Pentos.
To the east of the city, the grasslands opened wide, and hundreds of horsehide tents were scattered across the plain. This was Khal Drogo's khalasar, camped and waiting for tomorrow's wedding.
Daenerys sat in the largest tent at the center.
It wasn't Dothraki in style; Illyrio had provided it. Myrish carpets on the floor, silk lining on the walls—luxury that didn't match the rough sea of grass outside.
The bronze bracelet on her wrist dug into her skin in all the wrong places.
Outside, men shouted as they practiced with blades. Horses screamed. Somewhere a whip cracked, followed by a choked, ugly cry. She didn't let herself think about it.
As the sky darkened, the lights of Pentos came on one by one in the distance. They looked close, but they might as well have been on another world. That city had sent her out here to the grass, like cargo.
The tent flap snapped up.
Viserys staggered in, silver hair plastered to his sweaty forehead.
He'd just shared farewell wine with Illyrio; his cheeks were flushed red.
"Tomorrow…" he hiccuped, swaying toward her so his wine‑sour breath washed over her face, "tomorrow you're his. My good little sister. Do your duty. Please the savage. Make sure he rides to war for us…"
His fingers clamped around her chin, squeezing hard enough to make her wince. "You know what to do. Like the whores do—"
"I'm not a whore, Viserys," Daenerys said evenly.
He froze for half a heartbeat, then exploded.
"Who do you think you are?" he shrieked. "Without me, you'd be rotting in some gutter! Without this marriage, we never go home!"
"That's not my home," she answered, meeting his purple eyes.
"It's your dream. Not mine. I'm not a thing you get to spend to buy it."
The slap came fast.
Her head snapped to the side. Her cheek flared hot and began to swell. Blood welled at the corner of her mouth.
This time she didn't flinch or cry. Slowly, she turned her head back and wiped the blood away, her violet eyes shining in the dim tent.
"Months ago," she said quietly, "someone told me I was Stormborn. Of the dragon's blood. He said he'd come back. That he'd break everything that binds me."
Viserys's face twisted. "Lynn? That runaway? He's dead. Or if he isn't, he's already forgotten you."
"He hasn't."
Daenerys rose.
At fourteen, she was still shorter than her drunken brother, but her back was straight as a spear. "He's coming."
She walked toward the entrance. Just before she lifted the flap, she looked back.
"I'm not afraid of you anymore, Viserys," she said. "Not of Drogo either. Not of anyone."
The canvas dropped, cutting off his furious screaming.
Daenerys stepped into the open air.
The night wind of the steppe washed over her, carrying the heat and closeness of the tent away.
To the east, the grassland was sinking into black. To the west, the lights of Pentos glimmered like false stars.
She pressed a hand over her chest. Hidden beneath her dress was a shard of glass she'd stolen before leaving Pentos—sharp and clean. If, in the end, there was truly no hope… if that vow had been nothing but a lie…
No.
Her fist tightened. The glass bit into her palm. The little sting kept her present.
Somewhere deep inside, she felt it: he was coming.
Wedding day. Dusk.
The sunset over the grasslands burned like blood.
Golden‑red light spilled across the rolling grass. To the west, the pale shape of Pentos slowly faded out of sight.
The wedding took place at the center of the camp, in a circle of trampled earth.
No horsebone arches of Vaes Dothrak. No sacred city rituals. Just the simple ceremony of the open plains: bonfires, fermented mare's milk, and a ring of warriors to watch.
Four Dothraki women led Daenerys out of the tent. She still wore the brocade wedding gown Illyrio had chosen—the colors of House Targaryen.
They tied little silver bells at her wrists and ankles, painted her face with oil and red pigment.
She felt like an offering laid out on an altar.
Viserys and Illyrio waited at the edge of the circle.
The magister's fat face was fixed in a smile as he tried to chat in clumsy Dothraki with one of Drogo's bloodriders.
Viserys's eyes were locked on the center, gleaming—on Khal Drogo, who stood there like a tower.
The khal was bare‑chested, skin gleaming with oil in the setting sun, all bronze and muscle.
His braid hung thick down his back, heavy with rings and bells, a trophy of battles won. The jeweled scabbard at his hip had clearly been taken from some unlucky lord.
He stood with his back to the sinking sun, face shadowed, but his eyes were bright—sharp as a hunting hawk's.
Daenerys was led to the middle of the circle.
According to Illyrio, she should kneel now and offer the reins—the braided leather in the bloodrider's hands, rough and stiff. In Dothraki eyes, a woman was something to be bridled like a horse.
She stayed standing.
Murmers rose from the watching warriors. Behind her, Viserys hissed urgently, "Kneel! You stupid girl, kneel!"
