By the time they neared Vaes Dothrak, Daenerys was two months pregnant.
She lay draped across his chest, fingers tracing idle lines over his skin.
Her voice came out soft and teasing.
“I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“It’s a boy.”
Drogo stroked her swelling belly.
There was no joy on his face, no pride of an expectant father.
His expression was dark, his mind heavier still.
The dragon was coming into the world, and he had to protect the child in her womb at the same time.
Time was short.
I have to change what’s coming.
I refuse to be just a piece on someone else’s board, the tool that ushers the dragon to life.
“How do you know?” She lifted her head to look at him.
“I just know.” Drogo kissed her.
Daenerys settled back against his chest and wound her fingers through his braid.
After a moment, she asked:
“After we pay our respects to the dosh khaleen, where do we go?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home.” Her voice brightened.
“Viserys says he only needs ten thousand of your riders.
That’s all it would take to retake the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Even if I gave him an army, he has no ability to command it.”
Daenerys propped herself up on one elbow, lying sideways, watching his face, waiting for him to go on.
“The Dothraki respect strength above everything else.
And after you made him walk — everyone in the khalasar knows how weak he is.”
He paused.
“A man who cannot ride is not fit to be called a man.
Rakharo should have told you that.”
Daenerys was quiet for a long moment.
“Then if Viserys finds out it was because of me that he can’t command the army…” She faltered.
“Will he be angry?”
She was almost in tears.
“I’ve woken the Rage of the Sleeping Dragon, haven’t I?”
Drogo touched her face.
“He is no true dragon.
You are.”
Daenerys felt the guilt settle into her chest.
She softened her voice, red-rimmed her eyes, and pleaded — again and again — and used every technique Doreah had ever taught her before Drogo finally agreed to let Viserys ride with them at the head of the column again.
For Drogo, it cost him nothing.
If Daenerys still held hope for that waste of a man, then he couldn’t move against him yet.
Let the two of them spend more time together, he thought.
Let Viserys keep digging his own grave.
The next day, the vanguard of the khalasar reached Vaes Dothrak.
At the entrance stood two bronze stallions.
Their forelegs reared high, all four hooves meeting over a hundred feet above the road.
Their eyes were obsidian black.
Their bodies were green-bronze, and in the sunlight they gave off a dull, heavy gleam, like horses that had just come off a battlefield.
Idols plundered from every corner of the world were scattered along both sides of the road.
The Lhazareen’s Great Shepherd.
The Maiden of the Harvest from Pentos.
Braavos’s Stranger.
The love goddess of Lys.
And then there were the others, nameless stone figures, jutting crookedly from the ground like a row of silent captives.
Drogo rode in first with his bloodriders and part of the vanguard.
Viserys had barely been allowed back on a horse before the complaints started.
His mouth never stopped.
“How much longer must I wait?” He rode alongside Daenerys, voice low and tight.
“When is Drogo going to give me my army?
I’ve run out of patience.”
Daenerys said carefully, “Drogo says…
you can’t command ten thousand riders.”
Viserys looked at her.
His eyes went narrow.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?
I sold you to him.
And now he refuses to pay?
Is he making sport of a true dragon?”
Jorah spoke up from beside them.
“Your Grace.
The Khal is not a merchant.
You believe you sold Daenerys and now wish to collect a debt.
But Khal Drogo received Daenerys as a gift.”
“He will give you a gift in return.
When that happens is his to decide.”
Viserys’s face went red.
His voice climbed.
“I think the savage intends to give me that gift after I’m dead.
That way he gets my sister for nothing.”
“He is my husband,” Daenerys said quietly.
“He speaks the Common Tongue.
He knows things — the hot-air balloon was his design.
Brother, please.
Stop calling him a savage.”
“Hot-air balloon.” Viserys let out a short, contemptuous sound.
“What good is that?
Give me the army and I’ll stop calling him whatever I like.”
Daenerys pressed her lips together.
“I sincerely hope my sun-and-stars won’t make you wait much longer.”
Viserys glanced at her.
“Once I have those ten thousand riders, I’ll go.
I’ll never bother you again.”
Then, as if remembering himself, he added: “When I reclaim the Seven Kingdoms, you’ll be a true princess.
I’ll have everyone line up to welcome you home.”
Daenerys said nothing.
But something moved in her chest.
She nudged her horse forward and caught up to Drogo, riding close at his side.
He turned his head and glanced at her.
He didn’t need her to speak.
He already knew, she was going to ask for the army for Viserys again.
He turned away and studied the scenery around him instead.
This was not a city, not really.
No walls.
The buildings were scattered and sparse, every style imaginable thrown together in no order.
Stone tents.
Grass-woven palaces.
