Chapter 2: Whispers Across Worlds
The land was full of rolling hills and stark stone fortresses, nothing like the sprawling deserts and glittering port cities of Essos. As her troops disembarked, Daenerys ordered her forces to make camp near the coast and ordered them to take control of all the nearby fortresses they found. At the same time, Dothraki riders fanned out in tight formations in all directions, Jhogo and his bloodriders taking charge with grim efficiency. Though not their native terrain, they were survivors, and the scent of a new land to plunder drove them forward.
Within the hastily erected command tent, lit with flickering oil lamps despite the pre-dusk gloom, Daenerys gathered her advisors.
"Gods above and below," Missandei murmured, her usually gentle eyes wide. "Where are we, Khaleesi? This is not Westeros, nor any land I know of."
"We'll have answers soon enough," Daenerys said, forcing a calm she didn't entirely feel. "Jhogo and his screamers will bring us prisoners, locals who can tell us what land we've stumbled upon."
Grey Worm remained stoic, but doubt flickered in his eyes. "With respect, Khaleesi, these may not be...cooperative prisoners. They could be hostile."
Daario, lounging against a table strewn with hastily drawn maps, flashed a grin. "The Unsullied can handle a few peasants with pitchforks."
Before an argument could ignite, Daenerys fixed all of them with her most commanding gaze. "We must know the lay of the land. And we must tread carefully. No more fires, no unnecessary bloodshed. We are not here as raiders." The last bit tasted strange on her tongue, but the historian in her insisted it was the correct tactic, at least initially.
"And the sea?" Melisandre asked, her voice a scarlet thread against the tent's canvas. "The Lord of Light has shown me...unquiet waters."
"No ship sails far from shore, not while we don't know just where the hell we are," Daenerys declared. Turning, her eyes sought out a weathered, salt-worn man in the shadows. "Admiral Tygharys."
The former Myrish admiral stepped forward, still lean and sharp despite his ordeal at the hands of his own countrymen. His shaved head bore the faded scars of nails, a testament to the brutality of slavers and those who profited off their trade. He had pledged himself to Daenerys after she liberated his crew and gave them the chance for vengeance.
"My Queen." Tygharys dipped his head, his one good eye assessing her.
"Your ships," Daenerys began, "I want them patrolling the shoreline. Look for villages, ports, anything that shows us we're not alone in this...peculiar corner of the world."
"Aye, not far," Tygharys agreed, the seasoned captain in him wary of the unnatural fog. "Best to know what shares these waters with us."
"We must not lose contact," Daenerys stressed. "Signal flares – red for danger, green for any sign of civilization. And Tygharys..." her voice hardened slightly, "if they look welcoming, offer gifts. Trade goods, fabrics...whatever demonstrates we come with open hands, not just swords."
A hint of surprise touched the captain's face, then faded into a respectful nod. "As you command, my Queen."
He left, his footsteps echoing on the earthen floor of the tent, leaving Daenerys with her inner circle.
"Gifts..." Missandei murmured, "A good idea, Khaleesi, if we find ones willing to receive them."
"If." It was Grey Worm, ever the pragmatist. "Perhaps we should focus on fortifying our own position."
Daenerys walked to the tent flap, looking out into the swirling twilight. She was far more accustomed to open deserts and glittering cities and towering skyscrapers than these shadowed hills. It felt...wrong. But she was Daenerys Stormborn, she was the twice born, breaker of chains, the Unburnt. She would not let fear become her undoing.
"We take both paths," she announced. "The Dothraki will scout, the fleet will patrol, and... we will wait for answers."
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A party of Dothraki scouts returned, their painted faces grim beneath steel helms. They dragged several prisoners – men with olive skin and terrified eyes bound crudely with rope.
"Strange ones," hissed Baro, the young bloodrider who was the leader of the scouting party. "Their words are like the buzzing of flies."
