The day I was to be betrothed, my brother came upon me in the bath to warn me of the cost of failure.
I first knew he was there by his footsteps. As he approached, he stalked along the marble tiles of Illyrio's great bathhouse, the heels of his fine calfskin boots clicking after every step.
And as he got closer, I could not help myself—a brief tremble entered my body, a fear of 'the dragon' within him that I must have inadvertently awakened.
Then his uncalloused palm landed upon what little of my bare shoulder remained above the steaming water, and the trembling stopped before he could see the emotions his presence had wrought.
"Stand, sister," he commanded, the carefully sculpted cuticles of his nails digging into my flesh.
I did as he asked, stepping out of the bath to face him. In response, his hand released me, clasping together with its twin as Viserys glared into my eyes with those pale, lilac irises of his.
Suppressing a flinch, I did my best to reciprocate the stare. It must have been quite the strange sight for the handmaidens and slaves around us in the bathhouse—him in his well-fitted woollen doublet of black and red (adorned with dancing dragons and cinched by a never-used sword belt), staring down at me—a girl of ten and seven, clad in naught but what rivulets of water still clung to my skin and weighed down my silver hair.
"Hmm," my brother hummed, his eyes blatantly trailing over my nude form. "I will admit, Daenerys, that I am skeptical you will be truly desirable to this horselord. The breasts are too small, the hips too skeletal—but Illyrio assures me that the compact is ironclad. There is, apparently, much prestige to having a Princess as khaleesi—such that the khal would be a fool to refuse."
"And yet…" Viserys paused, then. I did not interject, for this was (as Viserys called it) a moment of 'kingly pensiveness.' I would not interrupt it—he had hit me for less before.
"...Well, let's just say I have seen many a prettier dragonseed among even the simple bedslaves of this manse." he continued. "In fact, although I would have done my duty to fulfill tradition, it would have been a great burden to wed you happily."
I doubted that, judging by the look of lust in his eyes at the moment.
Then he grabbed me once more—this time not by the shoulder, but by the back of my head. As he spoke, he dug his fingers into my well-brushed hair, forcing my face closer to his until I could feel the heat of his breath. "You must entrance him, sister—otherwise I will never have my armies. Am I understood?"
I nodded. Yet in response, the fingers sunk deeper—perhaps creating bruises, but certainly not ones that would be visible in public.
"Speak, Daenerys. Let me hear you acknowledge it. It will not do for him to think you dumb." my brother spat.
Straightening my back, I replied. "I understand… my King. I will do as you say."
"Good," Viserys said. His hand gave one last pulse of grip, then released me.
His hands shaking as they did when nerves infested him, Viserys turned to exit—calling over his shoulder as he left. "By the way, sister—this Khal is a new one, some conquering warrior who usurped Drogo in the Grass Sea. If you have infested your dreams with the name Drogo in preparation for your wedding night, stop that—and begin to dream of Perseus."
He turned to me when he reached the door to the bathhouse's entry hall, grabbing a bundle of fabric off a nearby end table. "Your shift for tonight. Be ready in an hour."
He did his best to throw it at my feet. It fell short.
Though the lacking throw did not truly matter, I suppose—I would not put it on for another thirty minutes. Instead, I would sit in the bath, and imagine the heat had burnt everything but me away
Eventually, though, I did ready myself.
I put on the soft, crumpled slip. I allowed the slaves (or rather, indentured handmaids, for Pentos is permitted no 'true' slaves by Braavos) to put upon me in a deep violet gown, its neckline low and its color rich. I allowed them to adorn me with borrowed golden trinkets and the magister's radiant jewels—and by the end, I was a fluffed peacock, a treasured possession of Illyrio's that had been adorned and claimed by his wealth.
Even then, I did not allow myself to once more fear my circumstances. Perhaps Viserys was a 'Beggar King', a grand laughing stock among the Free Cities. But he had the right idea in this—a dragon does not permit defeat, nor fear, to infest them.
And so it was only upon standing outside the Dothraki manse, Viserys beside me, that I began to admit my fear.
