The khalasar was spread across miles of the great grass sea, three and twenty thousand Dothraki in all. First came the riders, the strong young men of the tribe, wearing painted leather armour and horsehide trousers, great curved arakhs held high in their hands. Next came the women and children and slaves, struggling behind them on foot. Finally came the wagons, and those too weak or old to stand.

It reminded Dany of the khalasar her sun and stars had led; the one her son might have led. Ever since Khal Jhaqo had found her, such thoughts had burrowed their way into her mind often. Could she ever have been content to be Drogo's khaleesi, adrift on the Dothraki sea till her dying days? No, a small part of her whispered. She had children now, three and thousands more.

She imagined she could hear their screams even from here, out on the dunes. Meereen rose far to the west, further than the eye could see, but still Dany felt her children's pain. And yet, as never before, she wished to turn the other way, north, south, east; it did not matter. Jhaqo wouldn't bring them any hope, only pain.

She'd met him on the sands almost a week's ride to the east, near the small stream she'd followed for so long. Drogon had been wrapped about her, the heat from his great serpentine coils warding off the chill of the Dothraki night. For the longest time, the khal had said nothing, only staring at the great black beast she had once nursed at her breast, so very long ago. And then he spoke. "Traitor khal wife. Drogo khaleesi."

"Deliver me to Meereen and you shall be rewarded handsomely." With Drogon near no man could frighten her.

He only scoffed. "Jhaqo not take traitor girl coin. Little queen follow." His bloodriders and warriors had cheered and whooped then, the bells in their hair tinkling merrily. They had come at her from every side, two dozen at least. Only one escaped, Ko Mago's horse rearing before he was engulfed in Drogon's onyx flames. She asked again, and again he refused. The second time fifty warriors had come screaming up the hillock. Only three escaped.

But by then the sun was setting in the west, and as he did every night Drogon raised his vast dark wings and swept into the sky, flattening the yellow grass beneath her. He flies to Dragonstone to nest. The third time she asked, the Dothraki only laughed, and pulled her down, to kneel before the khal. Daenerys hadn't seen Drogon since.

Jhaqo still feared her dragon's wroth, however, which was why he had commanded his bloodriders to release her. They'd grumbled at that, but the burn marks on their chests convinced them to obey.

She hadn't been on the true Dothraki Sea since… she couldn't remember; felt the cool wind on her face and heard the rustle as the grass waved. The grass is dying. For as far as the eye could see, brown stains marred the landscape. Winter is coming, and fast. In the winter, she'd been told, half the Dothraki would perish from starvation, with no food for them or their animals. Only the strong would survive, as was the horselords' way.

A bloodfly buzzed past her, the sound loud and penetrating. Disquieted, Dany took a look around her. She rode at the centre of the khalasar, accompanied by the two handmaidens that Jhaqo had seen fit to grant her. She could hear them bickering behind her in the guttural Dothraki tongue; Karla was Lyseni, while Tammi was a Summer Islander. Daenerys wondered how they had found their way onto the Dothraki sea.

Jhaqo's bloodrider Temmo rode beside her, a callow youth with long dark hair and darting eyes. Even at her own age, his braid fell down to the small of his back, wreathed in bells. Karla and Tammi adored him, that much was plain, but he ignored them. He wants me. More than once, Dany had seen his eyes dart away from her, a thin smile on his lips. Only Jhaqo's anger kept him at bay, she suspected. That, and the black scorch marks on his leather vest.

To the other side rode Mago; Mago of the cruel eyes and surly smile, quick to anger and slow to learn. A third of the men of the khalasar wanted to deliver her to the Dosh Khaleen, and keep her there until she grew old and grey and her teeth fell from her mouth, as was done to all khaleesi. Another third thought her an upstart woman who had no right to call herself a khaleesi, and wanted her dead (Drogon with her). The others agreed, but desired to rape her instead. Mago was alone in wanting to rape her and kill her. "I will ride you," he'd whispered to her one night. "And if I can't find a hole, I'll make one."

As you raped Eroeh. She could barely remember the Lhazareen's face, but she still knew her voice. Dany had rescued her from the rider's cruel clutches, along with a dozen other women, but in the end she couldn't save her. While Mirri Maz Duur murdered Rhaego in her womb, and Drogo with him, the newly made Khal Jhaqo and his bloodriders had raped her outside the very tent she lay in. Afterwards, Mago had slit her throat and left her for the crows. As she beheld her ruined body, she had sworn to herself that they would die begging for the mercy they'd shown Eroeh. Every time she saw Mago or Jhaqo she remembered. The dragon does not forget.

In the beginning, she'd travelled in the wagons with the old and the sick, as Viserys had before her. They mocked her as they'd mocked him. Khaleesi Rhaggat. The cart queen. The gods had made horses for able men, not the weak, or women.

