Chapter 167

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan was puzzled, showing hesitation and worry; the old Ser was deeply concerned something might happen to her, "What choice?"

Should she stay here to deal with the people and things she isn't interested in, or leave for the beast‑filled wilderness to claim the power that belongs to her forebears? But she had just said she would stay, and she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"I don't know, we..." Ser Selmy looked at her, his expression growing more worried, which made her feel awful; she wasn't a freak. He just cared too much, like a father or grandfather, not a maid, companion, suitor, or lover. "We should quickly quell the unrest in Meereen..." What am I saying? "We can't wait here," she realized why she had that dream; she is now stuck in the doorway, staying will be crushed by everything around her, leaving will invite ridicule—they have mocked the Mad King, they have mocked her poor brother Viserys, and they are waiting for her to do something foolish so they can mock her again. "I'm trapped, Ser!"

Confiding made her want to cry, being unable to express herself made her feel ashamed, as if she were doing something wrong again, causing more harm to those she had hurt.

She turned her body, pretending it was an ordinary turn, then secretly wiped away her tears.

The sky was dim; the old Ser shouldn't be able to tell.

She was trapped, just as the dream had told her.

The only choice was to go forward, and she could only go forward.

But she lacked the strength to move forward on her own... no, she did have it, she always had, Jorah had reminded her, yet... she felt pain in her elbows, arms, shoulders, back, chest, and knees, and she might even be bleeding at this moment.

This was the price of her moving forward.

She recalled Quaithe's prophecy; she shouldn't believe any of it, for those vague prophecies only become distractions, yet the words were unforgettable: To go north, you must go south. To reach the western lands, you must go east. To move forward, you must retreat. To find light, you must pass through shadow.

After the dream dominated by the gate, she believed she seemed to understand a little.

I have always known the true solution, but I had no choice; I kept running in the courtyard with the red gate, carefree and happy, never thinking of leaving, until I was driven out... that was the price of staying.

She knew what the price was: endless mockery, endless panic.

"Your Grace, did you have a nightmare?" the old Ser asked.

A nightmare? She wasn't sure; she saw a red dragon wanting to eat her, saw the hungry gaze of a beast, but none of that compared to the ever‑tightening door… she clenched her fists on the stone railing before her, trying to feel the crushing pressure that almost broke her, but her hand was so weak she only felt the rough sand on the rail.

"It's that dragon," she whispered, skipping most of it, "It wants to eat me."

She is the Mother of Dragons, as everyone knows; all dragons are her children, she brought them back into the world. But those who follow her know she has only three dragons; the witnesses may not be learned or clever, but they understand what three and four mean.

She is not the Mother of Dragons; she is merely the mother of those three dragons, just as her sigil shows three dragons.

I am the mother of these three dragons... the mother of the three dragons on my sigil.

"Your Grace, it's just a dream," the old Ser would comfort, as if it were merely his adorable granddaughter acting up for no reason… she couldn't expect more.

No one could truly comfort her. Perhaps, if Dario heard, he would laugh loudly, mocking her for fearing a wild dragon despite having three, or perhaps she was simply too greedy, wanting another dragon even though she already had three.

What would Jorah say? He would stay silent until she ran out of patience, then he would stammer a few words. She didn't know what those words would be.

"I know," she said, having seen that dragon in daylight, as had others; all of Meereen had seen it, perhaps most were cheering that their queen now had four giant dragons, but… that wasn't her dragon, she knew—this is nonsense, she equally knew what three and four meant, and she also knew what black, green, gold, and red were. "I shouldn't worry about the dream, but I should trust the omen it gave me."

"An omen from a dream?" the old man's face showed various expressions—confusion, worry, but worry predominated—"Dream inspirations are often inaccurate; they might give someone… completely wrong and absurd guidance, like…"

"I know," she had to interrupt him, hoping he wouldn't use the Mad King's affair to persuade her, "I know dreams are unreliable, but I believe my choice is right." She gave him a pleading look, hoping he wouldn't interrupt her, wouldn't dismiss her words as a little girl's dreamy babble, ignorant imagination, or petulant tantrum, "I need your support."

"I am your sworn shield; you personally placed the white cloak on my shoulders—have you forgotten?" He gave a kind smile, feeling this was an easy request requiring no thought, "Or do you think the white cloak isn't handsome enough? If you like it, even if you dye it black—I may feel hurt, but I won't oppose you."

"The white cloak looks fine," she forced a smile, "You may keep it."

"Your Grace, you haven't stated your choice yet."

"They want to kill me, kill the Unsullied, kill the dragons, kill all my supporters," the thought that to reach light one must pass through shadow had never felt more true to her, "They want to retake this city, to put the freed slaves back in chains, to drench the city in blood again."

"They?" the old man mused, "Harpy's sons? They are cowardly weaklings, Your Grace, you need not fear them."

"I don't fear them." Enemies surged from all sides, yet she was still expending energy on those cowards.

What she should have seen: Astapor descended into chaos, Yunkai returned to the Wise Masters' embrace, the armies of Qarth, Lys, and the world marched here solely to overthrow her—yet she foolishly kept herself wedged in the door crack, unable to advance or retreat. The dream had already told her that if this continued, only death awaited her; that in itself was nothing, but it would also drag down everyone who followed her to die together—Missandei's brother had been killed by treacherous foes; what was his name? Missandei? She couldn't even recall… that made her even more sorrowful.

This won't continue. She will "exert" and then "persist" until she slips out of this nauseating rut. Only by sliding out of the womb is one truly born, right? If she remains indecisive, she will die, the "mother" will die, and everything she cares about will die.

"Your Grace?" the old Ser didn't understand her meaning.

She felt sorry for saying so many confusing things that worried the old Ser.

"I don't fear them." She resolved firmly, gripping her fists into the stone railing, feeling that slicing pain; even if blood flowed, it would still be far less than some other pains, "To keep this city from drowning in our blood, we must first drench it in the enemy's blood." Waiting will never bring what she wants; only by leaving that red gate can she have a chance to return, Quaithe, is that what you meant?

"Your Grace, what do you want?" the old Ser set aside his elder's expression and took on the look of a sworn shield.

"I want you to support me," standing beside me, defending me, telling the world I am not my father, "blood for blood."

"Yes, Your Grace." He bowed slightly, showing no objection, "Have you decided?"

The waning moon sank westward, leaving a dim light on the horizon that hinted at red, the same color as the blood flowing from her fist.

"I am a Targaryen." I should have realized long ago—I am not the Mother of Dragons, merely the mother of my three dragons, matching the number on my sigil, "Blood and fire, this is the Targaryen decision."