When he had taken his pleasure, Khal Drogo rose
from their sleeping mats to tower above her. His skin shone dark as
bronze in the ruddy light from the brazier, the faint lines of old
scars visible on his broad chest. Ink-black hair, loose and
unbound, cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, well past
his waist. His manhood glistened wetly. The khal’s mouth
twisted in a frown beneath the droop of his long mustachio.
“The stallion who mounts the world has no need of iron
chairs.”
Dany propped herself on an elbow to look up at him, so tall and
magnificent. She loved his hair especially. It had never been cut;
he had never known defeat. “It was prophesied that the
stallion will ride to the ends of the earth,” she said.
“The earth ends at the black salt sea,” Drogo
answered at once. He wet a cloth in a basin of warm water to wipe
the sweat and oil from his skin. “No horse can cross the
poison water.”
“In the Free Cities, there are ships by the
thousand,” Dany told him, as she had told him before.
“Wooden horses with a hundred legs, that fly across the sea
on wings full of wind.”
Khal Drogo did not want to hear it. “We will speak no more
of wooden horses and iron chairs.” He dropped the cloth and
began to dress. “This day I will go to the grass and hunt,
woman wife,” he announced as he shrugged into a painted vest
and buckled on a wide belt with heavy medallions of silver, gold,
and bronze.
“Yes, my sun-and-stars,” Dany said. Drogo would take
his bloodriders and ride in search of hrakkar, the great white lion
of the plains. If they returned triumphant, her lord
husband’s joy would be fierce, and he might be willing to
hear her out.
Savage beasts he did not fear, nor any man who had ever drawn
breath, but the sea was a different matter. To the Dothraki, water
that a horse could not drink was something foul; the heaving
grey-green plains of the ocean filled them with superstitious
loathing. Drogo was a bolder man than the other horselords in half
a hundred ways, she had found . . . but not in this. If only she
could get him onto a ship . . .
After the khal and his bloodriders had ridden off with their
bows, Dany summoned her handmaids. Her body felt so fat and
ungainly now that she welcomed the help of their strong arms and
deft hands, whereas before she had often been uncomfortable with
the way they fussed and fluttered about her. They scrubbed her
clean and dressed her in sandsilk, loose and flowing. As Doreah
combed out her hair, she sent Jhiqui to find Ser Jorah Mormont.
The knight came at once. He wore horsehair leggings and painted
vest, like a rider. Coarse black hair covered his thick chest and
muscular arms. “My princess. How may I serve you?”
“You must talk to my lord husband,” Dany said.
“Drogo says the stallion who mounts the world will have all
the lands of the earth to rule, and no need to cross the poison
water. He talks of leading his khalasar east after Rhaego is born,
to plunder the lands around the Jade Sea.”
The knight looked thoughtful. “The khal has never seen the
Seven Kingdoms,” he said. “They are nothing to him. If
he thinks of them at all, no doubt he thinks of islands, a few
small cities clinging to rocks in the manner of Lorath or Lys,
surrounded by stormy seas. The riches of the east must seem a more
tempting prospect.”
“But he must ride west,” Dany said, despairing.
“Please, help me make him understand.” She had never
seen the Seven Kingdoms either, no more than Drogo, yet she felt as
though she knew them from all the tales her brother had told her.
Viserys had promised her a thousand times that he would take her
back one day, but he was dead now and his promises had died with
him.
“The Dothraki do things in their own time, for their own
reasons,” the knight answered. “Have patience,
Princess. Do not make your brother’s mistake. We will go
home, I promise you.”
Home? The word made her feel sad. Ser Jorah had his Bear Island,
but what was home to her? A few tales, names recited as solemnly as
the words of a prayer, the fading memory of a red door . . . was Vaes
Dothrak to be her home forever? When she looked at the crones of
the doshkhaleen, was she looking at her future?
Ser Jorah must have seen the sadness on her face. “A great
caravan arrived during the night, Khaleesi. Four hundred horses,
from Pentos by way of Norvos and Qohor, under the command of
Merchant Captain Byan Votyris. Illyrio may have sent a letter.
Would you care to visit the Western Market?”
Dany stirred. “Yes,” she said. “I would like
that.” The markets came alive when a caravan had come in. You
could never tell what treasures the traders might bring this time,
and it would be good to hear men speaking Valyrian again, as they
did in the Free Cities. “Irri, have them prepare a
litter.”
“I shall tell your khas,” Ser Jorah said,
withdrawing.
If Khal Drogo had been with her, Dany would have ridden her
silver. Among the Dothraki, mothers stayed on horseback almost up
to the moment of birth, and she did not want to seem weak in her
husband’s eyes. But with the khal off hunting, it was
pleasant to lie back on soft cushions and be carried across Vaes
Dothrak, with red silk curtains to shield her from the sun. Ser
Jorah saddled up and rode beside her, with the four young men of
her khas and her handmaids.