There were a great deal of wagons in Jhaqo's khalasar, far more than would usually be. Only a day after Dany's capture, the Dothraki had been set upon by Khal Gaqqo, the oldest horselord on the great grass sea. The fight had been hard and bloody, lasting well into the night, but in the end Jhaqo had emerged the victor. Gaqqo had only some sixteen thousand Dothraki in his khalasar, and only a fraction of them were riders. His head was carried on a spike that Temmo held, only a few feet from her face. They'd shorn his scalp to tell the world of his defeat, and yet nearly a third of Jhaqo's riders had been injured in the battle. Now the cart were full of the maimed and dying, for the khal lacked the means to heal them all.

Normally, after suffering such grievous losses a khalasar would halt its march for a few days, finding a suitable village to raid and inhabit. Anyone not well enough to ride or walk when the khal gave the order to leave would be left behind to die on the grass. Khal Jhaqo knew who she was, however, and her importance. He'd commanded they set course for Meereen immediately, lest they be discovered by her own Dothraki, or sellswords sent to find her. That would not do, as he meant to deliver her to the Masters himself. "We shall bathe in their milk land gold for a thousand days and one!" he had proclaimed to his khas. "And when we are done bathing, we shall slit their throats and tear down their cities and rape their women!" The Dothraki grumbled at that, but shared their khal's desire for blood and gold. Dany only looked on impassively.

For days after her capture, the shits had come and gone, and she'd spent half her time groaning on the edge of her wagon. The Dothraki had found that hilarious, and "Graddakh Khaleesi" became a new favourite name. It concerned Jhaqo, however, and he'd assigned three eunuch healers to cure her. She'd kicked them away the first time they came bearing needles and bottles. Mirri Maz Duur, she found herself remembering.

Later, when only a slight fever remained, Dany had commanded her eunuchs to bring Jhaqo to her. "Obey your khaleesi." Instead they'd brought her to Jhaqo. "You shame this khaleesi," she'd told him. "The dragon knows of my shame." The next day Temmo had brought her a fine red mare. It was a large, chunky beast compared to her silver, and slow as well, but she accepted it. I am no longer the rhaggat. Mago had spat when he'd seen her, but the slaves and women had bowed as she passed.

They travelled west through plains of dying grass, black and wilting. Here and there clumps of ghost grass pushed themselves up through the rotting bodies, not caring for the cold. Even dying, the sea still held its beauty. The sun and clouds played in the sky above it, shading the grass and painting it half a hundred different colours every night. In a valley purple autumn flowers had greeted them, blooming as they passed. Once they rode through a floodplain, the azure waters of the Skahazadhan playing around their horses' feet. When they travelled through small forests that grew on the outskirts of the river, they were thick enough that no light reached the surface. Halfway through their journey they came across a stream that divided the landscape between red and yellow sand, with no grass to be seen for miles around. Some times the grass was thick enough to walk on, at others no more than a few scraggily twisted bushes that dotted the landscape. The wind made long grass sway in ripples, like a fair maidens hair. I have no hair. The Dothraki had mocked her for that, as well. Only in defeat would a warrior's hair be cut.

But three days ago, a scout from the khas had spied a figure on the horizon, a curved arakh in his hand. Rakharo, she thought, or Aggo. The rider had vanished before she could know. Nevertheless, Jhaqo had her moved to the very centre of the khalasar, where she would be safe from prying eyes. Now when the beauty of the Dothraki Sea made its way to her it was trampled and torn by the hooves of the ten thousand horses ahead of her.

The wagons had bored her out of her mind, with only the mules who pulled it and the greybeards who drove it to talk to. And yet, riding on a horse was almost equally lonely. Revere her as they might when she rode past, the Dothraki would have no part of the strange Valyrian queen who mounted dragons. Not even Drogon was there to keep her company. The loneliness gave her mind free rein, however, and all through the days and most of the nights her thoughts assailed her. Sometimes she thought of Meereen, and what could be happening there at that very moment. Did the Yunkai'i still besiege the city? What had become of the Volantene fleet sent against them? Did Hizdahr rule in her place now? If so, was he binding up Meereen's wounds or salting them? And what of her people? Had the pale mare run its course? So many people had followed her, only to starve and die. I offered the slavers peace, and they laughed at me.

Other times, she thought of Viserys, and how he had died. I never lifted my hand to stop it. One night she heard him in her dreams. It's hard to die unmourned, sister, he'd whispered. She might die at Dothraki hands as well, if Mago got his way. Strangely, she did not fear the prospect. I shall see my Sun and Stars again. No. She could not die, would not die. Her children needed her.

One night, she awoke to the sound of her handmaidens arguing with a third girl, one that Dany did not know. "Please, I am lost. Where is my father?"

Karla shooed her away. "This not place for little slave girl. Go away, or Temmo whip you."

By then Temmo had noticed the girl as well. "Get lost, girl." His arakh glinted wickedly in the moonlight.

"She's lost, can't you see?" Dany hurried to her side. "She only wants her father." She put her arms around the girl, hiding her from Temmo.

