A red star bleeds in the skies.

It seemed only right that they should follow its trail.

It seemed only right that it would bleed fire across the desolate skies of the Dothraki Sea, giving the newly crowned khaleesi the fuel needed to inspire her khalasar.

And what a meagre khalasar it was; mostly, she was followed by those who had no other choice but to follow her. Those who would die either in misery worse than this or murdered at the hands of other khals, khals who had once served under her husband. Those who were too weak to fight: the women, the children, the old and the sick.

The kos who remained refused to pledge themselves to a woman, and had indeed remained with the intention of leading her to the dosh khaleen, as was custom of the wives of fallen khals to join the crones. They remained out of loyalty for the memory of Drogo, and respect for the woman they had served as their khaleesi.

That is, until they witnessed her survive Drogo's pyre. Not only survive it; but step out of it with three baby dragons in her arms.

Now, they follow the bleeding star by her side. Dehydrated. Starving. Exhausted. Still, they carry on. They all do. Even the sick. The Dothraki weren't one for weakness, even if Daenerys Targaryen had a heart that was much too weak at times. Had it not been her weak heart which found her in this situation after all? Her husband dead. Her son, dead. Her people starving and lost. No prospect of hope or rescue.

Once again, she is naught but the Beggar Queen, only there is no one around for her to beg. No doors to knock on. No slimy merchant 'friends' interested in the future an alliance with the Targaryen heirs could bring them.

There was only the bleeding star, and its trail.

Daenerys had stepped into a funeral pyre, knowing full well that she'd step out of it alive. Knowing, in her heart, in her soul, that she was meant to do just that. Her entire life. The house with the red door, Viserys, the begging, the suffering, the man she had been sold to as a brood mare, everything that had followed since then. All of it led to that moment, where she made that decision. And she survived. If fire cannot take her, surely… the red waste could not, either. It would be a fate too cruel, for one who survived so much. She outlived her brother, her husband, her unborn son, and so many men in her life, and it had all to be for a reason. If she lost the faith in that, what would she have to lead her? She'd be not only commending herself, but all those who now depend on her, also.

She tells her people that they must follow the bleeding star, for its path was a herald of her coming, wherever it may lead. They all believed it to be an ill omen, but Daenerys would tell them that the red star would lay the path which she must follow. But the truth was far simpler than that: they'd dare not venture in any other direction, for anywhere else, but the path which the star led, would take them towards the arms of their enemies. The two khalasars that had formed from Drogo's awaited them in different directions, and Dany knew that her dragons were in no position to fight — yet. They refused to eat, even as she tried to feed them by hand. It was then that she remembered something her brother had told her, during those time he'd tell her stories, before he grew into the bitter, jealous and violent creature that she had come to hate. Only dragons and men eat cooked meat. And so, Daenerys began to cook the meat before offering them to her dragons, and when they began eating at long last, they grew strong and big; though her khalasar did not.

Her dragons grew strong, but her people grew weaker.

Doreah, one of the handmaidens that had been given to her as a wedding gift by her brother, died of a fever. Dany had taken care of her, herself, and she died in her arms. It was then that her people began doubting her. The Dothraki despise weakness.

Have I crossed half the word and seen the birth of dragons only to die with them in this hard, hot, desert? But if she starts doubting herself, how can she lead her people out of this? Her dragons? She must be strong. For them.

So, she must push on, even if she feels the strength leaving her, even if her bones and muscles ache and her stomach turns at the mere sight of horse meat. She could ride her silver, and at times, Ser Jorah would wordlessly take her into his arms and place her atop her horse, much to her protest, but more often than not, she'd be too tired to do much else. What right did she have to ride her horse when most of her people had no horse to ride? A true Queen must suffer her people's pains.

Days were long and hot. Nights were even longer, and cold. Many times, she'd turn to find the presence of Ser Jorah, her Queensguard, sat by her side, guarding her, and serving as warmth, and she'd find herself asking him: "Does it ever end?" To which he would solemnly look at her, whether with pity or something else, she could not tell her. "Everything ends, khaleesi." That never gave her the comfort it should. But she supposes that it was enough to keep her going. The promise that one day, it'd end. And that at least some of her people would live to that day.

At long last, after many days of stumbling hopelessly and tirelessly through the Red Waste, they had stumbled upon an abandoned city.

The city had large white walls encircling it, wall towers, and city gates, which were broken. The walls were cracked and crumbled, and the city gates were a maze of narrow and crooked alleys. The buildings were all built together, blank and windowless. Everything seems to be either fallen into rubble or damaged by fire, but devil grass grows between paving stones. Enough grass to sustain a small herd of horses, which gives them hope. At least the horses would recover. The city has vegetation beyond that, however. There are grapevines, fig and peach trees, as well as other fruit trees in abandoned gardens behind closed doors. There are wells with pure and cold water, and Red Waste animals. Small, such as red scorpions, but big enough to be cooked and eaten. The remnants of the fallen city terrify her superstitious khalasar, though the unforgiving environment of the Red Waste seems to frighten them further. It brings Dany a sense of dread to see all the skulls of the unburied dead. But it matters not; they found something. Something that would allow them to regain strength. Her people would not starve, and she could finally rest.