The day was warm and cloudless, the sky a deep blue. When the
wind blew, she could smell the rich scents of grass and earth. As
her litter passed beneath the stolen monuments, she went from
sunlight to shadow and back again. Dany swayed along, studying the
faces of dead heroes and forgotten kings. She wondered if the gods
of burned cities could still answer prayers. If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully,
this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a
swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an
honored place in the doshkhaleen awaiting her when she grew old . . . and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the
world. That should be enough for any woman . . . but not for the
dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last.
She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child
inside her. She must not forget.
The Western Market was a great square of beaten earth surrounded
by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens, whitewashed drinking
halls. Hummocks rose from the ground like the backs of great
subterranean beasts breaking the surface, yawning black mouths
leading down to cool and cavernous storerooms below. The interior
of the square was a maze of stalls and crookback aisles, shaded by
awnings of woven grass.
A hundred merchants and traders were unloading their goods and
setting up in stalls when they arrived, yet even so the great
market seemed hushed and deserted compared to the teeming bazaars
that Dany remembered from Pentos and the other Free Cities. The
caravans made their way to Vaes Dothrak from east and west not so
much to sell to the Dothraki as to trade with each other, Ser Jorah
had explained. The riders let them come and go unmolested, so long
as they observed the peace of the sacred city, did not profane the
Mother of Mountains or the Womb of the World, and honored the
crones of the doshkhaleen with the traditional gifts of salt,
silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this
business of buying and selling.
Dany liked the strangeness of the Eastern Market too, with all
its queer sights and sounds and smells. She often spent her
mornings there, nibbling tree eggs, locust pie, and green noodles,
listening to the high ululating voices of the spellsingers, gaping
at manticores in silver cages and immense grey elephants and the
striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai. She enjoyed
watching all the people too: dark solemn Asshai’i and tall
pale Qartheen, the bright-eyed men of Yi Ti in monkey-tail hats,
warrior maids from Bayasabhad, Shamyriana, and Kayakayanaya with
iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks, even the
dour and frightening Shadow Men, who covered their arms and legs
and chests with tattoos and hid their faces behind masks. The
Eastern Market was a place of wonder and magic for Dany.
But the Western Market smelled of home.
As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and
recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that
reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and
brought a fond smile to her face. Under that she smelled the heady
sweet perfumes of Lys. She saw slaves carrying bolts of intricate
Myrish lace and fine wools in a dozen rich colors. Caravan guards
wandered among the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics
of quilted yellow cotton, empty scabbards swinging from their woven
leather belts. Behind one stall an armorer displayed steel
breastplates worked with gold and silver in ornate patterns, and
helms hammered in the shapes of fanciful beasts. Next to him was a
pretty young woman selling Lannisport goldwork, rings and brooches
and torcs and exquisitely wrought medallions suitable for belting.
A huge eunuch guarded her stall, mute and hairless, dressed in
sweat-stained velvets and scowling at anyone who came close. Across
the aisle, a fat cloth trader from Yi Ti was haggling with a
Pentoshi over the price of some green dye, the monkey tail on his
hat swaying back and forth as he shook his head.
“When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the
bazaar,” Dany told Ser Jorah as they wandered down the shady
aisle between the stalls. “It was so alive there, all the
people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at . . . though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything . . . well,
except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers . . . do they
have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms, the kind they bake in
Tyrosh?”
“Cakes, are they? I could not say, Princess.” The
knight bowed. “If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek
out the captain and see if he has letters for us.”
“Very well. I’ll help you find him.”
“There is no need for you to trouble yourself.” Ser
Jorah glanced away impatiently. “Enjoy the market. I will
rejoin you when my business is concluded.” Curious, Dany thought as she watched him stride off through the
throngs. She didn’t see why she should not go with him.
Perhaps Ser Jorah meant to find a woman after he met with the
merchant captain. Whores frequently traveled with the caravans, she
knew, and some men were queerly shy about their couplings. She gave
a shrug. “Come,” she told the others.
Her handmaids trailed along as Dany resumed her stroll through
the market. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed to Doreah,
“those are the kind of sausages I meant.” She pointed
to a stall where a wizened little woman was grilling meat and
onions on a hot firestone. “They make them with lots of
garlic and hot peppers.” Delighted with her discovery, Dany
insisted the others join her for a sausage. Her handmaids wolfed
theirs down giggling and grinning, though the men of her khas
sniffed at the grilled meat suspiciously. “They taste
different than I remember,” Dany said after her first few
bites.
“In Pentos, I make them with pork,” the old woman
said, “but all my pigs died on the Dothraki sea. These are
made of horsemeat, Khaleesi, but I spice them the same.”
“Oh.” Dany felt disappointed, but Quaro liked his
sausage so well he decided to have another one, and Rakharo had to
outdo him and eat three more, belching loudly. Dany giggled.
“You have not laughed since your brother the Khal Rhaggat
was crowned by Drogo,” said Irri. “It is good to see,
Khaleesi.”
Dany smiled shyly. It was sweet to laugh. She felt half a girl
again.
They wandered for half the morning. She saw a beautiful
feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. In
return, she gave the merchant a silver medallion from her belt.