The bloodrider only stared at her insolently. "There are thousands of slaves in the camp. Do you mean to suck every man's cock until you find—"

"I shall help her." Daenerys turned to the girl. "Do you know where he is?" She shrank back. "Did you ride near the front, or the wagons? To which side was the khalasar?"

"We rode in the middle. Near the back," the girl said, her eyes glistening. "My father was one of them that dug the pits today. There was some rider after me. After he was d-done, I could not find my way back." She sobbed, and choked it back quickly. The girl was only a little younger than Dany herself, with the brown skin and almond eyes of the Dothraki.

"The dung pits are that way. To the south." She pointed it out for the girl. "But first, come and eat. You're starving." Daenerys led the girl into her tent, by the hand. She came easily, as if she was used to instruction, and tore into the food Dany laid out. "Who is your father? Are you Dothraki?"

"My father was Dothraki." The girl was small and shy. "My mother came from Tolos. Her village was raided by Khal Gaqqo when she was young, and then Jhaqo defeated Gaqqo and cut his braid." She was almost whispering. "My name is Edda."

"Tell me, Edda. How many times have you been raped?" When she didn't answer, Daenerys caught her hand again. "Jhaqo has no need of more slaves. If you remain, he will sell you to a whorehouse in Lys; your mother too. Your father shall be sold as a slave to the Ghiscari, or worse."

Edda's eyes were huge with fear. "T-This is the way of the Dothraki. The strong may do as they like."

"Until there comes someone stronger. Stay with me, and I shall keep you safe. Your father and mother as well, and all those who wear collars as you do."

They went to sleep in each other's arms, as she had done so often with little Missandei. Missandei should be queen, not me. The scribe was far too clever and sweet. That night, once again, she dreamed of dragons, and a sky red with flame. There were three of them, black and white and green like her own. When they roared, only screams could be heard.

The next day she was awoken by a clamouring outside her door. Taking care not to wake Edda, wrapped around her, Dany opened the tent door. Mago awaited her in the morning cold; behind him the slaves and women were pointing and gasping. A mounted warrior thundered past, curved bow in his hand. "Drogo whore steal from Mago."

"I have stolen nothing that is yours."

"You steal slave. Mago girl."

"She is not yours. I have taken her under my protection."

"Little queen protection weak. Like you." He made to push past her, his strong arms knocking her to the floor. In the tent, Edda stirred, her brown eyes opening. When she saw Mago she backed away, pleading in her own Tolosi tongue.

A sudden madness seized Daenerys.

She leapt forwards, pulling the arakh from Mago's hand. He turned and cursed her, but she held her ground, defiant. "Little whore queen die, then." He lumbered forwards, his fingers curling into fists…

"Mago!" The cold voice echoed from beyond the tent. Jhaqo. The khal strode into the tent armoured and ready for battle. They spoke in Dothraki too quickly for Dany to understand, and then Mago grinned. He kicked her one last time before marching from the tent. Jhaqo followed.

"Have you been hurt?" Edda huddled in the corner of her tent, trembling. "Stay here." She didn't seem to notice Dany.

The mother of dragons stepped from her tent into the cool morning air. Dothraki ran past her, making for the great firepits at the centre of the camp.

A crowd had gathered there by the time Daenerys arrived, gesturing and whispering to one another in half a thousand different tongues. She pushed through them, one at a time, but there were always more and more. An old hunchbacked woman squealed as she knocked her aside, and a tall man cursed her. She carried on anyway. Suddenly, the crowd before her drew back, leaving her alone in the eye of the storm. Smoke rose from the firepits, where great roast oxen hung on spits. And in the centre…

Drogon.

He was larger than the last time she'd seen him; much larger. His great leathern wings stretched almost from one end of the pits to the other, and his teeth were as long as her arm. Something is wrong. Drogon wasn't moving; he sat docile, chewing on a half-cooked cow, ignoring those around him. "Keep her away!" Jhaqo burst through the crowd, soon followed by Mago and Temmo. They had replace their arakhs with spears, half again as tall as them and pointed evilly. Drogon paid them no mind. Drogon, I need you to move. The khal advanced, holding his lance before him. Cautiously, he poked her dragon's side, and then again. Nothing happened. He turned back to his kos. "Zhavorsa si driv!" he roared, shaking his spear. Turning back to Drogon, he raised the point of his spear above his eye, and held it aloft. It swung downwards…

DROGON!

In an instant, her beast reared up, grabbing the spear in his jaws as he passed. It flew off into the distance, leaving Jhaqo weaponless. "Driv zhavorsa!" he was shouting. "Driv zhavorsa!" Mago and Temmo were backing away as Drogon reared ever higher… and then suddenly crashed down in front of them. His outstretched neck was offered to Daenerys. Before they could stop her, before anything could stop her, she found herself running forwards. His scales were warm as she climbed over them; warm and as hard as rock. When she reached the space between his wings, he sat up again. The Dothraki were screaming in fear, riders with huge goldenheart bows battling their way through the mob. "DRACARYS!" she shouted, hoping against hope that he remembered.

He remembered.

Next up: Tyrion