Chapter 150: The Warlock Who Fled in Panic
As they parted, Nyessos invited Daenerys Targaryen to attend a grand welcome banquet in Volantis the following evening.
She declined politely.
Such banquets had never been to her liking. Back in Qarth, she had attended Xaro's feast only to build connections and secure resources for her small khalasar.
Now, things were different.
She no longer needed to curry favor with nobles or merchants—nor did she need to endure hollow flattery.
Upon entering their exquisitely decorated rooms, attendants quickly brought in trays of fine food—local fruits, delicate desserts, and even specialties from Slaver's Bay.
It was clear the inn had prepared carefully for her arrival.
Drogon eyed the beautifully crafted pastries and tried a couple.
They were so sweet they nearly numbed his tiny teeth.
Daenerys, on the other hand, showed no restraint.
She sampled each dessert—twice.
[At this rate… you're going to gain weight.]
Drogon cast a glance at her increasingly full figure and silently complained.
Daenerys had just popped another jam-covered cake into her mouth when she heard his voice.
Her hand froze mid-motion.
Chew?
Not chew?
In the end, she hurriedly swallowed it down—but didn't reach for another.
Lowering her gaze, she discreetly inspected herself.
…She did seem a little fuller than before.
While others—especially the Dothraki—had suffered through the twenty days at sea, Daenerys had adapted with ease.
After all, she had spent her life drifting and fleeing since birth.
"Stormborn" was not just a title.
With her long-awaited return to Westeros approaching, she had relaxed—and her appetite had grown accordingly.
Still…
Being called "fat" by Drogon?
Unacceptable.
Gritting her teeth, she ordered Missandei to leave only a few desserts for herself and distribute the rest to others.
There was no way she would present herself to Westeros as a plump queen.
Seeing the occasional resentful glances from Daenerys, Drogon decided it was time to leave.
She might be full—but he certainly wasn't.
He planned to fly out to the plains and feast properly.
The next evening, instead of attending the banquet, Daenerys led her advisors to the largest tavern in Volantis—the Merchant's House.
Built into a cavern, the establishment had four levels. Vines covered the courtyard, and aside from the main hall, numerous private rooms allowed guests to drink and feast in seclusion.
People from all over the world gathered here—
Dark-skinned islanders from the Summer Islands, bronze-skinned Dothraki, and even men with unusually thick body hair.
The moment Daenerys entered, the once-noisy hall fell silent.
Guests in private rooms poked their heads out, curious about the sudden hush.
Though she brought only Barristan Selmy as a guard, her advisors naturally formed a loose protective circle around her.
Her striking beauty and regal bearing instantly drew every gaze.
Some sharp-eyed patrons had already guessed her identity.
Soon, attention shifted to Drogon perched on her shoulder.
Whispers began to ripple through the hall.
Most patrons had at least heard of the Queen of Slaver's Bay—and her dragon.
Few had ever expected to see them in person.
Some nobles and merchants, confident in their status, considered approaching her—
But the sight of the small black dragon stopped them.
They had all heard the stories—
Of the Sons of the Harpy burned in the fighting pits.
Of cities reduced to ash.
One misstep… and a single breath of dragonfire could end them.
Not worth the risk.
Daenerys smiled faintly at the gathered crowd before following the attendant upstairs to the fourth level.
In a shadowed corner of the tavern, a tall woman wearing a crimson lacquered mask watched her retreating figure, deep in thought.
The attendant led them into a private room large enough for over a dozen guests.
After taking their orders, he quietly withdrew.
A few minutes later, while the group was chatting casually, a knock sounded at the wooden door.
Daario stepped forward and opened it—only to freeze in surprise.
"A shadowbinder?" he blurted out, instantly recognizing the visitor.
The moment those words left his mouth, Barristan Selmy rose to his feet, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.
The strange and dangerous reputation of shadowbinders was well known—even to him. Caution was only natural.
Seeing the red-lacquered mask outside, Daenerys Targaryen felt a jolt of recognition.
She had met this woman once before in Qarth.
Quaithe.
Back then, she had spoken in riddles—cryptic warnings that Daenerys had ultimately ignored.
Even now, Daenerys found her unsettling… far too similar to the warlock Pyat Pree.
Drogon, however, recognized her immediately for a different reason.
A faint aura lingered around her—subtle, but unmistakable.
The scent of the R'hllor.
Unlike the others, Drogon felt no fear.
He was no longer the helpless hatchling who had once been toyed with by Pyat Pree.
If they met again now, Drogon was certain—he could shatter those tricks with a single roar imbued with divine power.
What he truly feared… were the gods themselves.
The forces that had destroyed Valyria.
Not their servants.
After his transformation, even the Night King no longer inspired the same dread—let alone lesser agents.
That… was the difference between mortal and divine.
"What are you doing here?" Jorah Mormont asked, his tone guarded.
Though Quaithe had shown no hostility before, Jorah had no desire to invite trouble.
"I came to see Queen Daenerys… and her dragon."
As she spoke, Quaithe stepped forward—but Barristan blocked her path.
"I knew I wasn't mistaken," she continued softly, her gaze fixed on Drogon.
"Your dragon… carries a presence akin to that of my god."
Hiss—
Sensing the unease flicker within Daenerys, Drogon let out a low, warning snarl—one laced with divine authority.
"You… how can you possess such a dense—"
Quaithe's voice faltered.
Her composure shattered in an instant.
She staggered back several steps, eyes wide with shock, before barely steadying herself at the doorway.
She stared at Drogon for a long moment—
Then turned abruptly and hurried down the stairs without another word.
Silence filled the room.
Everyone watched her retreating figure… then slowly turned back toward Drogon on Daenerys's shoulder.
None of them understood.
Why had the calm, enigmatic shadowbinder fled in panic—
just from a single roar?
And what, exactly, had she sensed…?