gray, yellow, brown, and red mushrooms sprouting amid the fire-lit fields. By the campfires' glow, Dany could make out watchtowers with archers stationed atop them. Within the camps, she saw slave soldiers dragging chains on their feet while gripping spears, soldiers from Ghis draped in yellow silk cloaks, and mercenaries clad in various styles of armor and leather.

Camp prostitutes paraded about, scantily clad, laughing and flirting with mercenaries who groped them freely. Vendors pushed carts, shouting loudly as they peddled goods to soldiers and Ghiscari alike.

A short, stout swineherd herded a group of fat pigs through the campfires. Occasionally, a mercenary would toss a shiny silver coin, and a squealing pig would be dragged aside by laughing soldiers. Knives flashed, and the dying pigs let out their final cries.

Messengers relayed orders, slaves sharpened blades on whetstones, knights removed saddles from their warhorses, and stable boys scolded unruly colts in the pens. All these scenes vividly etched themselves into Dany's eyes, accompanied by a cacophony of voices, animal cries, clashing metal, and the mingling smells of roasted meat, boiling porridge, horse manure, sweat, and urine. The sounds and scents surged over the camp fences, sweeping across the plains and hills like crashing waves toward Dany.

For a moment, it almost felt like the distant roar of the sea.

In stark contrast, the camp behind Dany was dark and eerily silent—like a midnight cinema in China during the screening of Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, with not a single other audience member present.

This strict discipline wasn't the doing of old General Barristan; it was Dany's own demand for her troops.

Barristan the Bold had been right in his earlier assessment: a detachment of mercenary cavalry had broken off from the main force 30 kilometers away, sent ahead to requisition grain from the village of Astapor.

The anti-Dragon Queen alliance had never expected Dany to dare sally out from the city to engage them.

The result was disastrous for them. Their less-than-200 cavalrymen were ambushed by Dany's 2,500-strong mounted force. Only a handful escaped; half of the rest were killed, while the others surrendered when the tide turned against them.

And yes, Dothraki horses were all dragon steeds—fast and tireless.

Another full day passed before the enemy finally arrived. When they reached Baiyang Slope that afternoon, Dany was initially stunned. The massive army stretched endlessly, looking like hundreds of thousands of troops.

Was the intelligence wrong? Or had reinforcements joined them via the sea?

Barristan then taught her how to quickly estimate enemy numbers. They concluded the opposing force exceeded 70,000, perhaps more.

Of these, 30,000 were slave soldiers, 3,000 wore yellow silk cloaks, and 5,000 were mercenaries. The rest were merchants and their slaves.

Just as Dany needed laborers to transport supplies, their 38,000 troops consumed vast amounts of resources daily after marching for over twenty days.

Barristan wasn't surprised. He told Dany, "In battles among the Free Cities of Essos, merchants follow armies like flies chasing dung. They provide food, wine, medicine, prostitutes, and weapons to soldiers. After victories, they buy damaged arms, surplus horses, and even defeated soldiers to sell as slaves."

Dany asked if Westeros was the same.

Barristan nodded, then shook his head. "The Free Cities value commercial credit. In Westeros, merchants also follow armies, but they usually belong to the army's lord. For example, in Lord Tywin's army, most merchants came from Casterly Rock or its affiliated territories. If enemy merchants dared approach, they'd be completely stripped of goods, and likely their lives as well."

Just then, the wooden gates of the enemy camp opened, and a group of torch-bearing riders galloped toward Baiyang Slope. Dany lowered her monocular and turned to Grey Worm.

"Light the torches. Let's guide our guests."

"Guests approaching! Light the torches!" Grey Worm shouted loudly.

The call was repeated several times. Two rows of torches flared to life, stretching from midway up the hill all the way into the camp's gate.

Inside the camp, twenty meters past the entrance, stood a wooden pavilion—walls made of wooden stakes, a thick canvas roof, and a spacious interior of about 100 square meters.

When Dany entered, the pavilion was already brightly lit. Irri and Jhiqui waited by the door. Seeing Dany, they lifted the leather curtain.

"Khaleesi, shall we prepare wine and food?" Irri asked.

Dany thought for a moment. "Bring some grape wine and mare's milk. Forget the food."

"Yes, Khaleesi."

Dothraki handmaidens could ride and adapt to military life. Doreah, however, could not. She'd been left behind in Astapor.

About ten minutes later, Belwas arrived, still clad in his studded black vest, leading three guests with polished helmets adorned with black feathers.

"Your Grace, these are the three captains of the Stormcrows. They claim equal honor and authority, so they came together."

The captains were from different backgrounds: a broad-faced Ghiscari man nearing fifty with thick black-red hair streaked with gray; a pale-skinned Qartheen with a bald head etched with winding scars; and another figure yet to be introduced.

The last person was a luxuriously dressed Tyroshi.

According to prior intelligence, the Ghiscari was named Prendahl na Ghezn. He had frequently spoken against Daenerys in the markets of Qai, even calling upon all the mighty Sons of the Harpy to join the "War Against the Mother of Dragons."

