Late April, 300 AC
Irri sometimes uses Dothraki in her narration. The words come from either the books or from the Dothraki language created for the show.
Dothraki Glossary
khaleesi: the wife of a khal
khal: king/warlord
ashefa: river
zoqwat: kiss
khalikki: daughter of a khal
Andahli: literally an Andal; in common usage a person from Westeros
khalasar: a king's people; a clan or tribe
khas: the personal guard of a khal's family
dosh khaleen: the widows of khals; revered for their wisdom
I decided that like many cultures, Dothraki have their own counting system. They count by fours to honor the horse god. Four is a sacred number, just as seven is sacred to those who worship the Faith of the Seven.
tor: four
tor-tor: four by four; 16
tor-ori: four by eight; 32
tor-thi: four by ten; 40
Euron Greyjoy is his own trigger warning. This chapter also contains references to past sexual abuse.
The poison water glimmered beneath the stars, pale crests foaming atop the dark waves. Slaver's Bay, or so men used to call it. Now men called it the Bay of Dragons for the khaleesi who claimed its eastern shores.
Irri sighed, wrapping her arms around her knees as the cool sand shifted beneath her buttocks. This was not her place. Whether she scrubbed with sand or washed with water, dull red dust still clung to her skin. Men were not meant to live suffocated within pyramids and huts of crumbling brick. The khaleesi did not like the harpy's city, but she had chosen to make it hers, and her handmaids had nowhere else to go.
Irri had been born on the western edge of the Dothraki Sea, among lush grasses of gold and green beside the clear blue waters of the Selhoru. The fisherpeople called her the Shy Daughter of the Rhoyne for how she hid her course. Irri's people called her ashefa zoqwat, the river that kisses, for how she embraced the grasses and reeds.
It was a good home for Khal Dhako and his two wives and five children. Her father's khalasar roamed the grasses, grazing their horses, sheep, and goats at each of the four great pastures in turn. Every few years, when the young riders grew weary of peace, they raided nearby cities for slaves and gems and shining gold and silver.
Their father intended great marriages for Irri and her older sister Jhiqui, his precious khalikkis. They were as beautiful and clever as their mothers, with their thick dark hair and their lush brown skin, a warm russet red like the rich soil of the earth. While their three brothers learned the way of the bow and the spear, Irri and her sister learned music and dancing from their mothers. Barren women taught them how to heal with herbs and potions, how to recognize the plants that would make a man strong from those that would kill. Old female slaves taught them the fine art of painting vests, of how to create beauty with naught but a brush and a pot of color.
The oldest of the slave women was Andahli, a merchant's daughter taken in her youth. She and her daughters were a pitiful pale white, like worms, their skin so frightened of the sun that it turned bright red and peeled. The worm women spoke a strange slippery language to each other, avoiding the plain good speech of the Dothraki whenever they could. It was Irri's idea to dare Jhiqui to learn the silly slave talk, betting her finest boots against Jhiqui's favorite belt. When Jhiqui won, Irri had no choice but to prove she could learn the slave talk, which the pale slaves called the "Common Tongue," faster than her preening older sister.
They had been playing the game for two years when Khal Drogo came.
Khal Dhako had ruled for twenty years, as wise and just as his father and his father's father. For over a hundred years the khalasar had prospered on the banks of the Selhoru.
In one night, the khalasar was gone.
Their mothers held them close in Khal Dhako's tent, the flaps shut tight and guarded by their khas. The sound of slaughter rang through the night as men screamed and shouted and died. When dawn crept over the world, it was over.
Khal Drogo's blood riders dragged them out into the scorching sun. Dhako lay on the ground, his head beside his chest, his sons flung beside him. Temmo's impish grin was gone, replaced by a red smile across his neck. Hako and Zetho lay side by side, together in death as they were in life. While Jhiqui wailed, Irri sank to her knees, numb. She barely noticed as the riders dragged the once-proud khaleesis away. Their place was with the dosh khaleen now; they would be safe and honored.