That was how it was done among the Dothraki. A birdseller taught a
green-and-red parrot to say her name, and Dany laughed again, yet
still refused to take him. What would she do with a green-and-red
parrot in a khalasar? She did take a dozen flasks of scented oils,
the perfumes of her childhood; she had only to close her eyes and
sniff them and she could see the big house with the red door once
more. When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a
magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the
handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and
Jhiqui as well.
Turning a corner, they came upon a wine merchant offering
thimble-sized cups of his wares to the passersby. “Sweet
reds,” he cried in fluent Dothraki, “I have sweet reds,
from Lys and Volantis and the Arbor. Whites from Lys, Tyroshi pear
brandy, firewine, pepperwine, the pale green nectars of Myr.
Smokeberry browns and Andalish sours, I have them, I have
them.” He was a small man, slender and handsome, his flaxen
hair curled and perfumed after the fashion of Lys. When Dany paused
before his stall, he bowed low. “A taste for the khaleesi? I
have a sweet red from Dorne, my lady, it sings of plums and
cherries and rich dark oak. A cask, a cup, a swallow? One taste,
and you will name your child after me.”
Dany smiled. “My son has his name, but I will try your
summerwine,” she said in Valyrian, Valyrian as they spoke it
in the Free Cities. The words felt strange on her tongue, after so
long. “Just a taste, if you would be so kind.”
The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes
and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped
at her in astonishment. “My lady, you are . . . Tyroshi? Can
it be so?”
“My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am
of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms,” Dany told him.
Doreah stepped up beside her. “You have the honor to
address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn,
khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven
Kingdoms.”
The wine merchant dropped to his knees. “Princess,”
he said, bowing his head.
“Rise,” Dany commanded him. “I would still
like to taste that summerwine you spoke of.”
The man bounded to his feet. “That? Dornish swill. It is
not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp
and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask.”
Khal Drogo’s visits to the Free Cities had given him a
taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would
please him. “You honor me, ser,” she murmured
sweetly.
“The honor is mine.” The merchant rummaged about in
the back of his stall and produced a small oaken cask. Burned into
the wood was a cluster of grapes. “The Redwyne sigil,”
he said, pointing, “for the Arbor. There is no finer
drink.”
“Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this
back to my litter, if you’d be so kind.” The wineseller
beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask.
She did not realize that Ser Jorah had returned until she heard
the knight say, “No.” His voice was strange, brusque.
“Aggo, put down that cask.”
Aggo looked at Dany. She gave a hesitant nod. “Ser Jorah,
is something wrong?”
“I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller.”
The merchant frowned. “The wine is for the khaleesi, not
for the likes of you, ser.”
Ser Jorah moved closer to the stall. “If you don’t
open it, I’ll crack it open with your head.” He carried
no weapons here in the sacred city, save his hands—yet his hands
were enough, big, hard, dangerous, his knuckles covered with coarse
dark hairs. The wineseller hesitated a moment, then took up his
hammer and knocked the plug from the cask.
“Pour,” Ser Jorah commanded. The four young warriors
of Dany’s khas arrayed themselves behind him, frowning,
watching with their dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“It would be a crime to drink this rich a wine without
letting it breathe.” The wineseller had not put his hammer
down.
Jhogo reached for the whip coiled at his belt, but Dany stopped
him with a light touch on the arm. “Do as Ser Jorah
says,” she said. People were stopping to watch.
The man gave her a quick, sullen glance. “As the princess
commands.” He had to set aside his hammer to lift the cask.
He filled two thimble-sized tasting cups, pouring so deftly he did
not spill a drop.
Ser Jorah lifted a cup and sniffed at the wine, frowning.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” the wineseller said,
smiling. “Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the
Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn’t the finest,
richest wine that’s ever touched your tongue.”
Ser Jorah offered him the cup. “You taste it
first.”
“Me?” The man laughed. “I am not worthy of
this vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor wine merchant who
drinks up his own wares.” His smile was amiable, yet she
could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.
“You will drink,” Dany said, cold as ice.
“Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while
Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat.”
The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup . . . and grabbed
the cask instead, flinging it at her with both hands. Ser Jorah
bulled into her, knocking her out of the way. The cask bounced off
his shoulder and smashed open on the ground. Dany stumbled and lost
her feet. “No,” she screamed, thrusting her hands out
to break her fall . . . and Doreah caught her by the arm and
wrenched her backward, so she landed on her legs and not her
belly.
The trader vaulted over the stall, darting between Aggo and
Rakharo. Quaro reached for an arakh that was not there as the blond
man slammed him aside. He raced down the aisle. Dany heard the snap
of Jhogo’s whip, saw the leather lick out and coil around the
wineseller’s leg. The man sprawled face first in the
dirt.
A dozen caravan guards had come running. With them was the
master himself, Merchant Captain Byan Votyris, a diminutive
Norvoshi with skin like old leather and a bristling blue mustachio
that swept up to his ears. He seemed to know what had happened
without a word being spoken. “Take this one away to await the
pleasure of the khal,” he commanded, gesturing at the man on
the ground. Two guards hauled the wineseller to his feet.