In a tent pitched as her makeshift command center, Daenerys met with her inner circle: Grey Worm, his Unsullied discipline at odds with his evident unease; Missandei, whose wide eyes betrayed her fear; and Kinvara, the red priestess, who's fiery gaze held a flicker of calculation. Sir Barristan and Daario stood behind her in a protective fashion, but they soon looked on in confusion as the prisoners spoke, no one understanding a single word.
Daenerys' eyes widened.
She felt the chill of displacement run deeper than any Essosi winter. The historian within her battled a rising panic. Thessalonica...Kingdom...Emperor... These weren't terms from whispers of far-off Westeros, but from the history books she'd pored over in her last life.
"I understand them," she declared, the historian's knowledge of Byzantine Greek suddenly proving priceless.
Shock rippled across the tent. Kinvara stepped closer, eyes narrowed. "Truly, Khaleesi? Not even our own tongues of Valyria, but these...these barbaric grunts?"
Daenerys motioned the Unsullied to bring the captives forward as she stood up from her seat.
The Unsullied shoved the prisoners closer, their iron-tipped spears sharp reminders of their captive state. The men, sun-darkened and clad in rough-spun tunics, cowered not just before the fierce Dothraki, but at the very sight of Daenerys. Her silver-gold hair, so rare in this land, marked her as otherworldly, a figure pulled from myth and legend.
She knelt before one of them, a young man with calloused hands and the smell of the sea about him. His eyes, wide with terror, locked onto hers. From her lips flowed a language she'd learned in her last life though had never thought she would use.
Daenerys leaned closer to the young prisoner, the Greek felt foreign on her tongue. "What is your name, young man?"
Daenerys asked, though calling someone her age, as young man was a bit awkward. Instead of answering, the man's eyes bulged wider than any sea he'd sailed as if he had seen the Night King himself. He trembled so hard she feared he might break apart. Her Dothraki bloodriders grinned cruelly, the Unsullied remained stoically indifferent.
"Mercy..." the whisper emerged, barely a sound against the tent fabric.
Daenerys sighed. Sometimes, fear had to be sharpened. "My mount grows hungry," she stated coldly, gesturing towards the tent flap. "Dragon fire makes for a...smoky meal, I hear."
At that very moment, a sound split the air – a roar, guttural and immense, rolling over the makeshift camp like thunder. Though unseen from within the tent, the prisoners erupted. The young man shrieked, collapsing into a puddle of his own making as the roars continued, shaking the very ground.
An older man, weathered and balding, half-shoved the younger one aside. "My Lady," he said, his Greek rough but understandable, "Ask what you will of me. Spare this foolish boy. He has but a young sister he cares for, spare him for her."
Daenerys arched an eyebrow, intrigued by this sudden courage. She turned, focusing on the older man for the first time. "And you are?"
The older man met her gaze with surprising steadiness. "Leontios, noble lady. A merchant, once of some means, now..." He shrugged, a bitter twist to his lips. "...like many others in this fallen land. I speak Greek, Latin, a bit of Frankish, if those tongues serve you."
Daenerys sensed cunning beneath the fear. Not just a merchant, then, but perhaps a man with contacts. "You shield your young companion yet offer your own knowledge. Why?"
Leontios bowed his head slightly. "A sister is a man's heart, noble lady. But a man also has a mind. This one sees you are no ordinary raider. Your warriors, your... voice from the sky." He gestured vaguely upwards. "These speak of power greater than our petty squabbling lords."
The historian in Daenerys felt a jolt. Was this man already making calculations, considering the pros and cons of aligning with her? "And what does your mind suggest, Leontios?"
"That a storm gathers," he said quietly. "The Latins grow complacent after that treacherous crusade, the regent is weak, the Bulgarians are raiding, the people are desperate. A storm blows things apart...but can also reshape them." His eyes flicked towards the whimpering younger man, then back to Daenerys. "If so, it's wiser to be in its shadow than in its path."
"Tell me of this...crusade." Daenerys gestured for the other prisoners to be taken away, leaving only Leontios.
"It occurred in the year of the Lord 1204, My Lady." The man said.
