297 AC
The sun had dipped low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the endless grasslands of the Dothraki Sea. The air was thick with the scents of sweat, horses, and roasted meat, mingling with the faint aroma of dust kicked up by a thousand hooves. Daenerys Targaryen sat silently at the edge of Khal Drogo's great tent, her silver-gold hair catching the last rays of daylight as she watched the khalasar prepare for the wedding feast.
She was only a girl—too young to be a wife, too young to be sold like a horse at market—but none of that had mattered to Illyrio Mopatis. The Magister of Pentos had promised her brother, Viserys, a crown in exchange for her hand. The dragon must have his crown, Viserys had said, his eyes gleaming with a madness Daenerys had come to know too well. But Viserys was gone now. She hadn't seen him since they left Pentos, and though no one spoke of it, she felt the truth in her bones: Illyrio had betrayed them.
Viserys was dead, sold out like a common thief, and Daenerys had been bartered away to a man she did not know, in a land she did not understand.
And soon, she feared, she would be lost as well.
A Girl Among Wolves
The Dothraki camp sprawled across the plains like a great, living beast, its heart pulsing with the rhythms of drums and laughter. Warriors sharpened their arakhs, their bronze blades gleaming in the fading light, while women wove flowers into their hair and children chased each other between the tents. The khalasar moved with a wild, untamed energy, and Daenerys felt like a fragile bird trapped in a storm.
She pulled her knees to her chest, her violet eyes darting from face to face. The Dothraki women watched her with curiosity and thinly veiled contempt. She was a foreigner, a khaleesi in name only, with no power, no allies, and no escape.
Khal Drogo loomed larger than any of them. His long braid, untouched by defeat, swung heavily over his shoulder as he oversaw the preparations. His dark eyes were like polished obsidian, cold and unreadable. Daenerys shivered under his gaze, though he barely spared her a glance. She was his prize, nothing more.
But it wasn't Drogo she feared the most.
Her mind drifted back to the halls of Illyrio's estate in Pentos, to the soft whispers and sly glances exchanged when they thought she wasn't looking. Illyrio had smiled, always smiling, as he fed Viserys promises of armies and thrones. But behind that smile, there had been something dark.
She remembered the last words Illyrio had spoken before they left.
"The dragon must be tempered before it can fly."
Viserys had laughed, thinking it was a jest. But Daenerys had seen the truth in Illyrio's eyes.
He never intended for us to rule.
She had awoken the next morning to find Viserys gone, and Illyrio's servants silent as the grave. No one would meet her eyes. When she had asked where her brother was, they had only shrugged, their faces blank masks.
Now, sitting in the heart of the khalasar, Daenerys felt the weight of that betrayal pressing down on her. She was alone in the world.
Or so she thought.
The Dragon's Arrival
The ground trembled beneath her feet, a subtle vibration that grew stronger with each passing moment. The horses, normally unflinching in the face of any danger, whinnied and stomped, their eyes rolling in terror.
A shadow swept across the camp, blotting out the stars. Daenerys's breath caught in her throat as a monstrous shape descended from the sky, wings outstretched like the sails of a great ship. The firelight from the campfires danced across black scales that shimmered like polished obsidian, and in the creature's molten eyes, she saw death.
The Dothraki erupted into chaos. Warriors who feared no man screamed like children, scrambling for their weapons as the great beast landed in the heart of the camp with a thunderous crash. Horses bolted in every direction, their riders dragged behind them, and the air filled with the scent of burning flesh as the dragon's breath ignited the nearest tents.
Daenerys couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot, her heart pounding in her chest as the dragon's rider dismounted.
He was tall, his black hair whipping in the wind, and his eyes—those eyes—burned with the same fire as the beast he rode. He moved with the grace of a predator, his steps measured and sure, as if the chaos around him meant nothing.
And when he spoke, his voice cut through the din like a blade.
"Khal Drogo!"
The name echoed through the camp, and Daenerys felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
The Confrontation
Khal Drogo emerged from the throng, his arakh gleaming in his hand. His face was a mask of fury, but there was a flicker of something else in his dark eyes—something Daenerys had never seen before.
Fear.
"Who dares?" Drogo roared, his voice a thunderclap that rolled across the camp.
The stranger stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Drogo's. "Aemon Targaryen. Blood of the dragon. I've come for my aunt."
Daenerys's heart skipped a beat. The name echoed in her mind, stirring memories of whispered stories and half-remembered lullabies. Aemon Targaryen. Her nephew—the son of the brother she had never met.
The Dothraki murmured among themselves, their fear palpable. They had seen many things, faced many foes, but they had never faced a dragonlord.
Drogo sneered, his pride outweighing his fear. "She is mine."
Aemon's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Not for long."
Before Drogo could react, Aemon raised his hand, and the dragon roared.
Flames erupted from the beast's maw, engulfing the nearest warriors in a torrent of fire. The camp descended into chaos once more as the Dothraki fled in every direction, their cries of terror filling the night.
Daenerys watched in stunned silence as the man—her nephew, her kin—strode through the flames like a god of old, his eyes locked on Drogo.
And in that moment, she knew her life was about to change forever.