“His goods I gift to you as well, Princess,” the
merchant captain went on. “Small token of regret, that one of
mine would do this thing.”
Doreah and Jhiqui helped Dany back to her feet. The poisoned
wine was leaking from the broken cask into the dirt. “How did
you know?” she asked Ser Jorah, trembling.
“How?”
“I did not know, Khaleesi, not until the man refused to
drink, but once I read Magister Illyrio’s letter, I
feared.” His dark eyes swept over the faces of the strangers
in the market. “Come. Best not to talk of it here.”
Dany was near tears as they carried her back. The taste in her
mouth was one she had known before: fear. For years she had lived
in terror of Viserys, afraid of waking the dragon. This was even
worse. It was not just for herself that she feared now, but for her
baby. He must have sensed her fright, for he moved restlessly
inside her. Dany stroked the swell of her belly gently, wishing she
could reach him, touch him, soothe him. “You are the blood of
the dragon, little one,” she whispered as her litter swayed
along, curtains drawn tight. “You are the blood of the
dragon, and the dragon does not fear.”
Under the hollow hummock of earth that was her home in Vaes
Dothrak, Dany ordered them to leave her—all but Ser Jorah.
“Tell me,” she commanded as she lowered herself onto
her cushions. “Was it the Usurper?”
“Yes.” The knight drew out a folded parchment.
“A letter to Viserys, from Magister Illyrio. Robert Baratheon
offers lands and lordships for your death, or your
brother’s.”
“My brother?” Her sob was half a laugh. “He
does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a
lordship.” This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged
herself protectively. “And me, you said. Only me?”
“You and the child,” Ser Jorah said, grim.
“No. He cannot have my son.” She would not weep, she
decided. She would not shiver with fear. The Usurper has woken the
dragon now, she told herself . . . and her eyes went to the
dragon’s eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet. The
shifting lamplight limned their stony scales, and shimmering motes
of jade and scarlet and gold swam in the air around them, like
courtiers around a king.
Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear? Or some
strange wisdom buried in her blood? Dany could not have said. She
heard her own voice saying, “Ser Jorah, light the
brazier.”
“Khaleesi?” The knight looked at her strangely.
“It is so hot. Are you certain?”
She had never been so certain. “Yes. I . . . I have a
chill. Light the brazier.”
He bowed. “As you command.”
When the coals were afire, Dany sent Ser Jorah from her. She had
to be alone to do what she must do. This is madness, she told
herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. It
will only crack and burn, and it’s so beautiful, Ser Jorah
will call me a fool if I ruin it, and yet, and yet . . .
Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and
pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed
to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone
with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the
black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the
breath trembled in her throat.
She watched until the coals had turned to ashes. Drifting sparks
floated up and out of the smokehole. Heat shimmered in waves around
the dragon’s eggs. And that was all. Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, Ser Jorah had said.
Dany gazed at her eggs sadly. What had she expected? A thousand
thousand years ago they had been alive, but now they were only
pretty rocks. They could not make a dragon. A dragon was air and fire. Living
flesh, not dead stone.
The brazier was cold again by the time Khal Drogo returned.
Cohollo was leading a packhorse behind him, with the carcass of a
great white lion slung across its back. Above, the stars were
coming out. The khal laughed as he swung down off his stallion and
showed her the scars on his leg where the hrakkar had raked him
through his leggings. “I shall make you a cloak of its skin,
moon of my life,” he swore.
When Dany told him what had happened at the market, all laughter
stopped, and Khal Drogo grew very quiet.
“This poisoner was the first,” Ser Jorah Mormont
warned him, “but he will not be the last. Men will risk much
for a lordship.”
Drogo was silent for a time. Finally he said, “This seller
of poisons ran from the moon of my life. Better he should run after
her. So he will. Jhogo, Jorah the Andal, to each of you I say,
choose any horse you wish from my herds, and it is yours. Any horse
save my red and the silver that was my bride gift to the moon of my
life. I make this gift to you for what you did.
“And to Rhaego son of Drogo, the stallion who will mount
the world, to him I also pledge a gift. To him I will give this
iron chair his mother’s father sat in. I will give him Seven
Kingdoms. I, Drogo, khal, will do this thing.” His voice
rose, and he lifted his fist to the sky. “I will take my
khalasar west to where the world ends, and ride the wooden horses
across the black salt water as no khal has done before. I will kill
the men in the iron suits and tear down their stone houses. I will
rape their women, take their children as slaves, and bring their
broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow down beneath the Mother of
Mountains. This I vow, I, Drogo son of Bharbo. This I swear before
the Mother of Mountains, as the stars look down in
witness.”
His khalasar left Vaes Dothrak two days later, striking south
and west across the plains. Khal Drogo led them on his great red
stallion, with Daenerys beside him on her silver. The wineseller
hurried behind them, naked, on foot, chained at throat and wrists.
His chains were fastened to the halter of Dany’s silver. As
she rode, he ran after her, barefoot and stumbling. No harm would
come to him . . . so long as he kept up.