Timber towers.
A handful of squat little pyramids, the color of dried earth, barely taller than burial mounds.
All built by captives, each one in the style of the land they’d been taken from.
Drogo had a residence here.
He followed the route from memory and went straight to it.
The so-called residence was four wooden walls with no roof.
A large canopy hung overhead, blocking out neither sun nor rain.
Daenerys looked it over from top to bottom.
“Magister Illyrio’s slave girl told me your palace had two hundred rooms and doors forged from silver.”
Drogo raised a hand and gestured at the surrounding settlement.
The domed mud huts spread out in every direction, packed close together, radiating outward from his “residence” as their center.
Dense and countless, stretching far.
Hundreds of them, easily.
“In a sense, she wasn’t wrong.”
Daenerys laughed.
Cohollo walked over.
“Khal,” he said.
“Tonight we must ascend the Mother of Mountains and make offerings to the gods.”
He turned to Daenerys.
Reached up and plucked a small blade of grass from her hair.
Daenerys looked at Drogo.
“My sun-and-stars.
I’ll dream of you.”
Drogo nodded.
He knew what was coming tonight.
Viserys would find some petty excuse to strike Daenerys.
The two siblings would fall out again.
It was going to happen.
He had to let it happen.
He couldn’t stand in the way.
He turned, and walked with his bloodriders.
The sound of hoofbeats faded behind him.
The Mother of Mountains was not tall, but it was steep.
By the time Drogo and his bloodriders reached the top, dusk had already settled over the world.
A row of wooden stakes lined the summit, hung with offerings, horse bones, ox skulls, blades gone orange with rust.
The wind came from every direction and set them all turning slowly.
Standing at the top, you could see all of Vaes Dothrak.
The scattered domed huts.
The leaning idols.
The gray, hazy line of the horizon stretching awayBy the time they neared Vaes Dothrak, Daenerys was two months pregnant.
She lay draped across his chest, fingers tracing idle lines over his skin.
Her voice was soft and teasing.
“I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“It’s a boy.”
Drogo stroked her swelling belly.
There was no joy on his face, no pride of an expectant father.
His expression was dark, his thoughts heavier still.
The dragon was coming into the world, and he had to keep the child safe.
Time was running short.
I have to change what’s written.
I refuse to be a tool that ushers the dragon in and loses everything else.
“How do you know?” She lifted her head to look at him.
“I just know!” Drogo kissed her.
Daenerys settled back against his chest and wound her fingers lazily around his braid.
When she’d caught her breath, she asked again:
“After we pay our respects to the dosh khaleen, where do we go?”
Drogo turned it back on her.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home.
Viserys says he only needs ten thousand of your warriors to retake the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Even if I gave him the army, he has no ability to command it.”
Daenerys propped herself on one elbow, reclining sideways, watching his face and waiting.
“The Dothraki respect strength.
After you made him walk, everyone in the khalasar knows how fragile he is.”
He paused.
“A man who cannot ride is not fit to be called a man.
Rakharo should have told you.”
Daenerys held his gaze for a long moment before she spoke.
“If Viserys finds out it was because of me that he can’t command the army — will he be furious?”
Her eyes were glistening.
“I’ve woken the Rage of the Sleeping Dragon, haven’t I?”
Drogo touched her face.
“He is no true dragon.
You are.”
Daenerys felt the guilt settle into her like a stone.
Her voice went soft, her eyes went red, and she pleaded with him — again and again, and threw in every technique Doreah had ever taught her, until Drogo finally agreed to let Viserys ride at the front of the column again.
Not that it cost him much.
Since Daenerys still held out hope for that useless man, there was no point moving against him yet.
Let the two of them spend more time together, he thought.
Let Viserys keep digging his own grave.
The next day, the vanguard of the khalasar reached Vaes Dothrak.
At the entrance stood two bronze stallions, their forelegs rearing skyward, all four hooves meeting well over a hundred feet above the road.
Their eyes were black obsidian.
Their bodies shone green-bronze in the sunlight, dull and somber, like horses that had just walked off a battlefield.
Idols plundered from every corner of the world lined both sides of the road, the Lhazareen’s Great Shepherd, the Maiden of the Harvest from Pentos, the Stranger of Braavos, the love god of Lys.
Nameless stone figures jutted between them at crooked angles, like a crowd of silent captives no one had bothered to stand up straight.
Drogo rode in ahead with his bloodriders and part of the cavalry.
Viserys had barely been allowed back on a horse before the complaints started.
His mouth had not stopped since.
“How much longer do I have to wait?” He rode beside Daenerys, voice low but tight.
“When is Drogo going to give me my army?
I’ve had enough of waiting.”
