Dawn broke over the Dothraki Sea and the entire grassland came alive.
Khal Drogo had summoned his khalasar to the wedding, and every warrior answered the call.
Forty thousand Dothraki fighters gathered, along with countless women, children, and slaves.
Thousands of tents spread across the plain like stars.
Fires smoked.
Horses neighed without end.
Dothraki men and women alike wore painted leather vests over their chests, horsehair wrappings on their legs, and bronze belts at their waists.
The men had oiled their long braids black with animal fat.
They sat in great circles around the feast, stuffing their mouths with roasted horse meat seasoned with honey and pepper, drinking deep from cups of fermented mare’s milk and strong wine.
Their rough laughter shook the ground.
The women wore veils of yellow or red.
To the pounding of drums they danced wildly, bare legs flashing strong and lean, drawing hungry roars and cheers from the watching warriors.
One fighter suddenly rose, seized a dancing girl with a thick arm, and threw her down on the grass.
He took her right there in front of everyone.
Nearby, two warriors locked eyes over the same woman.
Both drew their arakhs.
The rest of the men quickly formed a ring around them.
No one tried to stop the fight.
Instead they watched with eager, bloodthirsty eyes.
“Kill!
Kill!” The crowd roared as one.
Steel rang.
Blood sprayed.
When it was over only one man remained standing.
He wiped his blade on his thigh without even glancing at the corpse, then grabbed the girl and shoved her beneath him.
Among the Dothraki, any wedding that did not claim at least three lives was considered a failure.
People would mock it for years.
They believed the great moments of life should be witnessed by the open sky.
This wedding would last from first light until the sun went down.
By the time the sun sank and the great fires roared high, the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine hung thick in the air.
Daenerys Targaryen sat stiff and silent in the place of honor.
Her hair had been brushed until it shone like molten silver.
A heavy gold collar set with ancient Valyrian runes rested against her throat.
She wore a gown of deep purple silk so sheer it clung to every line of her body and made her violet eyes seem even brighter.
Gold-edged sandals covered her small, pale feet.
Her body felt like carved stone.
Everything around her—the killing, the fucking, the endless noise—seemed like someone else’s nightmare.
The night she had first seen the sheep-man boy Rahallo, she had dreamed of Viserys striking her.
Blood had welled from her chest.
Then pain exploded across her back.
When she opened her eyes Viserys was gone.
Towering pillars of fire surrounded her, and in the heart of the flames a great dragon slowly turned its head.
Eyes like molten rock met hers.
She pushed the memory away.
Three gifts already lay at her knees: a whip, a longbow, and an arakh.
By Dothraki custom these were the symbolic presents given to a new bride.
At the end of the wedding they would be given to Drogo.
All her life Viserys had told her the same thing.
The blood in their veins was the golden blood of old Valyria—king’s blood, the blood of true dragons.
True dragons did not mate with beasts.
House Targaryen did not mix its blood with lesser races.
Yet now Viserys meant to sell her to this foreign savage.
Khal Drogo.
The huge, hairy man sat like a mountain on his cushions, tearing into roasted meat with his teeth and barking orders at the serving girls until a small hill of food rose in front of him.
Scars crossed his body in every direction, each one a victory.
He looked like a moving fortress.
Simply by sitting there he dominated the entire gathering.
Viserys presented his own gifts next—two personal slaves for his sister.
One was Jhiqui, a Dothraki girl with almond-shaped eyes, long black hair, and warm brown skin.
The other was Doreah, a golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty from Lys.
“Little sister,” Viserys said with a thin, knowing smile, “Jhiqui will teach you how to ride across the open land.
Doreah will teach you how to ride inside the tent.” Ser Jorah Mormont offered his gift as well—a small stack of books written in the Common Tongue about the history and heroes of the Seven Kingdoms.
It was the only thing Daenerys could actually read.
A greasy voice spoke up beside her.
Daenerys lifted her head and saw the magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, bowing low before Khal Drogo.
The fat man wore flowing silk robes embroidered with golden thread.
Every finger glittered with jeweled rings.
His oiled yellow beard still carried a faint wine stain.
“Khal Drogo,” Illyrio said, voice thick with flattery, “you are the pride of the Dothraki Sea, the fiercest warrior this land has ever known, and the greatest king under the sky.
It is the highest honor to stand at your wedding feast.” He waved a hand.
Four slaves carried forward a chest of cedar wood.
When they opened it Daenerys’s breath caught.
Three large eggs rested on velvet.
Each shell was covered in fine scales and each was different from the others.
One was deep green marked with bronze swirls.
Another was creamy white threaded with gold.
The last was black as midnight water, yet it shimmered with dark red vortex patterns.
The eggs were large.
Daenerys needed both hands to lift even one.
At first she thought they were made of pottery or glass, but up close they felt like nothing she had ever touched.
“What are they?” she asked softly.
“Dragon eggs,” Illyrio answered, “from the Shadow Lands east of Asshai.
They turned to stone over thousands of years, yet they remain beautiful.” “Thank you.
I will treasure them always.” Daenerys had heard stories of dragon eggs, but she had never seen one.
She had certainly never expected to own any.
The gift was beyond price, though she knew Illyrio could afford it.
After all, selling her to Khal Drogo had already earned him herds of fine horses and dozens of slaves.
A loud clash of metal cut through the noise of the feast.
Every head turned toward the sound.
Laughter and shouting died.
Silence fell over the gathering as a single figure walked slowly into the open space between the fires.
“I am Rahallo,” the young man said, voice carrying across the sudden quiet, “son of Khal Drolo.” He stopped in the center of the square.
His gaze swept the crowd before settling on Drogo.
“You killed my father, Drogo.
Today I will take back what is mine with your blood.” Daenerys raised her head.
Her violet eyes found the source of the disturbance and brightened.
She stared at the arakh in Rahallo’s hand—the blade covered in flowing, water-like patterns that caught the firelight and threw back a cold, deadly gleam.
Haggo, one of Drogo’s bloodriders, also stared at the weapon.
Open mockery twisted his face.
“Sheep man,” he said, voice dripping with contempt, “look at that pretty knife.
It suits a braidless, honorless failure like you.” Low laughter rippled through the watching warriors.
Their eyes glittered with cruel amusement.
The Dothraki respected strength above all else.
A public challenge to a khal was rare, but no one considered it dishonorable.
If anything, the prospect of blood made every man’s pulse quicken.
“A lowborn sheep man without even a braid dares challenge me?” Drogo’s scarred lips curled into a savage smile.
The tiny bells woven into his beard chimed softly.
He rose to his feet.
Even standing he towered half a head above Rahallo.
Slowly, deliberately, he drew his own arakh.
Steel whispered against leather.
The fight was about to begin.