When he had taken his pleasure, Khal Drogo rose
from their sleeping mats to tower above her. His skin shone dark as
bronze in the ruddy light from the brazier, the faint lines of old
scars visible on his broad chest. Ink-black hair, loose and
unbound, cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, well past
his waist. His manhood glistened wetly. The khal’s mouth
twisted in a frown beneath the droop of his long mustachio.
“The stallion who mounts the world has no need of iron
chairs.”
Dany propped herself on an elbow to look up at him, so tall and
magnificent. She loved his hair especially. It had never been cut;
he had never known defeat. “It was prophesied that the
stallion will ride to the ends of the earth,” she said.
“The earth ends at the black salt sea,” Drogo
answered at once. He wet a cloth in a basin of warm water to wipe
the sweat and oil from his skin. “No horse can cross the
poison water.”
“In the Free Cities, there are ships by the
thousand,” Dany told him, as she had told him before.
“Wooden horses with a hundred legs, that fly across the sea
on wings full of wind.”
Khal Drogo did not want to hear it. “We will speak no more
of wooden horses and iron chairs.” He dropped the cloth and
began to dress. “This day I will go to the grass and hunt,
woman wife,” he announced as he shrugged into a painted vest
and buckled on a wide belt with heavy medallions of silver, gold,
and bronze.
“Yes, my sun-and-stars,” Dany said. Drogo would take
his bloodriders and ride in search of hrakkar, the great white lion
of the plains. If they returned triumphant, her lord
husband’s joy would be fierce, and he might be willing to
hear her out.
Savage beasts he did not fear, nor any man who had ever drawn
breath, but the sea was a different matter. To the Dothraki, water
that a horse could not drink was something foul; the heaving
grey-green plains of the ocean filled them with superstitious
loathing. Drogo was a bolder man than the other horselords in half
a hundred ways, she had found . . . but not in this. If only she
could get him onto a ship . . .
After the khal and his bloodriders had ridden off with their
bows, Dany summoned her handmaids. Her body felt so fat and
ungainly now that she welcomed the help of their strong arms and
deft hands, whereas before she had often been uncomfortable with
the way they fussed and fluttered about her. They scrubbed her
clean and dressed her in sandsilk, loose and flowing. As Doreah
combed out her hair, she sent Jhiqui to find Ser Jorah Mormont.
The knight came at once. He wore horsehair leggings and painted
vest, like a rider. Coarse black hair covered his thick chest and
muscular arms. “My princess. How may I serve you?”
“You must talk to my lord husband,” Dany said.
“Drogo says the stallion who mounts the world will have all
the lands of the earth to rule, and no need to cross the poison
water. He talks of leading his khalasar east after Rhaego is born,
to plunder the lands around the Jade Sea.”
The knight looked thoughtful. “The khal has never seen the
Seven Kingdoms,” he said. “They are nothing to him. If
he thinks of them at all, no doubt he thinks of islands, a few
small cities clinging to rocks in the manner of Lorath or Lys,
surrounded by stormy seas. The riches of the east must seem a more
tempting prospect.”
“But he must ride west,” Dany said, despairing.
“Please, help me make him understand.” She had never
seen the Seven Kingdoms either, no more than Drogo, yet she felt as
though she knew them from all the tales her brother had told her.
Viserys had promised her a thousand times that he would take her
back one day, but he was dead now and his promises had died with
him.
“The Dothraki do things in their own time, for their own
reasons,” the knight answered. “Have patience,
Princess. Do not make your brother’s mistake. We will go
home, I promise you.”
Home? The word made her feel sad. Ser Jorah had his Bear Island,
but what was home to her? A few tales, names recited as solemnly as
the words of a prayer, the fading memory of a red door . . . was Vaes
Dothrak to be her home forever? When she looked at the crones of
the doshkhaleen, was she looking at her future?
Ser Jorah must have seen the sadness on her face. “A great
caravan arrived during the night, Khaleesi. Four hundred horses,
from Pentos by way of Norvos and Qohor, under the command of
Merchant Captain Byan Votyris. Illyrio may have sent a letter.
Would you care to visit the Western Market?”
Dany stirred. “Yes,” she said. “I would like
that.” The markets came alive when a caravan had come in. You
could never tell what treasures the traders might bring this time,
and it would be good to hear men speaking Valyrian again, as they
did in the Free Cities. “Irri, have them prepare a
litter.”
“I shall tell your khas,” Ser Jorah said,
withdrawing.
If Khal Drogo had been with her, Dany would have ridden her
silver. Among the Dothraki, mothers stayed on horseback almost up
to the moment of birth, and she did not want to seem weak in her
husband’s eyes. But with the khal off hunting, it was
pleasant to lie back on soft cushions and be carried across Vaes
Dothrak, with red silk curtains to shield her from the sun. Ser
Jorah saddled up and rode beside her, with the four young men of
her khas and her handmaids.