Even from merely the estate's threshold, I could tell that this gathering was a raucous thing. Great lights shone out the windows, and high-tempo music accompanied a continual murmur of chatter and the occasional joyous exclamation. And further in, within the grassy indoor yard of the great building, I could hear the booms of great drums—and from a distance, I just barely glimpsed a torch's dancing flames, clearly used to light the outdoor festivities.
The magister Illyrio, whose palanquin had escorted us here, bent to whisper in the herald's ear. Then, he nodded to Viserys. "You should enter now, Your Grace," he said.
Viserys sniffed, striding forward with a hand resting upon the hilt of his unused sword. I hurried to catch up, gown swishing silently in the cool night air. Meanwhile, Illyrio followed behind us unhurriedly, jowls bouncing with every step.
"Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He is accompanied by his sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. Both are escorted by Magister Illyrio Mopatis of the Free City of Pentos, their honorable host."
I wondered, idly, how Viserys was 'protecting' the Realm with his presence here. Certainly the Usurper was despicable (for as all know, child-murderers and traitors are accursed things), but none would deny that he had a better claim to that particular title than my brother did—a boy who would soon sell his own sister to gain just a small army of supposed 'barbarians'.
But her brother appreciated Illyrio's indirect flattery, so what was I to do?
So instead of obsessing over the obsequious Illyrio, I pulled myself out of my head, and beheld the manse's interior.
It was, undoubtedly, a grand thing. The pillars of the central atrium were marble things, each an ivy-wrapped monolith which stretched up all the way to the room's vast, blackened ceiling. From the darkened heights of the atrium, moonlight shone—and from below, immense lanterns cast an orange glow upon the chaotic proceedings of the new khal's celebration.
There were men of every shade here: the expected Dothraki horselords, yes, but also Magisters of the Three Sisters, Ibbenese axemen, and even a few lords of the Summer Isles.
And there were women, too—all Dothraki, to be certain, but it nonetheless gave Daenerys comfort to see that she would not be alone among this crowd of violent men.
Then she noticed a man approaching their party. He had gotten quite close as Dany had taken in the rest of the proceedings, and even while her eyes alighted upon him, he was bowing before her brother.
"My King," he said, one hand suddenly in Viserys' own, the other rubbing upon the well-worn hilt of his belted blade.
Viserys seemed taken aback, freezing for a good few seconds.
"...And this is?" he finally managed to get out, eyes darting to Illyrio in a silent plea for help.
"Ser Jorah Mormont, if I'm not mistaken," Illyrio replied, squinting at the perhaps forty-year-old man with a seldom-heard tone of surprise to his voice. "The former lord of Bear Island—once anointed as a knight by the High Septon himself."
Viserys quirked an eyebrow, dropping Ser Jorah's hand. "Ah, yes, yes. I recall the story now. You are a recent exile, of just four years, yes? One who fled your home after his liege lord caught him selling his lands' poachers as slaves?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Jorah admitted, his face for a moment contorted into what Dany could only see as something deeply ashamed.
"Oh, bear no shame for it," Viserys said, laughing it off. "It is a trifling thing, that—hardly something you would have to worry about under my justice."
For a moment, I would swear I saw Jorah's face flicker into a frown at those words. But it did not last long—in an instant, he was grim-faced and stoic once more. This was, undoubtedly, a man who knew how to appeal to my brother's ego: with titles, seriousness, and a faint tinge of that fatherly validation Viserys craved.
And indeed, speaking quickly enough to cover for the lapse, Jorah soon voiced his relatively obsequious reply. "Indeed, your Grace."
As the formalities continued to flow between them, I allowed my attention to drift away. My eyes began to follow the ivy upon the pillars, tracing one particular vine all the way up to the roof of the atrium.
Eventually, though, Illyrio butted in, and my attention was pulled back to the discussion at hand. I had never fully trusted the Magister, you see—and I truly would be a girlish fool to trust him now.
"I have heard, Ser Jorah, that you've lived among the Dothraki for some time now," Illyrio said, silken robes sweeping about him as he stepped closer to the knight. "Is there anything you might tell us about this new khal?"
