The maids filled large bronze tubs with hot water, wedding gifts to Daenerys, their bottoms engraved with patterns.
She soaked inside, steam curling upward.
Lale reached in to scrub her back and flinched the moment her hand touched the water.
She gritted her teeth and kept scrubbing.
After a while, her fingers were red as boiled shrimp.
The ones who usually attended her were Jhiqui, Doreah, and Irri.
Today Dany had deliberately sent Jhiqui off to find Jorah Mormont, and told Irri to go pick flowers on the grassland, leaving Lale to fill in.
“Khaleesi,” Lale said softly.
“The water is too hot.”
Dany leaned against the rim of the tub, eyes closed, looking perfectly content.
“Targaryens do not fear heat.
A blazing fire burns in our blood.”
Lale didn’t dare say another word.
She kept enduring the scalding water and scrubbed.
When it was done, Doreah helped her out, dried her off, and dressed her in a loose silk robe that slipped and flowed like water.
Doreah stood behind her combing her hair while Lale dabbed on perfume.
Footsteps outside the tent.
They stopped at the entrance.
“Princess.” Jorah Mormont’s voice.
“You sent for me?”
Dany stood, lifted the tent flap, and stepped outside.
Jorah was waiting, wearing a Dothraki leather vest, a curved arakh hanging at his belt.
“Ser Jorah.” Dany looked him up and down.
“You’re already dressing like one of them.”
“Yes.
Khal Drogo says — when in the Dothraki Sea, do as the Dothraki do.”
Dany didn’t pick up on that.
She stepped forward, and the smile on her face went flat.
“My husband told me a few days ago that he cannot force his warriors to cross the sea.”
Jorah looked at her.
“He says he must first conquer the Free Cities.
Unite every khalasar on the Dothraki Sea.”
“Attack city-states whose names I’d never even heard before — Meereen, Yunkai, Astapor…”
As she named them, a note of complaint crept into her voice.
Jorah considered this.
“The Magisters of the Free Cities have already sent Khal Drogo so many gifts.
Why would he still attack them?”
“I don’t care about that.” A stubbornness came into her voice.
“He wants to conquer all those places, so why not Westeros?”
“The Dothraki do things at their own pace, for their own reasons.” He chose his words carefully.
“And our Khal Drogo is even more…
inscrutable.
I don’t know what he wants, either.”
Dany’s eyes reddened slightly.
Going home.
It had once been Viserys’s obsession.
After he became a eunuch and lost his claim to the Iron Throne, it had become hers.
“He must attack Westeros.
Please — help me persuade him.”
Jorah shook his head.
“He confers only with his bloodriders and his kos.
My words, he may not heed.”
He noticed the sorrow she couldn’t quite hide and changed the subject.
“Khaleesi, a large merchant caravan entered the city last night.
Over 400 horses, in from Pentos, loaded with goods of every kind.
You should go and see.”
“For a caravan to travel this far, it relies on the khals granting passage.
You are the Khaleesi, they will present gifts to you.
Magister Illyrio may have even sent a letter.”
Dany considered it.
Some of the cloud lifted from her face.
“Alright.
I’d like that very much.”
“Sitting in the tent all day is suffocating.
A lively market…
there’s always something interesting to find.”
She rode in her palanquin.
Six slaves carried it, the body riding smooth and steady, red silk curtains stretched overhead to block the sun.
Three Dothraki warriors rode escort to either side, four maids followed on foot, and Jorah Mormont rode alongside.
The two of them talked and laughed along the way.
In the shadows behind them, another group kept pace.
A ten-man captain, assigned by Drogo, rode with nine warriors, unhurried, hanging back just far enough.
Drogo’s orders had been specific: the Khaleesi was not to drink anything handed to her at the market.
Not wine, not water.
Nothing.
He didn’t trust that Jorah, if his pardon hadn’t come through, would step in to stop an assassin.
He needed his own contingency.
Dany recounted the eastern stories Drogo had shared with her, one by one, as they rode.
Jorah listened with a smile.
“Truly fascinating,” he said.
