GAME OF THRONES

DAENERYS

Daenerys was entranced by the stars above.

There are so many!

Khal Dragan's khalasar camped far from Illyrio's estate, demanding that no ships take to the skies. Illyrio accommodated this quite easily, the Oselikai had certain months and days where all ceremonial marriages were officially celebrated. Thus, it was easy to set aside days where their wants could be met- especially without bloodshed or massive amounts of coin.

The fat merchant had gone on describing it as a fair, where Dothraki warriors got drunk and performed in plays for the women and children. He said that these occasions were called "Vaes Nadaam," or "City of Dreaming".

Daenerys smiled, violet eyes fell from the stars above and to the sights before her. The feast tent bore square "windows" devoid of cloth, allowing in the night air.

Her skin began to feel warm.

Happiness? Right now, of all times?

Things had been.. Strange here, on Essos. Each passing day, Daenerys wondered if the story Viserys told her about the Ghiscari Empress was true. The feeling of dread, the sense that all is not right...

A lasting affliction gifted to the race that destroyed this planet.

But now-

Daenerys found the name she had learned earlier, Vaes Nadaam, quite fitting. Below, brown and orange tents stretched as far as the eye could see, while fires blinked, wavering with each calm breeze. The Dothraki threw strange liquids in some of the flames, causing them to give off vibrant colors. Thousands of Dothraki moved between the lights, all of them bleeding with an ebb of excitement.

Daenerys could see spits of roasted pig, boar, and ibex. Throngs of Dothraki circled around the sweet smelling meats, while musicians, playing simple drums and flutes, solemnly kept vigil from the darkness beyond. Daenerys turned in her seat, which creaked somewhat-

If Illyrio was to be understood, the throne she sat upon was made of bone.

Before her, a curling slab of onyx emblazoned rock served as a table; Nearest to Daenerys was a steaming plate of strange looking rice- it was bright orange, and its shape was long and thin. Beside it, upon large loaves of greens, honeyed meats glistened. Two baskets of steaming vegetables came after. Daenerys could recognize some of the greens, however, some she didn't. These ones had strange colors and shapes- purple, dark red.

The Dothraki ate with their hands or a garlic-smelling pan bread, circular and flat. They took to their meal quietly, unlike the celebrators outside. Aside from chewing, only the slurp of a pale wine could be heard, followed by the clap of a chalice against rock.

Daenerys stole a look at Khalan Drogo, seated beside her. Since they sat down, he had not let go of her hand. He held it tightly, and it was then Daenerys noticed his palm had started to grow slick with sweat.

If Drogo was nervous, the rest of his body did not show it. Dark brown eyes stared ahead, hawklike and piercing. His face was covered by a white veil now, the hem of it sewn with small circles of gold. He was dressed in a similarly colored cloak, covered from head to toe. His arms were visible from the elbow, and on each finger, numerous iron rings clung.

As the feast went on, numerous denizens had come to offer what Daenerys soon understood to be gifts.

A Tyroshi introduced himself as "Nasos of Miskilis," a shipping company responsible for most of the exports around the Free Cities. Nasos also commanded a sturdy fleet of airships, craft powerful enough to be used in inter-atmospheric freight between Essos and Westeros.

He gifted Daenerys a beautiful dress- black in color, with dark purple wristcuffs and red tassels. To Drogo, Nasos gifted a phaserifle- a long and black weapon with a serrated barrel. Nasos, in barely understandable Tyrosh, winked as he made his exit, asking Daenerys to remember him.

Now, the sound of singing filled the air, tumbling alongside the winds that caressessed yellow sands. Looking outside once more, Daenerys saw the Dothraki warriors dancing jubilantly, often to the clapping and laughter of their audience. In the distance, beyond the light of the fires, Daenerys could see the silhouette of thousands of warmachines- the Dothraki positioned the craft in a crude circle around the festival.

The feast tent was erected upon a high plateau, so that the entire valley would be privy to those chosen within.

Cloth walls loomed nearly fifteen meters upward, and now bleated under a beating wind. This unnerved Daenerys, feeling uncomfortable for the first time. Daenerys straightened, sensing Drogo's eyes on her-

Though this was only for a moment. He leaned forward, beckoning the next tribute-giver with a wave.

The man who came next was of middling height. His skin seemed to glow despite its deep blackness, while slanted eyes bearing blue pupils regarded Drogo, then Daenerys. The man wore a turban, and of his face, only the thin bridge of a nose was seen. A curved sword hung from a loose diamond belt. The man's right hand rested on the pommel of the weapon, while the left hand...

Daenerys swallowed a gasp at the rattle of chains.

The turban wearer pulled a broad-shouldered slave forward. He was older, perhaps late middle age, with sun-scarred skin and balding blonde hair. His features were blocky and cumbersome, while the blues of his pupils rivaled that of his master. Drogo's eyes glanced downwards at the slave.

The turban wearer spoke.

Daenerys did gasp this time-

"Yes... the jubilations of those outside.. It is fitting, now that I am able to look upon her."