The day was warm and cloudless, the sky a deep blue. When the
wind blew, she could smell the rich scents of grass and earth. As
her litter passed beneath the stolen monuments, she went from
sunlight to shadow and back again. Dany swayed along, studying the
faces of dead heroes and forgotten kings. She wondered if the gods
of burned cities could still answer prayers. If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully,
this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a
swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an
honored place in the doshkhaleen awaiting her when she grew old . . . and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the
world. That should be enough for any woman . . . but not for the
dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last.
She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child
inside her. She must not forget.
The Western Market was a great square of beaten earth surrounded
by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens, whitewashed drinking
halls. Hummocks rose from the ground like the backs of great
subterranean beasts breaking the surface, yawning black mouths
leading down to cool and cavernous storerooms below. The interior
of the square was a maze of stalls and crookback aisles, shaded by
awnings of woven grass.
A hundred merchants and traders were unloading their goods and
setting up in stalls when they arrived, yet even so the great
market seemed hushed and deserted compared to the teeming bazaars
that Dany remembered from Pentos and the other Free Cities. The
caravans made their way to Vaes Dothrak from east and west not so
much to sell to the Dothraki as to trade with each other, Ser Jorah
had explained. The riders let them come and go unmolested, so long
as they observed the peace of the sacred city, did not profane the
Mother of Mountains or the Womb of the World, and honored the
crones of the doshkhaleen with the traditional gifts of salt,
silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this
business of buying and selling.
Dany liked the strangeness of the Eastern Market too, with all
its queer sights and sounds and smells. She often spent her
mornings there, nibbling tree eggs, locust pie, and green noodles,
listening to the high ululating voices of the spellsingers, gaping
at manticores in silver cages and immense grey elephants and the
striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai. She enjoyed
watching all the people too: dark solemn Asshai’i and tall
pale Qartheen, the bright-eyed men of Yi Ti in monkey-tail hats,
warrior maids from Bayasabhad, Shamyriana, and Kayakayanaya with
iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks, even the
dour and frightening Shadow Men, who covered their arms and legs
and chests with tattoos and hid their faces behind masks. The
Eastern Market was a place of wonder and magic for Dany.
But the Western Market smelled of home.
As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and
recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that
reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and
brought a fond smile to her face. Under that she smelled the heady
sweet perfumes of Lys. She saw slaves carrying bolts of intricate
Myrish lace and fine wools in a dozen rich colors. Caravan guards
wandered among the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics
of quilted yellow cotton, empty scabbards swinging from their woven
leather belts. Behind one stall an armorer displayed steel
breastplates worked with gold and silver in ornate patterns, and
helms hammered in the shapes of fanciful beasts. Next to him was a
pretty young woman selling Lannisport goldwork, rings and brooches
and torcs and exquisitely wrought medallions suitable for belting.
A huge eunuch guarded her stall, mute and hairless, dressed in
sweat-stained velvets and scowling at anyone who came close. Across
the aisle, a fat cloth trader from Yi Ti was haggling with a
Pentoshi over the price of some green dye, the monkey tail on his
hat swaying back and forth as he shook his head.
“When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the
bazaar,” Dany told Ser Jorah as they wandered down the shady
aisle between the stalls. “It was so alive there, all the
people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at . . . though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything . . . well,
except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers . . . do they
have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms, the kind they bake in
Tyrosh?”
“Cakes, are they? I could not say, Princess.” The
knight bowed. “If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek
out the captain and see if he has letters for us.”
“Very well. I’ll help you find him.”
“There is no need for you to trouble yourself.” Ser
Jorah glanced away impatiently. “Enjoy the market. I will
rejoin you when my business is concluded.” Curious, Dany thought as she watched him stride off through the
throngs. She didn’t see why she should not go with him.
Perhaps Ser Jorah meant to find a woman after he met with the
merchant captain. Whores frequently traveled with the caravans, she
knew, and some men were queerly shy about their couplings. She gave
a shrug. “Come,” she told the others.
Her handmaids trailed along as Dany resumed her stroll through
the market. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed to Doreah,
“those are the kind of sausages I meant.” She pointed
to a stall where a wizened little woman was grilling meat and
onions on a hot firestone. “They make them with lots of
garlic and hot peppers.” Delighted with her discovery, Dany
insisted the others join her for a sausage. Her handmaids wolfed
theirs down giggling and grinning, though the men of her khas
sniffed at the grilled meat suspiciously. “They taste
different than I remember,” Dany said after her first few
bites.
“In Pentos, I make them with pork,” the old woman
said, “but all my pigs died on the Dothraki sea. These are
made of horsemeat, Khaleesi, but I spice them the same.”
“Oh.” Dany felt disappointed, but Quaro liked his
sausage so well he decided to have another one, and Rakharo had to
outdo him and eat three more, belching loudly. Dany giggled.
“You have not laughed since your brother the Khal Rhaggat
was crowned by Drogo,” said Irri. “It is good to see,
Khaleesi.”
Dany smiled shyly. It was sweet to laugh. She felt half a girl
again.
They wandered for half the morning. She saw a beautiful
feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. In
return, she gave the merchant a silver medallion from her belt.