"Yes, there is," Ser Jorah said. Then, he winced. "It is not the best news, I'll admit—but I suppose the Princess deserves to know, if nothing else."
He extended his hand to me. "If I may?"
"Very well," Viserys replied when I glanced over for his approval, "Lead on, Ser Jorah."
I tentatively took the knight's rough palm in mine. It was… an uncomfortable thing to do.
But none in this part would give one whit for my objections, even if I did vocalize them. So with Jorah guiding the rest of us through the whirling crowd, we soon arrived atop a small, raised platform on the main floor, before which was a large window pane—one which faced directly into the manse's grassy main courtyard.
But at the moment, this was no typical courtyard. The grass had been ripped up and thrown around by a great crowd of Dothraki men, shoving back and forth between themselves.
To the side, a great torch-lit tent stood, inside which several beautiful horses proudly looked out over the crowd. A red stallion, a flowing palomino, even the most beautiful silver mare—it was a group of steeds that could have been the pride of any great lord's stables.
But at the center of it all was the true spectacle—for in a torch-marked circle within the great crowd of horselords, there were thirteen men clearly preparing to battle for their lives.
I had not known the Dothraki threw melees—as far as I'd known, that was an entirely Westerosi tradition.
Beside me, Viserys had obviously come to a similar conclusion. "I hadn't known the Dothraki's free men participated in bloodsport," he said to Jorah—myself sandwiched between them. "Is this what you wish to confront us with? Some novel indulgence for the new khal? It matters not for this marriage, believe me."
I felt a shock of fear go through me. Was this true? Was my husband-to-be more savage than even his own people?
"No, Your Grace," Jorah said, frowning. "It is altogether worse than that. Look closer, and you will see."
The fear intensified.
Suddenly desperate to understand what was happening, I looked outside again, squinting against the harsh torchlight.
It took a moment for my vision to adjust. But the second it did, I immediately realized how I had been wrong—for this was no melee.
No, this was one man against twelve: the twelve with blades, and the one without.
About ten seconds later, Viserys seemed to realize the same. "What's happening out there?"
Jorah sighed. "Your sister's intended, it seems, has claimed to be the Stallion who Mounts the World—basically the promised unifier and savior of the Dothraki people. Those twelve-" and here he gestured at the twelve armed men, "are his own kos—essentially his commanders—alongside Khal Moro, and Moro's kos." The knight massaged his temples. "Moro was in Pentos as well, and apparently the Dothraki version of honor demands a battle like this—all other Dothraki leaders against the Stallion—if the Stallion wishes to claim another khalasar."
At that, I couldn't help but freeze. My foolish intended had committed suicide by prophecy—and somehow, I knew that Viserys would find a way to blame his sudden lack of an army on me.
If any of that panic had infested Illyrio, however, he certainly didn't show it. Instead, I watched as the Magister calmly went to Ser Jorah's side.
"Ser Jorah, who will take control of the khalasar once Perseus is dead?" the Magister asked. "Do you believe they would be amenable to a betrothal?"
The knight scoffed. "The kos will splinter it into a half-dozen pieces by the time they're done, so no." Jorah turned to leave—though before he departed, the Ser made sure to get in his parting remarks. "Regardless of this outcome, I would like to speak with you later, your Grace. Until then… might I suggest praying? It's just about your only hope at this point."
And with that lingering in the air, Ser Jorah left us.
"...That insolent slaver!" Viserys screamed after a moment. "He will be lucky if I ever-"
He was cut off by a drum—and as my brother quieted, I knew the fighting had begun.
My face carefully blank, I watched as the twelve fighters encircled Perseus. Their blades were all out, each one perhaps six feet from my foolish betrothed's vulnerable flesh.
His Dothraki leathers, after all, would hardly prove an obstacle to good steel like this.
But before the twelve could close in, Perseus darted to his right with impossible speed, sliding down to the ground and sweeping the horsehair-clad legs of one of his opponents. Perseus didn't allow him any chance for recovery, either—having broken out of the encirclement, he smashed the head of his fallen opponent into the ground, scooped up the enemy's sword, and stood.