For the first time since the fall of her husband, Dany had finally managed to sleep a full night's sleep. No dreams had haunted her that night. She laid down amidst her furs in the cold night, wearing the lion pelt she had been gifted when she was still Drogo's khaleesi, alone save for her handmaidens and the guards outside the building she had taken for herself; a house with bleached walls that had not been as punished by time and weather as most of the others.

She dubbed the abandoned city, which was not known to any, as Vaes Tolorro. In Dothraki, it meant city of bones, which seemed appropriate, as she concluded it was the Dothraki who had destroyed the city. Her handmaiden, Irri, was fearful, and had kept close to Daenerys since their arrival. She feared the ghosts. But Daenerys reassured her, in the morn. "I fear no ghosts." She sent her handmaidens to fetch her water from the wells, in the hopes that they would calm down. And as she braided her hair, she heard Ser Jorah enter. She had asked that he'd remain watch, for she felt that this place was unprotected, and even if she vowed to make her people feel safe, they had to be careful. Enemies could slip by during the night. She feared no ghosts. Only men.

When she turned to face Ser Jorah, he had a peach in his hand.

It was small but looked so sweet and overripe that the juices dripped down Ser Jorah's fingers. It made her stomach growl. She had not tasted anything that looked that sweet in a long time. Ser Jorah knelt before her. "I've brought you a peach," he said as he offered it to her. After having no food or water for days, when she took the first bite of the peach, it was so sweet she cried in pleasure. Dany ate it silently and slowly, savouring every mouthful, whilst Ser Jorah stood and told her of the tree he plucked it from. He told her that they should rest there, regain their strength. Dany told him she agreed, even if her handmaids told her there were ghosts there. It was then that Ser Jorah told her of his wives. Of his homeland. Her lion pelt, which she wore to bed in the cold nights, slid off her shoulder as he spoke. She'd slowly tug it back into place. Ser Jorah's eyes watched her movement. Fascinated. He wants me, she thought to herself. Not as his Queen; as a man wants a woman. He told her of his lost children. Of his late wife. Of how she had betrayed him. His voice was full of grief and pain. And Daenerys was tired, and lonely. She found herself reaching for his big hands, her fingers still sticky with the sweet peach juice. There was something, there. A spark she had not felt with Drogo until later on in their marriage. Ser Jorah was not the comely type of man, but he was not ugly. He was tall, strong, and he had kind eyes. She trusted him. Loved him, in a sense, even.

It was but for an inch that they had not kissed.

He drew closer and closer, until a big hand was on the small of her back, and another cupped her cheek. She asked him, in a breathless whisper, what his late wife, Lady Lynesse, looked like. And he whispered in his gruff voice, that she looked like Dany.

Her handmaidens had returned with the water she requested, and Ser Jorah left after bowing long and low to her. Dany had needed to be washed and cleaned with cold water after that. She thought about Ser Jorah's hands and the way he held her for a long time after that encounter, but once she stepped out into the sun, her lips no longer dry and cracked, her hair brushed and braided, her leathers clean, her skin smelling of oils they found in the old house she slept in, she ordered her three bloodriders to scout as far as they could. The horses looked stronger now that they had been watered, fed, and had rested in the shade. She ordered them to not return until they had found something. They rode southwest, south and southeast.

To the south of the city, the barren red waste continues, until an ocean shore is reached, where the poison water is. The bones of an immense dragon were found there. Dany held it in her hands, as her bloodrider returned what looked like a giant claw to give her as evidence. My children will not end up like this, she promised herself, and her children, as she fed them that day. When the rider that had gone southwest returns, he reported that southwest lies Vaes Orvik and Vaes Shirosi, two abandoned cities of the Qaathi, similar to Vaes Tolorro but smaller in size.

Jhogo was her last bloodrider, and he had not yet returned, days after.

She began worrying and spent more time with her people. They had begun idolizing her. Calling her grand names, as she spent time amongst them. The women, the children and the old seemed to take a liking to Vaes Tolorro, once they had grown past their superstitions of the city. Still, she'd look at her dragons and wish to ride them. The children she had named after the men dearest to her.

Viserion, for Viserys. The brother she loved but did not mourn when he died.
Rhaegal, for the brother she had wished she had met.
And Drogon, for her sun and stars.

They had grown quite a bit since their birth, but still, they were not big enough to be ridden. Not yet, no matter how much Dany would dream of riding them to meet and touch the red star. Or now, to find Jhogo amidst the Red Waste. But she was no longer a girl. The time for girlish dreams was over. Daenerys had been reborn in Drogo's funeral pyre, just as her dragons had hatched and come to life themselves.

She was a leader, now.
A woman grown.

She had been a wife. A mother. And now she was a Queen. But she'd dare not leave the abandoned city. She ordered Ser Jorah and the others to fortify the city. Those who were strongest spent the days cooking, cleaning, looking for useful things amidst the rubble.

