Chapter 166: Daenerys

She felt as if she had returned to that red courtyard, her clothes soaked by the rain, and then she chased after the panicked red-bellied pheasant.

That was a gift from the nobles of Braavos to Ser William Darry, but after that, she no longer remembered that chicken, and later she also lost the house with the red door.

The chicken appeared again, and she, just as when she was a child, ran barefoot after it in the rain, her hair wet and sticking to her face and neck; she brushed back her unruly hair, then reached out and grabbed for the chicken.

The pheasant was nimble, leading her across terraces and towers, some familiar, some strange, then it fluttered its wings over the closed palace gate and flew outward.

She hesitated, stopping her steps, standing uncertainly by the gate, not knowing whether she should push it open.

Her heartbeat suddenly quickened.

"No chance! No chance!" It sounded as if countless spectators on the terraces were shouting at her, yet she saw no one and heard no familiar voice.

"You failed! You failed!" they jeered.

"I will not fail, I will never fail! I am the Mother of Dragons, I fear no shameless chicken." She reached out, and with all her strength managed to push the heavy palace gate open a crack.

She struggled to squeeze through the narrow gap, like a fetus not yet detached from the womb.

"Ah!" she screamed, weeping, trying to slip out of the gap.

She was stuck in the gap of the huge gate, unable to go out or back in.

She kept testing, but the gate held her fast. She cried helplessly, wanting only to escape her predicament, and she also felt sorrow for the "mother" holding her, as if someone were enduring even greater pain than she.

"Save me!" she cried, but no one answered.

"She failed, she failed!" It seemed as if after a long, long time, the people behind were shouting, their tone full of mockery and brazen ridicule, and the scenes she had heard and seen as a child returned.

She wanted to bury her head and weep, but no one supported her, and the gate seemed to grow narrower, making her feel she could no longer breathe.

"Exert yourself!" she heard a low voice call to her, the sound rising above the jeers and taunts; she could not turn to look. "Hold on!"

She recognized that voice, but she could not recall who it was.

Who? Who? Exactly who? She wondered in her heart, but no matter who, the voice undoubtedly gave her strength; the gate's force lessened, and she could catch a slight breath.

"Who are you?" she wanted to ask, but she did not speak; instead, tears welled up.

In the flood of fear, that voice was like a stone in the waves, letting her lie upon it to dodge one rolling surge after another.

He kept repeating, "Exert yourself," "Hold on," as if he knew no other words or tones.

She recognized that voice.

But who was that voice?

Is it you, Drogo? No, he wouldn't speak the common tongue.

The gate tightened again; she was wedged inside, using all her strength merely to hold back for a moment the force emanating from the great door.

She truly wished she could gain other strength. She was about to break, and then she burst into wailing sobs.

"Exert yourself," "Hold on," said the hoarse, low voice.

She wailed in the middle of the gate, feeling guilty for the pain the "mother" endured.

"Who are you?" she finally said through her tears.

The heavy gate emitted a creaking sound, compressing her space even further.

She could not stop crying. Weakly shouting or groaning, she wished to be utterly, completely crushed by the palace gate; perhaps then, without her, the "mother" would not suffer so much, and she would not have to bear any extra burden.

She felt soaked all over, unsure whether it was rain, sweat, or tears. She must be in terrible shape.

"Exert yourself," "Hold on," the voice showed a hint of concern and tension.

"Ser Selmy?" she thought to say, but the old man's voice was clear and resonant; this was not it.

"Daario?" The charming, cheerful Daario came to mind first, but this was not his voice; his voice is a drifting thread, tasting of desert sand, able to blow a teasing trumpet, able to make wind chimes dance for him… it was not him.

A sorrowful name rose from her heart. Its sour taste brought tears again, uncontrollable.

Jorah Jorah, my big bear, my Jorah Mormont.

"Exert yourself." Jorah called to her with a steady rhythm.

Strength rose from her heart; she exerted all her might, letting out a lament, and pushed the heavy palace gate open a slight gap.

Enough, enough. It was enough; she risked her life to slip out of the palace gap, feeling her arms, back, thighs, and chest rubbed raw, beginning to burn with pain.

It's nothing; this is the price of escaping the predicament—wounds can heal, pain can be forgotten…

She was no longer stuck in the passageway. A spontaneous excitement rose; she freed herself from the predicament, not letting the "mother" continue to suffer. The "mother" said nothing, but she knew she, too, felt relieved.

She turned her head, and the palace gate vanished. Before her lay the scene outside the palace: beasts chasing and fighting each other over prey. As she appeared there, bewildered, all her excitement faded; beasts, monstrous creatures, and all kinds of ghouls greedily stared at her, their eyes glowing with red and green light.

"No, I'm not so easy to bully; I am a dragon, I am the king of beasts." She thought of Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. The three great dragons guarded her left and right, roaring arrogantly at the myriad beasts; hearing the sound, they began to retreat.

"I am the Mother of Dragons," she thought.

The pheasant she had been chasing appeared then; in the blink of an eye it turned into a red dragon, and she began to panic. She wanted to order Drogon to eat it, but it rapidly grew larger; by the time her command was issued, it had already surpassed Drogon in size.

It hissed at her, its voice even colder and more merciless, even more brutal and bloody.

Instantly, the dragons began to fight; she saw the red dragon bite off Viserion's neck in one snap, its massive claws clamping down on Rhaegal's wing, and then it faced off against Drogon.

She grieved for the dead and wounded dragons, and feared the imminent failure.

The sky spun before her, she felt dizzy, and the red maw lunged toward her…

She cried out in alarm!

"Khaleesi!" Irri shook her awake.

She felt as if she had been pulled from suffocating waters, and began to draw deep breaths.

"Khaleesi," Irri soothed her with concern, "You had a nightmare."

"Give me water, no, give me wine." she said shivering, her whole body soaked.

Irri quickly let go and poured a cup of red wine from the nearby wine jug.

She roughly took the cup and drank all the wine, but the scorched, foul feeling in her throat would not wash away.

"Khaleesi, you were just crying and shouting," Irri nearly wept, "I'm so worried about you!"

"Silly girl." "Just a nightmare," she said. "Who's on night watch?"

"White-bearded old man." Illy said.

"Please help me call him. If only it were Jola, she could tell him about the dream, and he would like this story—only his story, even if it's a nightmare."

"Why did he appear? He's just a traitor, a slave trader who sold me to the enemy to absolve his guilt. She couldn't understand."

"The white knight's footsteps were steady, strong, and rhythmic; he was a reliable white knight, an old man. She could entrust all her secrets to him."

"But she still hoped that at this moment it would be Dario who appeared, so she could throw herself into his arms, draw strength from his strong body, or hide behind his strength, without having to face the difficulties herself."

"She had no choice but to face the difficulties herself and make her own decision."

"Your Highness, are you looking for me?" Sir Seremi said.

"Sir, accompany me for a walk outside." Inside there were only dim candlelight and a burnt smell; she hoped the outside would be cool and fresh.

"As you wish."

The last-quarter moon hung in the sky, showing its crooked long legs; a breeze blew past, scattering her short hair across her face. She sheepishly wiped her face—she hadn't had a chance to wash her face, or even bathe, but she couldn't wait any longer.

"Sir," he also saw that red dragon, "I need to make a choice, as soon as possible—whether to stay here or leave."