"1204?" she echoed, "In the Year of Our Lord?" Meanwhile, the historian within her whirred. This man spoke of the Fourth Crusade and the Sack of Constantinople.
Leontios thought that she didn't understand his meaning and elaborated, "We reckon time from the birth of the Son of God, My Lady. This is the sixth year since the Latins brought ruin upon the Queen of Cities." He spat on the ground, disgust twisting his features.
This would make the current year 1210. Small wonder that he was so angry – the empire that he and his ancestors had lived in had just been replaced by an unworthy pretender in the face of the Latin Empire.
The old merchant settled cross-legged on the carpet and continued. "They came under the banner of the Cross, My Lady, the holy symbol that all the people of these lands worship, whether they be Romaioi or Latins. Knights from the Frankish lands, Venetians...meant to sail for the Holy Land, to reclaim it from the heathen Muslims. But greed turned their eyes to Constantinople."
He spoke of Byzantine emperors overthrown, of churches ransacked, treasures pilfered by foreign hands. Daenerys listened, her practiced facade of queenly disinterest masking the churning within. The echoes of King's Landing, of her own father's descent into madness flickered uncomfortably in her mind.
"And now?" she prompted when Leontios seemed to falter. "Now what is left of your empire?"
"A hollow shell," he said bitterly, "The Latins hold Konstantinoupolis. They crowned one of their own as Emperor, a man by the name of Baldwin of Flanders, now his successor Henry rules from the Queen of Cities. But the survivors of the Empire fled – some to Nicaea, some to Epiros, there're even fools who dream of restoring the empire from as far east as Trebizond."
"And this Thessalonica that you spoke about?" Daenerys pressed.
"Ruled by a boy, Demetrios, a mere pawn. Eustace, the false regent, lusts for his crown. All the while, his brother, the false emperor Henry watches on from Konstantinoupolis and does nothing." Leontios shook his head.
With each name, each faction, the historian in Daenerys mapped out this fractured world. Kings in exile, regents turned usurpers - it was a different game board than Westeros, but the game itself was achingly familiar.
"Your people suffer under these Latin invaders?" There was a steel edge to her voice now.
Leontios's eyes met hers with a sudden intensity. "They bleed, My Lady. Unjust taxes choke us, they defile our faith, and their soldiers take what they please. We, the Romans, were a mighty empire once, the greatest the world has ever seen, yet now we are just sheep for the slaughter.
Daenerys saw the moment of truth, the crux of opportunity. "Would a dragon change that suffering? A dragon that drove the Latins back to their own lands?" Her voice was low, a tantalizing promise.
The old merchant paused, considering. "If the dragon brought justice," he murmured, "And not simply another tyrant...perhaps. But who are you, noble lady? From where comes this army, this power? What land do you hail from? I noticed that only you speak our tongue while others around you do not." His eyes roamed across the tent on her inner circle. For his credit, his eyes stopped on Kinarva only for a moment.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn," she said, letting the title roll off her tongue, "And what I bring...that depends on what men like you choose, Leontios. To remain sheep, or grasp for something greater."
He bowed his head again, but this time there was a hint of calculation beneath the deference. "This old sheep has seen many wolves pass, My Lady. Forgive me if I await proof of what kind of dragon you might truly be."
Now it was Daenerys's turn to be intrigued. This man had a backbone and she knew that he certainly wasn't a simple merchant. "And if I offer more than shadow, Leontios? If I offer a place in the new shape of things?" she asked, testing the waters.
The merchant gave a rueful half-smile. "Then this old man would listen very closely, noble lady. Very closely indeed."
A flame of ambition burned within Daenerys, here in a time centuries in the past, she could carve out her own empire, in this weakened, fractured Byzantium. This place, which served as the crossroads between the east and the west.
She walked back to her seat and took her place, surrounded by all the other members of her inner circle.
"You are a shrewd man, Leontios," she observed, leaning back slightly. "Your mind sees potential where others see only ruin. Tell me, then, how would you help me in creating this 'new shape'?"
