The Dos Khaleen were waiting in a circular wooden hall.
(Note: The Dos Khaleen are all former Khaleesis, the wives of Khals who have passed away.) The room was large and empty, save for a few braziers.
The flames danced within the bowls, casting shadows that stretched and shrank.
Soon, the room was filled with people.
Daenerys stood on a high platform in the center, her silver hair shimmering in the firelight.
Kohoro led a horse forward.
It stood there, its eyes dark and bright, remaining perfectly still.
Drogo took the stone dagger; the blade was pitch black, ground thin and sharp.
He wondered for a moment, was it dragonglass?
No, it looked like obsidian, its edge glinting coldly in the firelight.
He weighed it in his hand; it felt balanced enough.
Iron blades were forbidden in the sacred city; only this could be used.
He gripped the hilt tightly, aimed at the horse’s neck, and plunged the knife in.
Blood gushed out, splashing warm against his hands.
The horse screamed and struggled, its four legs kicking wildly, but the Bloodriders lunged forward to hold it down, pinning its head to the ground.
The horse cried out a few more times, its voice growing weaker until it finally sank to its knees and moved no more.
Drogo began to slice through flesh and hide, severing blood vessels to pull out the horse’s heart.
The stone knife ground against the flesh, lacking the smooth glide of an iron blade; every stroke required force.
His arms grew numb from the effort, his hands were covered in blood, and sweat trickled down his forehead, dripping onto the ground.
Drogo presented the still-steaming horse heart to Daenerys.
He couldn’t imagine how Daenerys was supposed to eat this entire bloody heart raw.
But she had to.
The Dothraki believed that a pregnant woman eating a horse heart raw would make her son strong, swift, and fearless.
He said, “If you can’t finish it, tell me.
Don’t force yourself.” Daenerys took the heart.
Her fingers trembled as they touched it, but she didn’t shrink away.
She held it with both hands and raised it to her lips.
She bit down.
One bite, two bites, three…
she tore at it.
She couldn’t chew it.
The horse heart was too tough; her teeth couldn’t cut through, so she had to swallow it whole.
She strained her neck to swallow, her eyes turning red with the effort, tears welling up.
The smell of blood surged, and she nearly gagged.
Her stomach cramped violently, but she forced it down and took another bite.
Drogo stood below the platform, watching Daenerys, encouraging her with his eyes.
The sight made his skin crawl, not out of disgust or fear, but out of heartache for Daenerys.
His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.
He wanted to rush up, snatch the heart away and throw it aside, to tell those old women “enough.” The corners of Drogo’s mouth slowly drooped, his facial muscles tightened, and his entire face turned a grim, ashen color.
Daenerys saw his expression change and thought he was angry.
She feared disappointing him, feared he would think her useless.
She bit faster, tore harder, swallowing what she couldn’t chew and stuffing more into her mouth even when she choked.
Blood flowed from the corners of her mouth, dripping onto her chest, but she didn’t stop to wipe it.
The crones of the Dos Khaleen gathered in a semi-circle, chanting: “The prince is riding his stallion—” The people around them also began to shout, their voices growing louder: “It is a boy, it is a boy, it is a strong boy.” The shouts made the wooden hall hum.
Drogo glanced toward the door.
Viserys and Jorah Mormont were standing there, talking.
Viserys wore that look of impatience on his face.
He took only one look before pulling his gaze away.
After a long time, Daenerys finally swallowed the last bite.
She stood on the platform, her mouth and chest covered in blood, with only a smear of gore left in her palms.
She looked at Drogo, her eyes red, gasping for breath.
The grim color on Drogo’s face finally faded.
A faint smile touched his lips.
The ceremony continued.
The crones of the Dos Khaleen began their divination.
Bundles of dry grass were thrown into the large bronze braziers.
The grass was packed too tightly for oxygen to enter, so no flames erupted; instead, thick clouds of smoke billowed upward.
The grayish-white pillars of smoke twisted as they rose, snaking toward the opening in the roof.
It was much like the beacon fires used to signal enemy movements.
Only this was used for the crones to divine the future.
The eldest crone stepped forward and stood by the brazier, staring into the billowing smoke as if trying to see the future within it.
Seeing her serious expression, Drogo only wanted to laugh.
Daenerys leaned in and whispered, “Aren’t you nervous?” He tilted his head and whispered back, “Relax, there’s no need to fear.” Daenerys’s eyebrows arched slightly, showing a hint of confusion.
Maybe it’s not a big deal now… maybe it will be later.
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”