“From the sound of it, Khal Drogo is indeed a great ruler.
He can wage war in every direction and make his enemies tremble.
And he can win hearts, and earn the loyalty of his men.”
Dany tilted her head to look at him.
“You think he’s right, too?”
Jorah didn’t answer immediately.
He looked up at the mild sun, the sky clear and cloudless from one edge to the other, and let the breeze wash over him, carrying the scent of grass.
“The khal is always right.
You’d do well not to question his decisions.
Or else…”
“I know that,” Dany said, cutting in.
“I’m not a child.
By the time we reached Vaes Dothrak, I’d already turned fourteen.”
They both laughed.
“Khaleesi,” Jorah said, “why not simply enjoy the day?”
The market opened up before them.
Hundreds of merchants were busy unloading carts and setting up stalls, their calls rising and tangling over one another.
“Locust pies!
Fresh-baked locust pies!”
“Sweet vanilla cakes!
Light as air!”
“Tree-egg bread!
Fresh from the oven!”
Dany was pulled toward the vanilla cakes.
She bought one and ate it slowly, scooping it spoonful by spoonful.
The Dothraki don’t understand buying and selling, but they understand gift-giving.
Take something from someone, and you give back something of equal worth.
Put plainly: barter.
The wealth seized from nations and city-states across the years had all piled up in Vaes Dothrak.
And the Dothraki are generous.
Sometimes the “gift” they return to a merchant is worth dozens of times what the goods were sold for.
So there are always people willing to risk the crossing, willing to come to this city where violence is forbidden.
Most of what the Dothraki plunder ends up back in merchant hands anyway.
They walked through it all.
Spices mounded into small hills, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, the smell sharp enough to make your nose prickle.
Myrish lace hung from wooden racks, so thin it was translucent, lifting and rippling in every breath of wind.
Braavosi crabs rattled in great barrels, claws raised.
Qartheen spiced oils.
Lysene flower wines.
Tyroshi dyes.
The market had everything.
Dany looked around for a while, then turned to Jorah.
“Ser Jorah, why don’t you trade goods here yourself?”
Jorah smiled.
“I don’t have the capital, Khaleesi.
You have to pay tribute to the khals along the way.
That expense alone would break me.”
He paused.
“Before your wedding, on the road to Pentos, Khal Drogo seized a merchant party.
They thought they were nearly to Pentos, so they hadn’t paid tribute.
All their goods were taken.
The people became slaves.”
Dany listened without any change in her expression.
Once, that might have shocked her.
Might have struck her as cruel.
But now she simply said, light and easy:
“My husband says he plans to build a two-story shopping center here one day.”
Jorah blinked.
The words hit him like a thrown stone.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
“He also says he’ll issue travel permits to merchants and only require them to pay customs duties.”
Jorah’s mind stalled.
“Customs duties?
Travel permits?”
“Yes.
He says that way merchants will want to come, goods will be plentiful, and everyone benefits.”
Jorah turned it over.
It made a certain kind of sense.
But then another thought followed quickly behind it.
“There are still dozens of khals on the Dothraki Sea.
An idea like that would be nearly impossible to carry out.”
“Even if Khal Drogo agrees to grant passage, the others won’t.”
“There won’t be any other khals,” Dany said.
“That is exactly what my husband is doing.”
Jorah went still.
He looked at her young face.
Opened his mouth.
Was about to speak, and then his gaze slipped sideways.
Dany had noticed.
Since they’d entered the market, he’d been distracted, his eyes drifting again and again toward the caravan leaders.
Jorah pulled himself back and gave a slight bow.
“Please allow me to step away for a moment.
I need to find the caravan leaders and see if there’s any letter for us.”
“Go.”
He turned and walked away, faster than his usual pace.
From the shadows, three of the ten-man captain’s riders peeled off and followed, quiet, unhurried, drawing no notice at all.
Watching Jorah.
That, too, was an order Drogo had given.
➤ Next: Assassination Attempt
WEEKLY POWER GOALS: 30→1ch | 50→2ch | 80→5 ch | 100→8 ch | 150→12 ch
Happy reading, everyone!