Three blood riders had found her in the Red Waste.
"Wandering," he had told Drogo breathlessly. "With hair more pale then the moon, and eyes that matched the violet flowers that bloomed only in the morning sun."
"Bring her," he had ordered.
Rakharo had led the girl [and she was still a girl- no more then seventeen summers] into Drogo's tent with his blade on the base of her neck. And rightly so, as three young dragons clung to figure the way a babe would its mother.
Despite her tangled hair, dirt stained face and sweat soiled clothing, the girl stood tall against the eyes and whispers that flooded through the room. But there was fear there in her own strange violet eyes and a tremor in her unnaturally pale hands.
Beside Drogo, Ser Jorah stirred.
"Dany..." He mutters, disbelieving.
But he had not muttered quietly as he would have liked. Interest piqued, Drogo turned to Jorah, his question unspoken, and answered incorrectly.
"Khal Drogo, may I present to you Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen," Jorah announces to Drogo, and his blood riders.
Upon inquiring Jorah on his knowledge of the girl's identity, Jorah attempts to translate how he knows who she is, but he cannot. As Jorah struggles to speak, the Targaryen girl's eyes grow cold. She knows this man, Drogo thinks.
He thinks of many things with this strange girl in front of him.
He thinks of the way her hair and skin glows in the fire light, the way her eyes glitter with defiance and pride, the soft curve of her hips, the swell of her chest and the dragons, whose caws are the only thing that accompany the crackling of the fire.
He had yet to find a Khaleesi after all.
Just an idea... Please Review?
-Blue