Drogo lifted his hand slightly.
Silence rolled outward from him until it swallowed every sound.
He walked toward her, each step steady, the grass seeming to bow under his boots. He stopped a single stride away and looked down.
She was slight, silver‑gold hair tugged by the evening wind, violet eyes fixed on his. There was no fear there, only a small, fierce flame—something he had never seen in a woman's eyes before.
"You do not kneel," Drogo said in the Common Tongue. His accent was rough, but the words were clear.
"I don't," Daenerys answered.
He studied her for a long time.
Light from the dying sun slipped over his shoulders, leaving half his body bright and half in shadow.
Then one corner of his mouth moved, just barely.
"Good."
He turned away and spoke to the scarred bloodrider in Dothraki. The man blinked, startled, then threw his head back and shouted to the gathered riders.
Viserys seized the translator. "What did he say?"
The man swallowed. "The khal says… the wedding goes on. And he says, 'Only a wild horse is worthy of the open plains.'"
Viserys burst into delighted laughter.
Daenerys felt her heart drop.
The ceremony, as night fell.
The steps were simple.
The Dothraki had no complicated laws, only words spoken aloud and witnessed.
The bloodrider lifted a wooden cup, recited the blessing, and the riders answered with a roar that made the earth tremble.
Mare's milk was brought forth. Drogo drank first, then held the bowl out to Daenerys. Custom said that once the bride drank before the khal, the marriage was sealed.
She took the bowl.
The liquid was cloudy, sour on the nose. Thousands of eyes watched her.
From the edge of the circle, Viserys glared, mouth soundlessly forming a word: "Drink."
Daenerys looked into the bowl.
The darkening sky rippled there, along with a smudged reflection of her painted face.
Slowly, she raised it.
Her lips were just about to touch the rim when—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Not hoofbeats.
Deeper. Heavier. As if something under the earth was forcing its way up.
The bonfires guttered. The drink in the bowl trembled. Warriors reached for their blades.
The sound rolled in from the eastern grass, growing louder and closer—
Then the plain shattered.
A dark shape tore out of the dusk.
It was a horse, but unlike any she had seen on the grassland.
It was taller at the shoulder than any war mount there, coat a storm‑gray that looked like quenched steel. Every stride tore up clods of turf and sent dirt spraying.
Its eyes were the worst of all.
They burned gold in their sockets, molten and bright, like small suns.
The man on its back was no less strange.
His armor was gray‑black, dusty and scored from old battles, catching the last light along hard edges.
His head was bare, black hair whipped by the wind.
His eyes were gold, the same inhuman hue as the horse's, glowing in the half‑light.
The stallion charged straight at the wedding ground.
Dothraki warriors tried to block his path, blades flashing. The gray horse reared, slamming into two riders and sending them flying. It landed in a spray of broken grass and dust.
It stopped at the very heart of the circle—ten paces from Daenerys, fifteen from Drogo.
White breath steamed from its nostrils.
Those golden eyes swept the gathered riders, then settled on her pale face.
The rider spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut cleanly through the shouts and gasps, like a knife slicing silk.
"I'm here."
He paused. His gaze flicked to the curved blade at Drogo's hip, then down to the bowl of mare's milk still in Daenerys's hands.
"Hope I'm not late."
The grassland fell mute.
Only the crackle of the fires and the hot rush of the stallion's breath broke the silence. Far behind them, the lights of Pentos burned like another sky.
Daenerys stood there. The wooden bowl slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a sharp clatter. Sour milk soaked into the trampled earth.
She stared at the rider. At those golden eyes. At that road‑worn, familiar face.
Her dream from a month ago rose up to meet the present.
The black dragon in the dark.
The vow spoken in fire.
"Remember my words, Daenerys. One day, I will return."
Tears blurred her vision. She didn't wipe them away. She only straightened her thin shoulders, and when she spoke, her voice shook—but was clear.
"You're not late."
Then, with everyone watching—Viserys, Illyrio, Drogo, and thousands of Dothraki warriors—Daenerys seized the brocade gown she wore.
The one stitched with a clumsy, three‑headed dragon.
Rip—
The sound of tearing silk rang loud in the stillness.
The gown split at the shoulder and slid to the ground, leaving only a thin white shift beneath. Her silver‑gold hair flew loose in the evening wind. The oils and red pigment on her face streaked under her tears, making her violet eyes shine even brighter.
She stood between firelight and dusk, between Lynn's golden gaze and Drogo's dark one.
Drawing a deep breath, Daenerys spoke to the entire plain:
"I will not marry."
Each word hit the earth like a hammer blow.
The first chain, at last, began to break.