Chapter 368

She sat in the stone throne at the front of the grand hall, legs elegantly crossed. The heavy and crude seat only served to make her appear all the more delicate and graceful. Light streamed in through the small round windows high up in the thick walls of Dragonstone, casting a soft glow around her, illuminating her skin like polished jade and her hair like molten silver.

Her face was so breathtakingly radiant that it was almost impossible to look at directly—like a masterpiece painstakingly sculpted by a creator god, the culmination of all divine effort and artistry.

For the first time in his life, Aegor was at a complete loss for words.

He couldn't find the right phrasing, couldn't adequately describe what he was witnessing.

His pupils dilated, his heart rate skyrocketed, a heatwave surged through his skull… his blood boiled, every muscle, every cell, every strand of DNA inside him screamed in unison:

This is the perfect mate.
The ultimate partner for reproduction.
She must be obtained—at all costs.

That phrase "most beautiful woman", a title so overused and tasteless that it bordered on nauseating, actually felt justified for once—for the first time ever, it wasn’t an exaggeration.


---

But as Aegor forcibly suppressed the strange sensations overtaking his body and kept staring at Daenerys for a few more moments, he began to realize something wasn't quite right.


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In terms of looks—
He had lived in an age of gender transitions, plastic surgery, makeup, and photo-editing, the Four Great "Dark Arts" of the modern world. He had seen, on screens and in photos, faces far more flawless than hers.

Even ignoring the fake ones, Cersei Lannister, ten years younger, would never have been considered any less beautiful.


---

In terms of figure—
The slender Nina, the voluptuous Melisandre, the long-legged Asha Greyjoy, and even the petite but brimming-with-energy Arya Stark—
Some of them he had been intimate with, some he hadn't—but all had their own unique charm and appeal.

It wasn’t a matter of better or worse, just different preferences.


---

In terms of grace—
There was the fox-like seduction of the Rose of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, the regal and dignified beauty of Sansa Stark, and the delicate yet irresistibly endearing charm of Myrcella Baratheon, who was currently visiting Crown’s Rest.

She was gentle, intelligent, and exquisitely well-mannered—
When she grew up, she would no doubt be the kind of woman who could drive men mad.


---

And Daenerys?

With all his knowledge and life experiences from the information-saturated digital age, Aegor’s subconscious suddenly came to a bizarre conclusion—

His overwhelming reaction just now hadn’t been solely because of her beauty.

Yes, she was breathtaking.
But she wasn't so incomparably beautiful that she surpassed every single woman in existence in every possible way.

There might not be many women more beautiful than her, but there were definitely plenty who were at least equally beautiful.

In fact, the audience chamber of Dragonstone was massive—
He stood at least twenty to thirty meters away from her.
There was no way he could have seen every fine detail of her appearance so clearly at this distance.

No, the intense, uncontrollable biological response he had just experienced—
It wasn’t simply the result of being stunned by her beauty.

It was something else.

It felt more like a primal survival instinct.

As if he were standing in front of a tiger—one that wasn’t locked in a cage.


---

Daenerys carried with her a strange and indescribable presence.

There was an element of attraction to the opposite sex,
but even more than that—a sheer, crushing sense of authority and dominance.

Aegor’s mind latched onto a phrase even more cliché than "most beautiful woman"—

"King’s Presence."


---

Aegor had never believed in such nonsense.

Kings, prime ministers, dukes—he had met too many of them to count, more than he could recall on one hand.

Most of them he had even scammed or manipulated at some point.

He knew firsthand that "aura" was nothing more than a carefully constructed illusion—
a combination of looks, attire, expressions, speech, posture,
all strategically enhanced by the setting and atmosphere to create a subjective impression.


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If Daenerys had just returned from exile,
and Aegor was the first notable figure to actively seek an audience,
then it made sense that she might deliberately put on a display,
to intimidate neutral parties,
to establish her dominance over the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,
a man known to be closely tied to the North.

That would be logical.

But—

The Queen sat there like a painted goddess, her demeanor as soft as water.

She wore a red and black coat,
its color scheme eerily resembling the Night’s Watch cloak, almost as if they were wearing matching outfits.

She smiled gently,
said nothing threatening,
and hadn’t surrounded herself with armored soldiers drawing their blades for intimidation.

Aegor hadn’t even seen any dragons in the sky on his way in.

There were no signs of her trying to impress or overwhelm him deliberately.

And yet—

He still felt this suffocating sense of pressure.

It was so overwhelming that his hairs stood on end.


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There was only one explanation.

This presence—this oppressive aura—
was real.

A genuine magical influence, like an enchantment woven into reality itself.


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This dominance,
combined with an indescribable allure,
and a physical beauty that was real, but not unreasonably unmatched—

It was as if Daenerys was permanently under the effect of two powerful enchantments:

"Charm" and "Intimidation."


---

It didn’t matter if one’s aesthetic standards were different.
It didn’t matter if one had iron-clad willpower.
It didn’t matter if one had zero interest in bending the knee.

Her presence alone would leave an imprint on you.


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"So the whole ‘Daenerys is overpowered’ joke…"

"Might not actually be a joke at all."


---

Maybe it was because she carried the blood of true dragons.
Maybe it was because she had been chosen by prophecy and was granted supernatural favor.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

Because her beauty and her commanding presence weren’t just qualities—
they were her supernatural abilities.

Her cheat code.


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And if that was true,
then everything made sense.


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She had been sold to a warlord as a bride—yet instead of being treated like property, she was genuinely loved and respected.

Jorah Mormont had been sent to spy on her—yet he had fallen hopelessly in love and would have died for her.

Daario Naharis had been hired to kill her—yet he had slaughtered his own employers and sworn loyalty instead.

The wealthy slave lords of Astapor and Qarth all coveted her dragons—yet none dared to steal them by force.


---

What had once seemed like unbelievable, plot-armored nonsense—
now made perfect sense.


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"Ahem."

A gentle female voice broke Aegor from his thoughts.

It was Daenerys.

"Lord Commander, I’ve heard much about you. Have you come to swear fealty and support my war against the usurpers?"

Aegor snapped back to reality.

He had just stared at her like a fool for several seconds straight—
He was lucky she was used to men looking at her like that.

---

"Your Grace, you must be joking."

Quickly composing himself, Aegor lowered his gaze, no longer looking directly at Daenerys.

"The Night’s Watch has sworn an oath of neutrality—to remain impartial, to never take sides in the conflicts of the realm. Forgive me, but I cannot swear fealty to you, nor can I offer you direct support."

"However, I have brought you another gift—one that I believe you will like."

From inside his coat, he pulled out a flat, silk-wrapped object and handed it to Missandei, who had stepped forward upon seeing the motion. She then passed it along to Daenerys, who took it into her hands.

Unfolding a corner of the silk, the Queen saw that it was a thin booklet, its material strange and unfamiliar, likely the rumored plant-fiber paper. That was nothing unusual.

What caught her attention was the handwritten title on the exposed portion of the cover.

It was a single, bold word—

Sovereign.