On the eleventh day of Jhogo's disappearance, she was preparing to send one of her bloodriders after him. But she did not need to, for some time after midday, three horses were spotted coming towards their city. All horses were white, with long, shiny, beautiful manes, and the two riders atop the two extra horses were equally beautiful, with long and shiny hair. When Jhogo climbed off his horse, he seemed content, and excited, and knelt before Daenerys to offer her what looked like wine, in the most beautifully crafted, clear bottle. He seemed so eager for her to try it, that she could not help but do it almost immediately, as the two riders by his side, still atop their horses, watched.

Dany uncorked the bottle, and just before she took a sip, Ser Jorah stepped in, insisting that he'd smell it or drink it first. But Jhogo reassured him that it was safe, and Dany trusted him with her life.

He was her kos, after all.

Dany was mostly interested in the men. They did not look to be human. She almost wondered if they could be from— no, it could not be. But they reminded her of Viserys. Of the descriptions of her parents that her brother gave her. Pale flesh, long hair. Amber eyes. She was fascinated, and wished to know them, but they just sat atop their horses and watched her. So, she smells the bottle, and the scent was… unlike anything she had ever known.

It was mead, clearly, but it also had traces of honey, and flowers that she did not know.

When Dany finally tasted it, it was like she was tasting an entire forest in the form of a liquid that went down her throat like melted honey. It was smooth and warm as well as refreshing and made her feel light and happy. She immediately went for another sip and smiled once she had the third. She shoved the bottle excitedly onto Ser Jorah's arms, and urged him to try it. He did it suspiciously, but once he had a sip, he too, could not help but have more. They passed the bottle along; first her bloodriders, then her handmaidens, and to the people that had gathered around them. Jhogo was so proud of himself, and at last, the riders climbed off their horses, and as Jhogo introduced them, they showed that they carried more of the honey-mead with a particular name she could not pronounce, and food.

They were, as the taller and comelier one said in a very broken Dothraki, elves.

"There are no such things as elves," Ser Jorah said, in Dothraki. Fierce, protective, possessive. Jhogo explained that he rode for days on end, until he had finally come to what he deemed was the end of the Red Waste. There was a border where the red waste met green, flush ground, that introduced him to a new land. A land unlike anything he had seen before. So much vegetation. Trees taller than the eyes could see. But they were dangerous woods. He fought giant spiders and ugly demon-beasts. And the elves, these beautiful, tall creatures with long, beautiful hair, had saved him. Taken him prisoner. But only because he could not speak their language and they could not identify what he was. He met with their prince, Legolas. A young, beautiful creature, as Jhogo described him. He seemed particularly eager in describing him to Daenerys, making note of how he was unmarried, and almost as beautiful as the Queen herself. Of how he moved as if he was made out of air, of how well he fought with bow and sword alike. Dany was no fool. She could see where this was going. But she let him carry on; he met the King, eventually, and amongst his soldiers, the elf next to him, the comely one, called Lúthon, spoke Dothraki, as he had once ventured beyond the lands they called Endor. Jhogo had told the King, King Thranduil, and his son Legolas, of the mother of dragons. The most beautiful young woman Jhogo had ever laid eyes on, who had walked through flames and given birth to three dragons. Legolas had wanted to come to meet Daenerys himself, and see the dragons with his own eyes, but the King would not risk a trap, and sent instead Lúthon and Camaenor, who had not yet spoken a single word.

"Do you speak the Common Tongue, my Lord?"

At this, the elf smiled. "I am no Lord, Your Grace. And yes, it seems that the Common Tongue of your land, is the same as that in Endor." Dany met Ser Jorah's eyes, and albeit he had liked the honey-mead very much, he seemed suspicious. "Lúthon," she pronounced the name well, for a foreigner. Dany was good with languages. "Am I to take that these presents, the horse and the escort of my bloodrider here, is no mere act of kindness from the King?" At this, the elf smiled again. "Your bloodrider did not lie when he spoke of your beauty and your brilliance. You are as clever as you are beautiful, Queen Daenerys. But… I would like to discuss this matter in private, if you would be so kind."

Dany would normally look at Jorah, before making such a decision. But not this time. Lúthon bowed before her as she took a step forward and offered her his hand. She took it, and before she knew it, she was atop his horse, her arms around his middle. He gave a command she could only guess was in Elvish and rode off, away from Vaes Tolorro.

His horse travelled faster than any other horse Dany had ever ridden, and lighter, too. Somehow. Her legs did not chafe or ache, and she had never been as comfortable as she was with her nose so near Lúthon's hair. He smells of flowers, she thinks to herself. But not in the simple way one might think. It's as if his hair is enchanting me to smell it. She heard Ser Jorah's distant voice. Is he calling for me? But she does not care. Her arms tighten around Lúthon's middle, and she smiles, her eyes falling shut as the wind caresses her face.

Wherever Lúthon is taking her, it must be just as beautiful and magnetic as he is.