Daenerys, as Queen, would also serve as High Chancellor of the Academy, its supre authority.
Missandei was appointed Director of Languages and Instructor of Governance, while leadership of the remaining disciplines would be filled after a public selection of talent.
When the planning was complete, Daenerys felt wholly satisfied—yet outside the chamber, Drogon sensed sothing was off.
Perched quietly, he sank into thought.
Throughout the discussions, Daenerys had played a crucial role.
She proposed many fresh, innovative ideas—ideas Drogon himself had considered.
For soone born into this world, it wasn't strange to suggest a few groundbreaking concepts for founding an academy.
But when too many ideas reflected modern thinking, sothing beca… abnormal.
And Daenerys had voiced several such ideas.
Replaying their planning session in his mind beneath the night sky, a chilling realization struck Drogon:
Was Daenerys hearing his thoughts?
Did she sohow know what was in his mind?
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
His greatest fear was that Daenerys might discover he was a transmigrator—a man reborn into her world.
Yet thinking back carefully, she showed no sign of knowing his true origin.
Even if she were skilled at deception, Drogon did not believe she could learn that about him and keep up the façade without slipping—she would have reacted, even slightly.
Was he overthinking it?
Perhaps Daenerys truly was gifted—and wasn't reading his mind at all.
He couldn't be sure.
But surely, if she had known all along, he would have revealed himself by accident long ago.
To calm down, Drogon took to the skies and practiced emptying his thoughts, trying to clear his mind completely.
Yet the more he tried, the more his thoughts tangled—fear of exposure, worry that Daenerys knew too much, dread that she might uncover his secrets.
Only after hours of practice, deep into the night, did he finally manage to suppress his racing thoughts.
He settled onto a tree trunk, ditating in silence until dawn, heart barely still as a tranquil lake.
Daenerys noticed Drogon had gone out overnight, but paid little mind; it wasn't the first ti he'd slipped out into the dark.
---
After a sleepless night drafting the Academy proposal, Daenerys issued two royal decrees across Yunkai the very next day:
---
First Decree:
Anyone who believes they possess remarkable talent in any field may co to Yunkai's central plaza to register.
They may be recruited into royal service or accepted into the soon-to-open Academy for deeper study.
Special talents include all disciplines and trades, from the governance of cities and kingdoms, to tallurgy and forging, to exceptional farming skill.
---
Second Decree:
The Queen will spend generously to purchase books of all kinds.
Any compiled written works may be brought for sale, and will be priced according to their content and value.
News of the two royal decrees spread swiftly through every street and alley of Yunkai—yet most people remained hesitant, unable to grasp what the first decree truly ant.
That changed only when a bold man stepped forward to test the waters.
He approached the registration desk in the plaza, stated his specialty, gave his na and address, and left grinning from ear to ear.
His example emboldened others… and soon, a steady stream of people began lining up to register their talents.
While the talent registration table grew livelier by the hour, the book collection point remained almost deserted.
Watching from the plaza, Drogon understood why.
Yunkai, built on slavery, had little need for books.
Slaves were never taught to read; the Wise Masters spent their days training fighters and indulging in wine and flesh.
Who among them would spare ti for study?
In truth, the only land where books truly thrived was Westeros.
And even Westeros lacked many kinds of knowledge.
At the Citadel, maesters studied dicine, history, heraldry, and mottos—knowledge valuable to rulers or vital to survival.
Everything else was scarce.
Books on construction, craftsmanship, agriculture, or even systematic language study were nearly impossible to find.
The more Drogon thought about it, the more a question stirred within him:
[Why not write the books ourselves?
If knowledge does not exist, we can create it—then the Academy would beco a true fountainhead of learning.]
Daenerys, watching the bustling registration area, froze for a mont—ears pricked—as Drogon's thought brushed her senses.
Her eyes shifted, thinking rapidly.
"Write our own books…?"
Once again, she was shaken.
Seeing the barren state of the book collection site had already left her uneasy.
After Yunkai's liberation, she had asked Barristan and Jorah about the Citadel, and learned that it was the heart of knowledge in Westeros—yet its scope was limited.
If what Drogon proposed could be done—if they authored their own works—then the Academy's library might one day surpass even the Citadel's.
Its influence would reach farther too.
And even if she could not write herself, she knew well how tempting authorship would be to the talented and well-learned.
Daenerys' thoughts spiraled; her expression shifting from shock to calculation to excitent.
Drogon steadied his mind, keeping his face—no, his scales—composed, and turned his attention back to the lively plaza.
---
The vast square of Yunkai was now packed shoulder to shoulder.
So ca to register, but more arrived simply to watch the spectacle.
Although Yunkai was known for training bedslaves, the Wise Masters also required skilled servants—and among those slaves, true talent existed.
By noon the decrees had spread through all of Yunkai.
Dockworkers and rchants abandoned their tasks to see the commotion for themselves.
Watching the eager crowds, Daenerys had not expected so many capable people hidden within the city.
After several hours of registration, the growing ledger listed not only builders, rice cultivators, and healers, but also teachers—including a gaunt old man Daenerys vaguely rembered, once responsible for teaching noble children their letters and simple arithtic.
Even several nervous musicians and painters approached, unsure whether their arts counted as talent.
With Daenerys' approval, Missandei added them to the registry as well.
Each entry recorded not only na, address, background, and specialty, but also the applicant's desired role—ensuring future assignnts would suit their abilities.
---
"Khaleesi," whispered Irri, the servant overseeing the book collection, "a man wishes to sell more than a dozen books—but only if he may join the Academy."
"Join the Academy?"
Daenerys' curiosity stirred.
She walked toward the quiet book stall.
A man stood waiting—leaning on a cane, clothed in worn garnts.
Hearing her footsteps, he turned.
Up close, she saw a weary face, hair streaked with white, his bearing subdued—around fifty years of age.
But when he recognized her, his dim eyes suddenly brightened.
He gripped his cane, struggling to lower himself to one knee.
"Your Grace."
Daenerys blinked, startled that a man with such difficulty walking would insist on showing her so deep a respect.
Before she could respond, Barristan stepped forward, surprise flashing in his eyes.
"Daren Ryl?"
The man on one knee smiled faintly at the knight.
"Ser Barristan… it has been a very long ti."
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