Daenerys said carefully, “Drogo says…
you cannot command ten thousand riders.”
Viserys looked at her.
His eyes narrowed.
“What is that supposed to mean?
I sold you to him, and now he won’t pay up?
Is this how he amuses himself with a true dragon?”
Jorah spoke up from nearby.
“Your Grace, the khal is not a merchant.
You believe you sold Daenerys and are owed payment.
But Khal Drogo sees her as a gift you gave him freely.”
“He will return the gift.
The timing, however, is entirely his to decide.”
Viserys’s face went red.
His voice climbed.
“I think the savage intends to return that gift after I’m dead.
Then he gets my sister for nothing.”
“He’s my husband,” Daenerys said quietly.
“He speaks the Common Tongue.
He knows things.
He built that hot-air balloon himself.
Brother, please stop calling him a savage.”
“Hot-air balloon.” Viserys let out a sharp breath.
“What use is that?
Let him give me the army, and I’ll stop.”
Daenerys pressed her lips together.
“I sincerely hope my sun-and-stars won’t make you wait much longer.”
Viserys looked at her.
“Once I have those ten thousand riders, I’ll leave.
I won’t bother you again.”
He added, almost as an afterthought: “When I retake the Seven Kingdoms, you’ll be a true princess.
I’ll have every soul in the realm line up to welcome you home.”
Daenerys said nothing.
But something moved in her chest.
She nudged her horse forward and caught up to Drogo, falling in beside him.
He glanced over.
He didn’t need her to speak.
She was going to ask for Viserys’s army again.
He turned away and studied the city around them instead.
It could barely be called a city.
No walls.
Buildings scattered and sparse, in every style imaginable, stone tents, grass-woven palaces, timber towers, a handful of squat little pyramids the color of dirt, no taller than burial mounds.
All built by captives from distant lands, each in the manner of their home.
Drogo had a residence here.
He found his way to it from memory.
The so-called residence was four wooden walls with no roof.
A large canvas canopy stretched across the top, doing nothing to block the sun and nothing to stop rain.
Daenerys looked it over carefully.
“Magister Illyrio’s slave girl said your palace had two hundred rooms and doors made of silver.”
Drogo raised a hand and gestured at the surrounding huts.
The round mud-brick dwellings, thatched and domed, spread out in every direction with his “residence” at the center, one packed tight against the next, hundreds of them stretching far into the distance.
“In a sense,” he said, “she wasn’t wrong.”
Daenerys burst out laughing.
Cohollo walked over.
“Khal,” he said.
“Tonight we must climb the Mother of Mountains and make offerings to the gods.”
He turned to Daenerys.
He reached out and plucked a small blade of grass from her hair.
“My sun-and-stars,” she said.
“I’ll dream of you.”
Drogo nodded.
He knew what tonight held.
Viserys would find some petty reason to strike her.
The two siblings would fall out again.
There was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he should do.
These things had to happen on their own.
He turned and walked away with his bloodriders.
The hoofbeats faded.
The Mother of Mountains was not tall.
But it was steep.
By the time Drogo and his bloodriders reached the summit, the sky had gone gold and dim.
A row of wooden stakes stood at the top, hung with offerings, horse bones, ox skulls, rusted blades.
The wind came from all sides, stirring them into a slow, idle turn.
From up here, all of Vaes Dothrak lay below: the scattered domed huts, the crooked idols, and the gray smear of the horizon far out beyond it all.
Cohollo lit the fire.
The flames climbed high, throwing light across the peak, across the stone pillars carved with the marks of the horse god.
Qotho brought the sacrifice forward, a horse, pure black, without a single off-color hair.
Haggo held out a short stone blade, sharp and clean.
Drogo took it.
He walked to the horse.
The horse watched him, eyes black and bright, perfectly still.
He raised his hand.
The blade came down.
Blood sprayed out across the stones, across his face, hot against his skin.
The fire roared up.
Smoke climbed into the night and disappeared.
Cohollo began the prayers, those old words, passed down across the grasslands for generations untold.
Qotho and Haggo dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the ground.
Drogo knelt too.
He watched the fire.
He watched the horse’s blood run dark into the cracks of the stone.
The ritual went on through the night.
The fire burned and was fed and burned again.
The prayers rose and fell and rose once more.
Drogo believed in none of it.
He knelt among his tribesmen and wore the face of a pious man.
He closed his eyes and moved his lips and let the sounds come out.
His mind had already gone.
He wondered how she was doing down there.
He had left Quaro, Rakharo, and Jogo to watch over her.
It should have been enough.
But the worry sat in his chest and would not let go.
Because of the changes he had already made, small things, ripples, what if this time, Viserys actually hurt her?
➤ Next: Opportunity — The Conversation
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