*DAENERYS — SHIPS*
Qarth was still burning behind her, in her mind.
She could see it every time she closed her eyes. The House of the Undying collapsing in blue fire. Pyat Pree's mouth open in a silent scream. The warlocks reaching.
Daenerys Targaryen had not slept in three days.
Late 299 AC. The docks of Qarth. The stink of salt, tar, and rotting fish. The Jade Gates looming black behind them.
Ser Jorah Mormont had his sword out. Not drawn, but his hand never left it. Jhogo and Aggo had their bows strung. Her bloodriders made a circle around her, around the palanquin where her three dragons hissed and snapped at every Qartheen who stared too long.
They all stared.
"Khaleesi," Jorah muttered. "This is a mistake. We should have left at night."
"We have no gold for night bribes," she said. Her voice was hoarse. She was fifteen and her throat still hurt from smoke. "And we have no ships."
That was when the Qartheen captain found her. Or she found him.
Three ships. Not Qartheen galleys — those were too pretty, too painted. These were deep-water ships, Myrish lines, heavy. Their sails were furled. Their hulls scarred from the long voyage from Pentos.
On the largest, a flag snapped in the wind. Not a seahorse. Not a city. A fat merchant's sigil.
_Illyrio._
A fat man in a yellow robe waddled down the gangplank, sweating in Qarth's heat, even though it was not hot anymore for Dany. Nothing was hot after dragonfire.
"Queen Daenerys!" he called, in bastard Valyrian. "Little queen! Magister Illyrio Mopatis sends his love! And ships!"
He knelt. Not well — his belly got in the way.
"Three ships, as promised! _Baleton's Joy_, _Mirrah_, and _Sandalath_. Old, but sound! Crews paid! Holds full of water and salt pork and—"
He stopped. Because Drogon had flown from her shoulder and landed on his head.
Drogon was no bigger than a cat, black-red, and angry. He stared at the Pentoshi captain and shrieked, showing needle teeth.
The captain went very still.
Dany lifted her hand. Drogon flew back to her, claws pricking her skin through her dress.
"Tell me," she said, in High Valyrian, clear and cold, and the man flinched to hear it so pure from a girl so young. "Did Illyrio send you to me, or to my dragons?"
The captain swallowed. "To... to you, Your Grace."
Jorah stepped forward. "Why? No man gives away three ships."
The captain — his name was Groleo — looked at Daenerys, then at Jorah, then back at Daenerys. He chose correctly who to answer to.
"Magister says... the warlocks are dead. Qarth will close its gates to you now. Every other city will too, when they hear a girl walked out of the House of the Undying alive. You need to leave. Fast."
Daenerys looked at the ships. Three. Only three. For a Khalasar of a hundred. For three dragons who would soon be bigger than horses.
It was not enough. It would never be enough.
But it was a start.
She put her hand on Groleo's sweaty head, as if blessing him, as her brother Viserys had once tried to bless her and failed.
"We will take them," she said.
That night, as _Baleton's Joy_ pulled away from Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be glowing behind them like a bruise, Daenerys Targaryen stood at the prow with her dragons.
For the first time since she had walked out of Drogo's pyre, she was not being chased.
She was sailing.
"To Pentos?" Jorah asked behind her.
She smiled, and it was her first real smile since the House.
"No," she said. "To Astapor. I hear they sell armies there."
And the ships cut west, through the Jade Straits, into dark water.