Leontios held her gaze, the spark of ambition in his eyes now bolder. "My Lady, forgive an old merchant for being blunt, but your power is undeniable. Yet, you are a stranger here. Our ways, our divisions..." he gestured vaguely, encompassing both the tent and the unseen world beyond.
"Divisions breed weakness," Daenerys countered smoothly, "And you yourself said that weakness is what drew the Latins like vultures."
"True, and I see in you the strength to drive them back. But strength alone does not win hearts, noble lady. The Roman Empire is ancient, her traditions run deep. You will need more than dragons." Leontios paused, then added pointedly, "I may be of... assistance in such matters."
The offer was clear. He wouldn't just be her informant, but a bridge-builder, a translator between her ambition and the intricate politics of this land. Daenerys weighed the risks – an unknown merchant, with who knew what hidden loyalties...yet, risk was something she understood intimately.
"Let us walk, Leontios," she commanded, rising. "Tell me of this Thessalonica of yours. Tell me of its lords, its factions…of the weaknesses I might turn into my own strengths. Tell me…" She paused for dramatic effect, a flicker of the old Targaryen fire dancing in her eyes, "How I might become not just a conqueror, but a true Empress of this fallen empire and restore it to its former glory."
The sun cast long shadows as they emerged from the tent, the air buzzing with the sounds of a displaced army settling into a temporary rhythm. Her inner circle spread out, with Grey Worm leaving to monitor the scouts along with Daario while Kinarva went for her prayer or whatever she did in her spare time. With Sir Barristan and Missandei walking beside her, Daenerys talked with Leontios. Around the camp, the Unsullied patrolled with unyielding discipline, Dothraki bickered and boasted around firepits, and the group of wary Thessalonian prisoners stole glances at her, the strange silver-haired woman, not from afar.
Leontios explained to her about the rulers, disdain lacing his voice, "Eustace dreams of a crown, but his grip on it is weak. His men are more bandits than knights."
"And the boy-king?" Daenerys inquired, the historian in her filing away names and titles.
"A mere puppet. Anyone could sweep the land, with an army at their back..." Leontios trailed off suggestively.
They passed a knot of men in the distinct scarlet livery of the Red Priests. Daenerys noted Melisandre, another Red priestess was amongst them, this was the first time, Daenerys had seen Melisandre, the famous Red Witch of the Game of Thrones, since her 'rebirth'.
"Your followers seem to worship a strange faith, My Lady," Leontios observed, ever perceptive. "Our people hold to the Orthodox Christian faith. Piety is a weapon here, noble lady, one you must wield carefully."
"Tell me of the other contenders," Daenerys prompted, "These splintered remnants of your empire – Nicaea, Epiros... are they threats?"
As Leontios delved into the complex explanation of rival Byzantine factions, Daenerys listened intently. This wasn't House Lannister versus House Stark. Here, former allies were now enemies, families harbored ancient grudges, and exiled emperors plotted their return. It was delicious in its complexity.
"And your people, Leontios?" Daenerys asked once he'd outlined the political players. "The ones who bleed beneath Latin heels? What do they dream of?"
The merchant sighed. "Bread, My Lady. Safety. A return to the days when they were not prey." He fixed her with a shrewd gaze. "A strong ruler, yes, but one who also brings stability, not simply a new banner to fight under."
Daenerys nodded slowly. The hunger of the common folk, their desperation... this was a fire she could use, stoke and direct towards her purpose. "You say I am a stranger to these lands," she murmured, "And that is a weakness. But it can also be a strength, Leontios. I am bound by no old feuds, beholden to no crumbling tradition."
As if by fate, her children, her dragons chose that moment to fly past, although silent, their shapes caused a massive shadow over the land. Leontios stared dumbfounded, his eyes wide open and jaw hanging. It was only after a few moments that he recovered. His eyes were complicated.
"You can definitely write the rules anew, My Lady. I understand now, what you meant by dragons."