The whole maneuver must have taken only six seconds, if that. I wasn't even sure how I'd made it all out—I was hardly a seasoned warrior, well-practiced at battlefield awareness.
Nonetheless, my attention was rapt upon Perseus.
With a roar, three of the remaining warriors charged at him, brandishing their weapons. The others followed, though quieter—I imagine, without the space a circle provided, they would have struggled to use any more men at once in such a small fighting ring.
Meanwhile, Percy shrunk back to the edge of the arena. I wasn't sure why—and then I realized. This way, he could fight to his front and sides while confident that his back was unexposed.
In about eight seconds, the three warriors had entered sword range. Immediately, the ones at his left and center struck at Perseus—the one to his left swinging for the neck, and the other slashing at his midsection. Meanwhile, the third opponent stabbed at his upper torso—clearly aiming to pierce lungs or heart with a blow through Perseus' thin leather armor.
Whirling about, Perseus dealt with them all in a flurry of parries. This, I couldn't track nearly as well—but as best I could tell, he deflected the center warrior's swipe into the stabber's blade, lowered himself to shoulder barge the rightmost attacker, then rapidly smashed his borrowed blade's pommel upon each of their heads.
After that, the three crumpled to the ground like a mummer's abandoned marionettes.
But the mercy he'd shown must have meant it took longer—because by the time the third man was toppling, I could already see a gleaming arc of steel being swung by another man. It was only a few inches from Perseus' midsection, and it was getting closer fast.
But shockingly, he didn't dodge. Instead, he leaned into the blow, headbutting the man even as a sword dragged across his vulnerable midsection (leather was not good armor).
Were those sparks I saw from the blade. What was happening?
I shook it out of my mind. It didn't matter, not when there were seven assailants left that no longer had any hesitation left in them. All of my intended husband's maneuvers had pushed him away from the edge of the impromptu arena, so now they were encircling him once more—but this time, they were going on the attack much faster once the circle was formed.
But at this point, Perseus didn't seem to care. Instead of shrinking from or parrying the rapidly approaching lengths of sharp metal, he threw his borrowed blade hilt-first into a man's chin, then he caught two others in his bare hands.
Even from my place inside, I could hear the crack as that man's head snapped back. Then Perseus pulled—and I heard shouts of surprise from those on the other ends.
He yanked those two right in front of him, and then his boot-clad left foot snapped up in front of him.
The two went limp, falling on the ground as their grips loosened.
Three enemies were left—and at this point, I could just barely make out the body paint which must have disclosed their affiliations.
One of Perseus' remaining opponents wore a deep, sea-blue upon forearms. Considering that the intricate detailing on Perseus' (now semi-shredded) leather cuirass was the same exact shade, I think it's safe to say that this opponent was one of my intended's kos.
The other two were in golden-green—one's skin adorned with its paints, and the other in armor decorated to show a great giant of the same coloring. Presumably, this was Khal Moro and one of his kos.
I watched as Perseus glared across the arena at his rival khal, slowly stalking over to these final three opponents of his.
Then Moro barked something out in a crude tongue—presumably Dothraki. After that, everything happened very quickly.
To begin, Moro stepped behind Perseus' kos, then wrapped his right arm around the kos—holding his blade to their throat. At the same time, the last kos from Moro's khalasar had dashed over to Perseus. Now looking quite conflicted, he levelled his blade towards Perseus.
Vaguely, I heard Illyrio explaining that Moro knew he was about to die. As the Dothraki would view it, rather than die screaming, Moro had chosen to die dishonorably.
Thankfully, though, Illyrio's discussion didn't stir me from watching the fight.
Because five seconds later—in a way which must have been deliberately timed, though I knew not why—is when Perseus snapped.
I don't mean that lightly. One moment, I was wondering why my intended was digging his foot into the courtyard's grassy dirt—and the next, I was staring in horror as Perseus pulled his arm from the pile of gory pulp that used to be Khal Moro's head.