That was how it was done among the Dothraki. A birdseller taught a
green-and-red parrot to say her name, and Dany laughed again, yet
still refused to take him. What would she do with a green-and-red
parrot in a khalasar? She did take a dozen flasks of scented oils,
the perfumes of her childhood; she had only to close her eyes and
sniff them and she could see the big house with the red door once
more. When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a
magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the
handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and
Jhiqui as well.
Turning a corner, they came upon a wine merchant offering
thimble-sized cups of his wares to the passersby. “Sweet
reds,” he cried in fluent Dothraki, “I have sweet reds,
from Lys and Volantis and the Arbor. Whites from Lys, Tyroshi pear
brandy, firewine, pepperwine, the pale green nectars of Myr.
Smokeberry browns and Andalish sours, I have them, I have
them.” He was a small man, slender and handsome, his flaxen
hair curled and perfumed after the fashion of Lys. When Dany paused
before his stall, he bowed low. “A taste for the khaleesi? I
have a sweet red from Dorne, my lady, it sings of plums and
cherries and rich dark oak. A cask, a cup, a swallow? One taste,
and you will name your child after me.”
Dany smiled. “My son has his name, but I will try your
summerwine,” she said in Valyrian, Valyrian as they spoke it
in the Free Cities. The words felt strange on her tongue, after so
long. “Just a taste, if you would be so kind.”
The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes
and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped
at her in astonishment. “My lady, you are . . . Tyroshi? Can
it be so?”
“My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am
of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms,” Dany told him.
Doreah stepped up beside her. “You have the honor to
address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn,
khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven
Kingdoms.”
The wine merchant dropped to his knees. “Princess,”
he said, bowing his head.
“Rise,” Dany commanded him. “I would still
like to taste that summerwine you spoke of.”
The man bounded to his feet. “That? Dornish swill. It is
not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp
and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask.”
Khal Drogo’s visits to the Free Cities had given him a
taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would
please him. “You honor me, ser,” she murmured
sweetly.
“The honor is mine.” The merchant rummaged about in
the back of his stall and produced a small oaken cask. Burned into
the wood was a cluster of grapes. “The Redwyne sigil,”
he said, pointing, “for the Arbor. There is no finer
drink.”
“Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this
back to my litter, if you’d be so kind.” The wineseller
beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask.
She did not realize that Ser Jorah had returned until she heard
the knight say, “No.” His voice was strange, brusque.
“Aggo, put down that cask.”
Aggo looked at Dany. She gave a hesitant nod. “Ser Jorah,
is something wrong?”
“I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller.”
The merchant frowned. “The wine is for the khaleesi, not
for the likes of you, ser.”
Ser Jorah moved closer to the stall. “If you don’t
open it, I’ll crack it open with your head.” He carried
no weapons here in the sacred city, save his hands—yet his hands
were enough, big, hard, dangerous, his knuckles covered with coarse
dark hairs. The wineseller hesitated a moment, then took up his
hammer and knocked the plug from the cask.
“Pour,” Ser Jorah commanded. The four young warriors
of Dany’s khas arrayed themselves behind him, frowning,
watching with their dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“It would be a crime to drink this rich a wine without
letting it breathe.” The wineseller had not put his hammer
down.
Jhogo reached for the whip coiled at his belt, but Dany stopped
him with a light touch on the arm. “Do as Ser Jorah
says,” she said. People were stopping to watch.
The man gave her a quick, sullen glance. “As the princess
commands.” He had to set aside his hammer to lift the cask.
He filled two thimble-sized tasting cups, pouring so deftly he did
not spill a drop.
Ser Jorah lifted a cup and sniffed at the wine, frowning.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” the wineseller said,
smiling. “Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the
Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn’t the finest,
richest wine that’s ever touched your tongue.”
Ser Jorah offered him the cup. “You taste it
first.”
“Me?” The man laughed. “I am not worthy of
this vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor wine merchant who
drinks up his own wares.” His smile was amiable, yet she
could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.
“You will drink,” Dany said, cold as ice.
“Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while
Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat.”
The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup . . . and grabbed
the cask instead, flinging it at her with both hands. Ser Jorah
bulled into her, knocking her out of the way. The cask bounced off
his shoulder and smashed open on the ground. Dany stumbled and lost
her feet. “No,” she screamed, thrusting her hands out
to break her fall . . . and Doreah caught her by the arm and
wrenched her backward, so she landed on her legs and not her
belly.
The trader vaulted over the stall, darting between Aggo and
Rakharo. Quaro reached for an arakh that was not there as the blond
man slammed him aside. He raced down the aisle. Dany heard the snap
of Jhogo’s whip, saw the leather lick out and coil around the
wineseller’s leg. The man sprawled face first in the
dirt.
A dozen caravan guards had come running. With them was the
master himself, Merchant Captain Byan Votyris, a diminutive
Norvoshi with skin like old leather and a bristling blue mustachio
that swept up to his ears. He seemed to know what had happened
without a word being spoken. “Take this one away to await the
pleasure of the khal,” he commanded, gesturing at the man on
the ground. Two guards hauled the wineseller to his feet.
