THE DRAGONBORN COMES

(Chapter 1: Epic Destinies)

He came upon the Dothraki like a lion amongst lambs. From where, none could say. Some said that he had ventured forth form the darkest dark of the shadowlands. Others said that he was a demon raised from hell, sent by the gods to punish the world for its wickedness. Others still said he hailed from lands unknown across the uncharted seas; lands where gods did battle and stranger creatures then men played the game of thrones. Never did he kill a man unprovoked. But those who gave him fight never lived to speak of their folly. Witnesses were quick to spread tales of what they saw. Or what they thought they saw…

…It was said that he never removed his armor, even in the midday heat of the Red Wastes.

…It was said that his armor was crafted from metals and magics unknown; deepest black, yet always aglow, and spined and spiked like some great thorny beast.

…It was said that men struck by his mace instantly burst into flames.

…It was said that he could steal souls and feed them to his terrible cudgel.

…It was said that he could speak the dragon's tongue and breathe fire.

…It was said he could walk on water.

…It was said that he had walked through fire, but did not burn.

…It was said that he could heal the most grievous of wounds with his touch.

…It was said that he knew more of alchemy and enchantments then the most learned of masters.

…It was said that he could tear a host of warriors to pieces with a shout.

…It was said that he could not die, because he was not a mortal man.

Everywhere he went the people whispered: "Who is this man who brings the mightiest of Khal's to heel with the power of his voice, and wields sorceries of which the maegi know not?

And it was said that always he asked the same question when he chanced upon a band of horseman: "Where is Khal Drogo?"

West, west, and further west the Dragonborn ventured. From the summit of High Hrothgar to the crossroads at old Rorikstead. From the old crossroads to the imperial harbor of Solitude. And then further west still…

"As west as west can go, across the great sea, in lands uncharted by the brood of Ysgramor. There you will find the child of destiny. Silver of hair. Fair of skin. Strong of spirit. Blood of our blood." Paarthurnax had instructed. "Teach her as I have taught you, so that she may grow in wisdom and in power. Her thu'um is strong."

So had spoken the dragon who sits atop the Throat of the World. And so the dragonborn had set out upon his quest. West, west, and further west…

From the port of Solitude across the great sea, to lands beyond Skyrim and the empire's reach. To wilderness of ash and shadow. To kingdoms of wizardry and witchcraft. Across a great red wasteland, where behemoth skulls rose above shifting sands and brave men dared not tread.

West, west, and further west, to the domain of tall grass and rapacious horsemen. There he learned a name: Khal Drogo. The one Paarthurnax sought had been sold to the horselord as a child bride.

"Find the Khal and you will find the girl," a crone had told him in Vaes Dothrak. A lengthy search had led him to the city beneath The Mother of Mountains; there he thought he might find some answers. He had not left disappointed. "But be warned…Drogo loves her, and she is with child. He will see your advance as an insult. He will give you fight."

Let him try, the Dragonborn thought. Beneath his twisted daedric full helm, he smirked an unseen smirk. But some things were better left unsaid, he knew. And so he simply asked "Where is Khal Drogo to be found?"

"In the lands of the sheep-men, beyond the Mother of Mountains," the crone answered. "His Khalasar rides to claim its plunder. Follow the trail of tears, and Khal Drogo will not be far behind."

He thanked the crone for her kindness with gifts of gold and enchanted jewelry, and a potion to ease the brittleness in her old bones. And then he was again on his way. In the plundered lands of the sheep-men—their homes burnt, their herds slaughtered, and their women ravaged—he heard another story.

"Khal Drogo is dead," a young shepherd with dirt in his hair and summer in his eyes told him. "Slain by a witch's curse, they say; his is Khalasar is dispersed. A man who never knew defeat in battle felled by a women's trickery. Strange tale, isn't it?"

"What of his bride?" the Dragonborn inquired. If Drogo was dead, it could mean that she would be easier to get to. It could also mean that she had died with him…

"That's a stranger tale still," the shepherd chewed on a stump of grass and spit. "They say that when Khal Drogo died, the girl made him a grand pyre and took her place beside him inside the fire. The fire reached her, but she did not burn. Dragon's blood, it's been whispered. Fire could not burn her because she had dragon's blood. A fool's tale to be sure; such things do not exist in this world. It is known."

"It is known," a chorus of agreement rang out among his kinsman.

Never has a truer tale been told by a man who knows so little of what he speaks. But again…some things were better left unsaid. Words were a terrible thing to waste, after all. Especially the words of one who wielded the power of The Voice. And so again the Dragonborn simply asked "Where is the girl to be found?"

"Why the fuck should I tell you?" the shepherd spat again.

"I can reward you with gold if you tell me what I want to know…" the Dragonborn said evenhandedly. And without any change of tone he continued "…or I can rip out your still-beating heart and feed your soul to Dragonforce." He patted the hilt of the sinister spiked mace glowing at his side for emphasis.

"She leads the remnants of her husband's Khalasar across the Red Waste, towards the Great City of Qarth," the shepherd gulped and his tanned southern skin went ghost white. "Please don't kill me…"

"Well done," the Dragonborn spoke with a tone that said 'you're lucky I don't.' He produced a small pouch of gold and flung it at his reluctant informant with enough force to stagger the poor boy. "Some coin for your trouble."

Best he learns now not to wag such a bold tongue in front of dangerous strangers. That WILL get him killed one day, the Dragonborn thought but did not say. The message had already been sent, and words were such a terrible thing to waste…

And again he was off. Into the Red Waste. Through the Behemoth's Bones. Across the Shifting Sand. He came upon them in the ruins of a dead city; the 'remnants of a Khalasar' the shepherd had spoke of little more than women and babes and men not fit to hold a sword. Sorry remnants indeed. The trail of a blood-red comet had led him straight into their midst; a trail he suspected they too had followed. A most potent omen, the Dragonborn recalled seeing the same sign in the firmament the day his head had been on the chopping block in Helgen. A sign of things to come.

It was true…always the blood of the dragon held an epic destiny. Tiber Septim's had been to found an empire and ascend to heaven as mighty Talos;the man who became a god. His own had been to slay Alduin—the dragon set adrift on the currents of time—whose return heralded the end of the world. What greatness was this girl fated to achieve? He couldn't help but wonder.

He found her in a garden of figs and pomegranates; a black hatchling perched on her shoulder and an old knight by her side eying him warily. He thinks I mean to do her harm…or fears it at the very least. This one is cautious.

The girl herself couldn't have been older then 15, but her eyes held the ferocity of a woman full grown. She did not appear to be with child, as the crone had told him, though swollen breasts suggested that she had been very recently. That could mean a number of things.

Silver of hair. Fair of skin. Strong of spirit. Blood of our blood. There was no doubt to be had. She was the one.

"You are the one they call the Mother of Dragons?" the Dragonborn asked even though he already knew the answer. If she truly had The Voice, he would hear it in her own words. Paarthurnax had said that her thu'um was strong…

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen; Blood of the Dragon." her voice was resolute and regal and betrayed no hint of weakness or hesitation. "To whom am I speaking?"

"A man with no name, only a purpose," he spoke truthfully and repeated his master's words. "I have come so that you may grow, in wisdom and in power."

"And why should I need a nameless man's help to grow in wisdom and in power?" she regarded him with suspicion. "Who sent you?"

"The dragon who sits atop the Throat of the World."

"Why does he want to help me?"

"Because he knows what you are…" the earth trembled and the air peeled with thunder from the force of his thu'um as he spoke the word, "…DOVAHKIIN!"