The Qohorik was named Sallor.

But Daenerys' main focus was on the Tyroshi named Daario Naharis, who had once been the original Daenerys' favorite lover.

Ah, the original Daenerys was a highly passionate little dragonfly—indulgent in both men and women, with multiple lovers.

After observing him carefully, Daenerys could only conclude that the original had rather extreme tastes.

Daario's upper lip bore a mustache split into three prongs, dyed blue. His eyes and hair were also blue, while the small beard on his chin was painted gold. Even his fingernails were adorned with blue polish.

The man was in his early thirties—twice Daenerys' age.

How had this flamboyant peacock of a man managed to attract the original Daenerys?

Daenerys' expression remained hidden behind her helmet, unnoticed by the others. Only Daario showed a visible look of disappointment upon seeing Daenerys clad in a full suit of gray-black armor.

Hmph. The world had spread tales that the Mother of Dragons was a breathtaking beauty with a stunning physique!

Daenerys was not shy or afraid of being seen. Her main concern was survival.

What if an assassin suddenly emerged and fired a "Rain of Pear Blossom Needles" at her? Wouldn't that be a truly humiliating way to die?

This armor, though somewhat unsightly—intentionally so, to make herself less conspicuous—was undeniably sturdy. She had personally tested it: even from two meters away, reinforced steel crossbow bolts had only managed to dent the relatively weaker throat guard. They hadn't penetrated it.

She had decided—during marches and battles, she would wear her armor at all times, even while sleeping.

Bathing?

Sorry, she wouldn't be doing that for the next few days.

The plump eunuch first introduced the mercenaries by name and rank, then gestured proudly toward the armored queen seated on a high wooden chair. With immense pride, he declared to the three mercenaries, "Behold! The Queen of Astapor, the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys I! If you ask me, you should drop to your knees and surrender at once."

"Hah! All I see is a pathetic coward still hiding in iron at this late hour!" While Daenerys was still marveling at Daario's eccentric appearance, the Ghiscari, Prendahl, let out a loud, mocking laugh from across the room.

"Commander Prendahl, I am but a weak woman. Caution is a good habit," Daenerys chuckled softly. Her voice was crisp and carried the delicate charm of a young girl, but her tone was as cold as a blade. "The real question is—how has an old mercenary like you, with such an unfiltered mouth, managed to survive for so long?"

"What did you say?" Prendahl's broad face contorted with anger.

"I said, right now, I am strong, and you are weak. If you irritate me, you might not live much longer," Daenerys said with a smile.

"With what? Your rabble of misfits? Or will you, just like in Astapor, break your sworn oath and kill me here after a supposed negotiation?" Prendahl sneered.

"Illy, Jhiqui, pour our guests some wine." Daenerys gestured to her handmaidens before turning back to the Ghiscari commander. "I did not break my oath before, and I will not break it now."

Prendahl showed no hesitation. He was not worried about poison. He picked up the wine cup and downed it in one gulp.

"Hmph! The Good Masters of Astapor treated you with sincerity, yet you seized their city. How is that not a betrayal?"

"Tell me—when I purchased the Unsullied, did I pay in full?"

Before he could answer, Daenerys continued, "And after the deal was complete, was I free to act as I wished?"

"Then we are also free to attack you and ultimately kill you," Prendahl retorted coldly.

"You are not my match," Daenerys said calmly. "This meeting is both a gesture of respect for tradition and an opportunity for those who need not die to escape their march to Hell."

"Woman, your threats are as laughable as a donkey's bray—meaningless!"

"A woman's words may be meaningless," Daenerys said with a faint smile, "but I am more than just a woman. I am a Valyrian. A Targaryen, born in the storm. A Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. If that is not enough to make you feel threatened, then let me add—I am also the Queen of ten thousand Unsullied, the leader of thirty thousand Free Brothers, and the rider of three dragons."

"Bah!" Prendahl spat in Daenerys' direction and laughed arrogantly. "All I see is a horse lord's whore! When we win, my mount and I will take turns riding you. Hahaha!"

Strong Belwas drew his arakh, glanced left and right, and asked, "Whitebeard, is it not time for the Kingsguard to fulfill their duty? Let Strong Belwas cut out his filthy tongue!"

Barristan Selmy's gaze was as sharp as a sword as he looked at Prendahl. He spoke calmly, "No, Belwas. The Queen has promised these men their safety. Tomorrow, I will fulfill my duty. I have memorized this thick-skulled Ghiscari's face."

"Sigh. I suppose this means our discussion is over, Commander Prendahl?" Daenerys set aside the broad-bladed sword resting on her lap, leaned it against her chair, and stood up, making a gesture of dismissal.

"Or… do Commander Sallor and Commander Daario have different opinions?" she asked in the final moment.

"Do not try to sow discord. Our answer is the same," the leaders of the Stormcrows stood up simultaneously. Prendahl fixed Daenerys with a look as if staring at a dead woman. "And that answer is—no!"

With that, they turned and left together.

(End of Chapter)

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