I think I gasped. I'm not sure, though—my heart was racing too hard, each thump booming in my ears, for me to hear such a thing.
The rest of the battle was over in moments. Both of the two remaining combatants, now far enough away from each other to be vulnerable, got a blindingly fast punch to the face.
The whole of the courtyard went quiet. My heart rate began to calm.
Then a great neigh echoed over that silent crowd, the great red stallion's boisterous lungs easily cutting through the noise.
And in response, Perseus removed his damaged cuirass.
At the sight, I had to calm myself once more—for there wasn't a scratch on him. There weren't even any scars. Rather, this was the body of a man who had never taken a serious wound in his life.
In most men, that would be something mildly distasteful. But for a man you had just seen defeat twelve warriors at once… it was an utterly terrifying sight.
Perseus screamed something in that strange Dothraki tongue. The whole of the Dothraki crowd shouted back, cheering.
Suddenly, the impromptu fighting ring dissolved. Former spectators dashed about, a few dragging unconscious kos and the khal's corpse away as the vast majority rushed to pay their respects to the supposedly-unlikely victor.
Someone shook me, trying to get my attention, but I couldn't look away. What was this man?
What, exactly, had I agreed to marry?
Then, whoever it was shook me again. Suddenly annoyed, I turned to look at them with a perturbed frown upon my face.
Then I realized it was Viserys. Hurriedly, I dropped my aggrieved aggression, smoothing my face into a neutral façade.
Thankfully, Viserys didn't seem to notice—he had bigger things on his mind.
"Sister, we must go now," my brother said hurriedly, his hands almost vibrating with anxious energy. "The khal will expect us to congratulate him on his victory."
Behind him, I could see that Illyrio was already moving in that direction—his ornate robes sweeping across the floor as he sought a way to the courtyard.
"Very well, brother." I assented, my head dipping in a cursory nod.
In response, Viserys clamped his left hand around my forearm, then followed Illyrio as our party began to descend the steps into the grassy courtyard.
But as soon as I exited the building, I froze—stopping Viserys in his tracks as well with the force of my sudden stop.
There was something strange in the air. Something deadly was thrumming in the air, like a blade pointed at my very life-essence.
I scanned around me, my gaze almost feral.
Then I saw him—Perseus, staring straight at me with a bemused look on his face.
There was an energy in those sea-green eyes: a whirlpool, swirling so fast and so deeply it could have consumed me in an instant. And extending from his hand, a strange bronze light like that of the sunset shimmered in the air.
Then the light disappeared, and the threat in the air went with it. But those eyes… those eyes remained.
Viserys was speaking to me in an urgent hush, just moments away from a full yell as best I could tell.
But I didn't care—instead, I watched as Perseus bent to hear the noises of the red stallion he stood next to, then barked out a command.
At the words, the assembled Dothraki parted like a sea before him, forming a path to the steps upon which I stood.
Soon enough, he and his red stallion stood before us, and the Dothraki closed ranks behind him. Viserys should have introduced our party then—but instead, I could practically hear his fearful silence as he took in the warlord before him.
Me? I was still far too consumed by that bronze light, and those eyes, to feel fear at such a thing as this man's followers.
Eventually, Viserys managed to get some words out of his mildly gaping mouth. "Well?" he said weakly, finally releasing my now-reddened forearm. "Present yourself, sister!"
I began to walk down the steps, quickly shortening the distance between myself and the khal. And with every step closer to Perseus, I began to feel something in my gut. It was like a flame, dancing and burning not just through my flesh, but spreading like an alchemist's wildfire through my very soul.
But then I stood before him, with no more distance to be closed—and just as quickly as it had come, that strange heat in my blood vanished.
Perseus studied me for a moment. His aquamarine eyes scanned over me—looking, I knew, at my flowing hair, my shining gold and jewels, the diaphanous fabric of my layered gown. More than anything else, though, I could see that they lingered upon my reddened forearm.
His gaze darted to the red horse, which let out a whinny.
