When the sun slanted west, the wedding feast’s final death toll was announced.
Twelve.
It was only then that Daenerys understood what Drogo had been trying to tell her with his gestures.
Now it was the Khal’s turn to present a gift to his Khaleesi.
Drogo stood.
His mind worked through it — how do you say “follow me” in English?
Come, come with, no, it was: “Follow me!”
The moment his London accent came out, the bloodriders nearby exchanged glances.
Cohollo’s expression was the most startled of all.
He no longer recognized this Khal he had watched grow up from boyhood.
Daenerys lifted her head to look at him, those violet eyes wide with surprise, and slowly rose to her feet.
Drogo strode away from her.
The gathered Dothraki parted to either side as the Khal approached, and Daenerys, snapping back to her senses, hurried after him.
At the far end of the crowd, Drogo stood holding a horse.
She was a young filly, her coat grey as a winter sea, her mane like silver smoke.
He watched Daenerys reach out and stroke the horse’s neck, her fingers running through the silver mane.
She liked her, that much was clear.
“A silver mane to match your silver hair,” he said.
Illyrio translated from the side.
Of that exchange, Drogo only caught the word “hair.”
He stepped forward.
Daenerys startled back a few paces, her expression wary.
He wrapped one arm around her waist, lifted, and set her into the saddle in a single fluid motion.
Then he turned to mount his own horse.
In that small window, Viserys slipped to Daenerys’s side and drove his fingers into the flesh of her thigh.
“My dear sweet sister,” he said, his voice low, each word bitten off with deliberate force, “you will please him.
Thoroughly.
Or I promise — you will see what the wrath of the sleeping dragon looks like.”
Daenerys bit her lip.
Said nothing.
Drogo rode over and glanced at Viserys.
Viserys stepped back two paces, that nasty smile spreading across his face.
Drogo didn’t bother with him.
He looked only at Daenerys, said the same two words: “Follow me.”
Then spurred his horse and was gone.
He had wanted out of this noise for hours.
And he was willing to bet Daenerys felt exactly the same.
The two horses, one ahead and one behind, cut through the camp, crossed the open grassland, and didn’t stop until they reached the ivy-covered palace at the bay.
Drogo dismounted, lifted Daenerys down, and turned to the servant who came running out to meet them.
“Prepare hot water.”
“Yes, Khal!” The servant was already moving.
When the bath was drawn, he went to find her.
Daenerys stood at the window, her face wet with tears.
Drogo looked at her eyes, tears still fresh, and his expression softened.
“Don’t cry, baby.” He raised his hand and wiped her tears away with the pad of his calloused thumb.
“You speak the Common Tongue?” She finally had her chance to ask.
“A little.” He thought to himself: all those English classes he’d skipped, and now this was how he was paying for them.
The servants moved forward to undress her.
Daenerys instinctively crossed her arms over her chest.
Drogo took her by the wrist and led her into the bath.
“Don’t be shy,” he said.
The water rose past her chest, warm and enveloping.
He pulled her back against him, his fingers moving slowly through her hair.
At the poolside, servants knelt and worked the bells free from his braid, placing them one by one onto a waiting tray.
Daenerys leaned against his chest and asked quietly, “Can you write these words?”
Drogo nodded.
He extended one finger and began to trace against her back.
One letter, then another, slowly spelling out a word.
When his finger stopped, he looked up, and she was smiling.
It was the first time he had seen her smile.
They talked like that for a while.
Drogo spoke slowly, filling in with gestures when words ran out.
Daenerys was tense at first, but she eased with time, the stiffness leaving her by degrees.
He brought up the wedding death toll again, making the same gestures he’d used during the ceremony.
The only English word available to him was “twelve.”
Daenerys caught the word but not the sentence.
“Three deaths at a wedding is already considered lively.
Why would you go and arrange twelve?”
He hadn’t expected his attempt to be clever to blow up in his face.
All his clumsy mouth could produce was: “No, no!”
The serving woman at the poolside, the same one who had tended to him the day before, lifted her head, glanced at the two of them, and spoke softly.
She asked Drogo in Dothraki, then translated his answer into the Common Tongue for Daenerys.
One exchange back and forth, and the misunderstanding unraveled.
She was a Lysene woman, golden hair, blue eyes.
Her family had been killed by a raiding Dothraki khalasar, and she herself had been taken as a slave.
When her original khalasar was defeated, she was sold to a wealthy Pentoshi merchant.
The magistrates, wanting to better receive Khal Drogo, had then paid an even higher price to buy her from him.
Drogo only learned this now.
As she said herself, the man he’d been before would never have exchanged this many words with a serving woman, let alone shown any interest in her history.
He reached out and pulled her into the bath.
Water flew.
She let out a startled cry and went under, surfacing with her clothes soaked through and plastered to her skin.
She was a woman not yet thirty, at the fullest height of her looks.
He and Daenerys talked; she translated.
“The Free Cities all treat me with great courtesy on the surface,” Drogo said.
“They give me this palace.
But in truth, they simply believe my friendship comes cheap — that a palace is fair payment for peace between us.
Why not, from where they stand?”
Daenerys looked up at him, startled.
Those were the exact words Illyrio had once said to her, and now they were coming out of this man’s mouth, word for word.
She stared at him, her eyes searching his face.
Perhaps he wasn’t what she had imagined.
The bath went quiet.
The water cooled.
Drogo looked at his hands.
His fingers had gone pale from soaking, wrinkled all over.
All three climbed out.
Servants closed in immediately, working soft cloths over his body, while another worked through his soaked hair from behind.
The jet-black mass was drenched, hanging down in heavy strands, and even after a long while of drying it still wasn’t fully dry.
Daenerys had already pulled a robe on and stood nearby, waiting.
He let the servants work.
If not for Dothraki tradition, he would have cut the braid off long ago and shaved the beard while he was at it.
Heavy and a hassle.
Washing took ages.
Drying took ages.
In battle, all an enemy had to do was reach out and grab a fistful.
What kind of glory was that?
Pure dead weight.
But he knew his khalasar would never allow it.
Those men held that braid dearer than their lives.
The moon hung high.
The sea breeze came in through the window and lifted the gauze canopy above the bed in slow, drifting waves.
Drogo waved a hand, and the other servants filed out.
Then he pointed at the woman who had helped with the translating.
“You.
Stay.”
She lowered her head.
“My name is Lari, Khal.”
Drogo didn’t respond.
He didn’t care what her name was.
He lay back on the great bed.
It was soft, impossibly soft, the kind that swallowed you whole, like lying on a cloud.
Daenerys lay on her side with her back to him, her shoulders tight, her breathing shallow.
She probably knew what was coming.
Her body trembled faintly, but the resistance from before was gone.
With Lari’s help, things went well enough.
Daenerys was tense at first.
Then, slowly, she wasn’t.
The moment Drogo was promoted from Horse Lord to Dragon Rider, the sound of waves breaking against the shore drifted in through the open window.
➤ Next: Enemy Attack
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