“His goods I gift to you as well, Princess,” the
merchant captain went on. “Small token of regret, that one of
mine would do this thing.”
Doreah and Jhiqui helped Dany back to her feet. The poisoned
wine was leaking from the broken cask into the dirt. “How did
you know?” she asked Ser Jorah, trembling.
“How?”
“I did not know, Khaleesi, not until the man refused to
drink, but once I read Magister Illyrio’s letter, I
feared.” His dark eyes swept over the faces of the strangers
in the market. “Come. Best not to talk of it here.”
Dany was near tears as they carried her back. The taste in her
mouth was one she had known before: fear. For years she had lived
in terror of Viserys, afraid of waking the dragon. This was even
worse. It was not just for herself that she feared now, but for her
baby. He must have sensed her fright, for he moved restlessly
inside her. Dany stroked the swell of her belly gently, wishing she
could reach him, touch him, soothe him. “You are the blood of
the dragon, little one,” she whispered as her litter swayed
along, curtains drawn tight. “You are the blood of the
dragon, and the dragon does not fear.”
Under the hollow hummock of earth that was her home in Vaes
Dothrak, Dany ordered them to leave her—all but Ser Jorah.
“Tell me,” she commanded as she lowered herself onto
her cushions. “Was it the Usurper?”
“Yes.” The knight drew out a folded parchment.
“A letter to Viserys, from Magister Illyrio. Robert Baratheon
offers lands and lordships for your death, or your
brother’s.”
“My brother?” Her sob was half a laugh. “He
does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a
lordship.” This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged
herself protectively. “And me, you said. Only me?”
“You and the child,” Ser Jorah said, grim.
“No. He cannot have my son.” She would not weep, she
decided. She would not shiver with fear. The Usurper has woken the
dragon now, she told herself . . . and her eyes went to the
dragon’s eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet. The
shifting lamplight limned their stony scales, and shimmering motes
of jade and scarlet and gold swam in the air around them, like
courtiers around a king.
Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear? Or some
strange wisdom buried in her blood? Dany could not have said. She
heard her own voice saying, “Ser Jorah, light the
brazier.”
“Khaleesi?” The knight looked at her strangely.
“It is so hot. Are you certain?”
She had never been so certain. “Yes. I . . . I have a
chill. Light the brazier.”
He bowed. “As you command.”
When the coals were afire, Dany sent Ser Jorah from her. She had
to be alone to do what she must do. This is madness, she told
herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. It
will only crack and burn, and it’s so beautiful, Ser Jorah
will call me a fool if I ruin it, and yet, and yet . . .
Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and
pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed
to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone
with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the
black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the
breath trembled in her throat.
She watched until the coals had turned to ashes. Drifting sparks
floated up and out of the smokehole. Heat shimmered in waves around
the dragon’s eggs. And that was all. Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, Ser Jorah had said.
Dany gazed at her eggs sadly. What had she expected? A thousand
thousand years ago they had been alive, but now they were only
pretty rocks. They could not make a dragon. A dragon was air and fire. Living
flesh, not dead stone.
The brazier was cold again by the time Khal Drogo returned.
Cohollo was leading a packhorse behind him, with the carcass of a
great white lion slung across its back. Above, the stars were
coming out. The khal laughed as he swung down off his stallion and
showed her the scars on his leg where the hrakkar had raked him
through his leggings. “I shall make you a cloak of its skin,
moon of my life,” he swore.
When Dany told him what had happened at the market, all laughter
stopped, and Khal Drogo grew very quiet.
“This poisoner was the first,” Ser Jorah Mormont
warned him, “but he will not be the last. Men will risk much
for a lordship.”
Drogo was silent for a time. Finally he said, “This seller
of poisons ran from the moon of my life. Better he should run after
her. So he will. Jhogo, Jorah the Andal, to each of you I say,
choose any horse you wish from my herds, and it is yours. Any horse
save my red and the silver that was my bride gift to the moon of my
life. I make this gift to you for what you did.
“And to Rhaego son of Drogo, the stallion who will mount
the world, to him I also pledge a gift. To him I will give this
iron chair his mother’s father sat in. I will give him Seven
Kingdoms. I, Drogo, khal, will do this thing.” His voice
rose, and he lifted his fist to the sky. “I will take my
khalasar west to where the world ends, and ride the wooden horses
across the black salt water as no khal has done before. I will kill
the men in the iron suits and tear down their stone houses. I will
rape their women, take their children as slaves, and bring their
broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow down beneath the Mother of
Mountains. This I vow, I, Drogo son of Bharbo. This I swear before
the Mother of Mountains, as the stars look down in
witness.”
His khalasar left Vaes Dothrak two days later, striking south
and west across the plains. Khal Drogo led them on his great red
stallion, with Daenerys beside him on her silver. The wineseller
hurried behind them, naked, on foot, chained at throat and wrists.
His chains were fastened to the halter of Dany’s silver. As
she rode, he ran after her, barefoot and stumbling. No harm would
come to him . . . so long as he kept up.