The turban wearer spoke Valyrian. Not the pidgin of Nasos... true Valyrian.

But this man was clearly not Valyrian himself.

He looked at Daenerys, noting her surprise.

"There are talks of you, the Sowhar, as they call you. These Oseilikai.. Are excitable..and thus, word spreads quickly...It has been centuries since a Khalan married outside the steppe."

"What is your name?" Drogo asked-

Replying in Valyrian in kind. It wasn't nearly as perfect as the man's, but it was steady, if not slow, in its confidence.

Daenerys' jaw dropped, dumbfounded.

The turban wearer smiled, corners of it nearly visible.

"My name is Sisaekyt, bound of Targisihid. I have come under the gleaming embrace of The Black Priestess of Volantis.. My Master, she heard the excitable word of your people, Khalan Drogo." Sisaekyt purred.

Drogo looked at Daenerys, before returning his attention back to Sisaekyt.

"She wanted to sate such curiosities, and thus, I have come before you." The man continued.

Drogo raised his hand towards Sisaekyt's prisoner.

"And what of your slave? He has the look and gait of a Westerosi." Drogo asked carefully.

Sisaekyt laughed.

"He is in service to me, as I am in service to the Priestess."

Drogo's eyes narrowed behind their veil.

"What are his uses?"

Sisaekyt tapped the Westerosi slave on the shoulder. The man stood to his full height, then bowed.

"He is like a dog. He eats, he fights, he defecates."

"Of what tongues can he speak?" Drogo pressed.

"He sings Tyorshi. I have heard him mumble Ghiscari after killing two men. Nights ago, he exchanged bawdy slurs with an Ibbenese trader. He even knows Valyrian."

Daenerys' eyes passed over the man. Despite the situation he found himself in, it seemed he carried a sort of dignity. Sisaekyt spoke of the slave with a sort of pride, as if servitude had been beneficial to developing worthwhile skill.

It was rare to meet a Westerosi who could speak Valyrian, let alone here, on Essos.

"And of what worth is your slave to me?" The Khalan hissed, Valyrian leaping from a curled tongue.

Sisaekyt bowed.

"This one has served under your cousins."

Daenerys noticed that Drogo tensed.

She whipped her eyes back to Sisaekyt, jewels in her hair chiming.

The turbaned man held a rapt gaze upon Drogo.

"The Yuezhi."

The Dothraki, content to silence thus far, stirred at this name.

Yuezhi?

Drogo stood, slowly placing hands onto the stone table.

"What does he know of them?"

"Many things, I am assuming. All of this, for but one request, Khalan."

There seemed to be a commotion from outside. Several shouts rose, one after the other-

Until one ended in a scream.

An armless Dothraki stumbled through the mouth of the tent. The doomed man stumbled about, face vacant as blood poured from grievous wounds. Before the table had time to react, their guards swooped at movement at the tent's opening-

The guard that was closest to the black sword died first. His head, from the top of his eyebrows, was sliced clean open, blood falling upon his killer's white hair.

The second guard kicked a dying comrade aside, drawing a curved blade. To this one's credit, he survived three exchanges with the swordsman, before jumping into a rising flash of blackness that heralded a falling crescent of blood.

The guard desperately tried to claw for his fallen weapon-

Before the sword's point drove through the top of a shaven skull.

Silence took the feast tent as more Dothraki entered. They circled defensively, eyes wide at the bodies of a warrior elite, slaughtered like animals for feasting.

Sisaekyt hummed in dim humor.

"Stay your blade, Aeganisid. They have allowed you entry."

The swordsman's blade squelched as it was pulled free from Dothraki skull.

Daenerys' felt as if she couldn't move- it wasn't even that she was afraid, it was that it had all happened so quickly.

The swordsman seemed to be carrying something.

He did all of that... with only one arm?

It was then Daenerys noticed that he held a box of ebon wood at a slender waist.

Sisaekyt's turban bowed towards Drogo.

"I will give you the slave.. Who will give you tales of the Yuezhi.."

Sisaekyt's attention then found Daenerys. She gripped the armrests of a shaking throne, trying to compose herself. The swordsman looked on impassively, purple eyes nearly black.

"If you allow your new bride.. To accept a gift directly from The Black Priestess." Sisaekyt motioned at the swordsman.

"You may lower it, Aeganisid."

Daenerys watched the blackened box as it touched dusty ground.

Time itself seemed to still then, the seconds between what was once known and the implausibility of fate. Daenerys was no historian. She knew some stories, though mostly they were tales of past Targaryen glory, recanted to her by Viserys so that she could calm herself.

She had never believed in them- not truly. The stories brought her a kind of comfort, a daydream that life was grander than it was. Viserys constantly told her of their trueborn rights, of the Kingdom owed-

All of it... seemed so far away.

But as Aeganisid opened the box, Daenerys realized just how quickly circumstances change.

Within the box, in a bed of sheepskin, lay three eggs.

Dragon eggs.