Then Perseus spoke, his voice sounding out in the startlingly familiar tones of the Common Tongue. "Everyone but Daenerys and I, leave. Now."
The other horselords left at once, trampling the courtyard's grass down into the dirt as they hurriedly left Perseus' general vicinity. Viserys, however, seemed ready to protest—right up until Illyrio grabbed his arm and whispered in his arm.
After that, Viserys seemed to think better of annoying a warrior capable of defeating three swordsmen with his bare hands alone. Instead, he and Illyrio re-entered the manse, ostensibly giving Perseus his privacy—though I knew they would soon be watching us from the windows.
And with that, the only people left were Perseus and I (although curiously, the red stallion had remained as well).
The khal quietly sighed. Then, he walked over to the tent where the horses were stored, grabbing two broad cushions that had apparently been hidden behind the line of stallions and mares.
He walked back to me, setting the cushions beside each other on the lowest tier of the courtyard steps. Lastly, he sat down, gently patting the other cushion once.
I took the hint and sat down.
Once we were both sitting, the horse snorted at its master.
And, finally, Perseus spoke to me. "I am… sorry in advance, Daenerys. I am not good with this tongue right now. Lykófos," and here he indicated the horse, "does what he can to help, but he is not fast with the Common Tongue. Apologies."
Somehow, I couldn't find it in me to see that as strange. Compared to everything else I had experienced tonight—compared to the prophesized warlord and the burning blood and the shining copper light—what was so odd about a horse with a gift for languages?
Rather than obsessing over such a thing, I instead put my focus where it belonged—providing my brother with the deal for his army.
"Perseus, I… I know this marriage will put me in a different world," I hesitantly responded, unable to look at the deadly warlord directly. "I accept your nature."
Technically, it was the truth—I had accepted the khal's nature. Specifically, I had accepted it as utterly, inevitably terrifying.
After a quick exchange of words with the horse, Perseus scoffed, then verbalized his response. "Look, don't pretend—you're terrified of me. I get it."
He paused for a moment. Eventually, though, he continued—his voice full of some strange emotion I could not identify. "Look, I don't know if you were expecting this, but… your affection… that's not why I said yes to that fat Magister's envoys. I wanted to learn more because I was curious about Targaryens—curious if the Fire in your veins was similar to the Ocean in mine."
The ocean in his veins?
…Yes. Yes, I could feel it—that was the nature of the power in those whirling cerulean eyes. But did this mean we would not be wed? Did this mean my brother would not receive his army?
Viserys needed to have that army. This needed to happen, or else the dragon would be well and truly awake—and I wasn't sure if it would ever go back to sleep.
"...And now that your curiosity is satisfied, Perseus? What now?" I managed to choke out, still averting my eyes from his face.
Am I to be just some strange novelty to the world now? To you?
Another translation round commenced.
"...Now, I think I will marry you," the khal then said, a tinge of resignation to his voice. "Both because I can feel there is something to that rumored fire in your blood, and because I can see the nature of that brother of yours."
He turned his face to mine, fixing those greenish-turquoise orbs on mine until I could ignore him no longer. "He hurts you—doesn't he, Daenerys?"
I just… nodded. I wasn't sure what else to do.
Perseus squeezed his eyes shut with evident frustration. "Then I suppose this is happening. No man like that should ever have someone like you within his reach."
He stood to leave, grabbing his cushion. But then something paused him—something more that he whispered to the horse for the words to.
At last, looking down at me, he said the final words of our conversation. "Ah…" he began awkwardly, "Daenerys, please—could you call me Percy?" He chuckled dryly. "The only one I've ever expected to call me Perseus is my father."
Mute with swirling shock, anxiety, and just the slightest edge of terror, I could not verbalize my response. Instead, I nodded once more.
In response, Perseus—no, Percy—just smiled. His boots clicked as he climbed the manse's steps.
And then he left, disappearing into the crowded atrium of his home.
The next day, as Viserys and I broke our fast in Illyrio's manse, a messenger came to deliver the news.
The wedding would be in a week.
A/N: Daenerys II will be next week.