Jhiqui and Irri were not so fortunate. Irri was eleven; Jhiqui a year older and already flowered. Most khals treated captive khalikki with honor, taking their father's place as their protector before wedding them to one of his kos. Dothraki must not enslave Dothraki; the horse god forbade it. Khal Drogo's old bloodrider Cohollo was kind enough as he guided them to their place among the defeated khalasar, but before the sun set the first rider raped Jhiqui.
Irri and Jhiqui became the handmaids of Khal Drogo's grandmother, Caana, an old woman as harsh as she was wrinkled. Her daughter had wed Khal Bharbo, born the khalakka Drogo, and gone to the dosh khaleen when Bharbo died. But Caana's husband had only been a ko, and so when he died she remained with the khalasar, as feared as she was revered.
Day and night they jumped to Caana's every whim. There were no more lessons with their mothers, no more jokes with their teasing elder brothers, only endless work. Dothraki they might be, and thus free from wearing bronze collars at their throats, but in the khalasar of Khal Drogo a handmaid was no more than a slave. Irri had never noticed how much there was for the slaves to do. Food must be fetched from the cook slaves or prepared fresh, wine poured, clothes mended. The old woman's tent must be kept spotless, her treasures displayed just so, lest she beat them with her cane.
At first the sisters consoled each other with soft words, until they realized every word that passed between them was a new chance for Caana to mock and scold. When Jhiqui whispered of her fear of being raped again, the old woman summoned a rider that very night and laughed as he took Jhiqui before the fire. After that they spoke to each other in the slave talk.
Caana had them whipped. Irri had never imagined such pain; no man laid a hand on a khalikki lest he lose it. But she was no khalikki now, only a handmaid, bound to serve and obey. She huddled with Jhiqui on their hard sleeping pallet, lying flat on her stomach, too sore to cry. How often had she seen a slave whipped in her father's khalasar, and taken no more notice than she might at a feral dog being kicked?
By the time their wounds healed Caana had lost interest in words she did not understand. Her illness was on her then, the slow lingering sickness of the old, or so the khal believed. Drogo did not see Jhiqui plucking herbs when she went to the river to fetch water, nor did he see Irri sprinkling them over the old woman's food. At last Caana grew so weak that she was forced to ride in a cart. When she finally died, it was in the Common Tongue that the sisters prayed for her soul to go to hell.
It was the Common Tongue that proved their salvation in the end. With his grandmother dead, Khal Drogo chose to marry, and set his sights on finding a bride worthy of his might, a bride whose birth and beauty would be unmatched by any other khaleesi. When the cheesemonger of Pentos offered him the last dragon princess, nothing would do but that Khal Drogo must have her. And what finer gift for his Andahli bride than two handmaidens who already spoke her savage tongue?
Cold water splashed Irri's toes, distracting her from her memories of home. She scrambled backward, away from the angry waves that rumbled and crashed against the sand.
Once there had been many sails on the poison water, the white sails of the Milk Men of Qarth and the yellow sails of the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Now wreckage littered the waves of the Dragon's Bay, scraps of sails and splinters of masts, the bloated corpses of slaves and masters alike. Only one ship had survived the battle, and it lay beached upon the shore, its sails black as night.
The Andahli longships had come from nowhere, their arrival as much a surprise to the khaleesi as to the ships blockading the bay. By the time the khaleesi reached the top of the Great Pyramid the battle was already won, the Qartheen and Yunkish ships destroyed. The cost had been heavy, though. Only one longship remained to tell the tale.
"Look," the khaleesi said, pointing. "Her sails are black, and her hull..." she squinted.
"It is red, khaleesi. An ill omen." Jhiqui shuddered.
"No," said the khaleesi, eyes shining. "They are the colors of House Targaryen."
Irri had watched from her place beside the throne the next day as Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons, welcomed the ship's captain.
The three-headed dragon crown weighed heavy upon the khaleesi's brow, but she struggled to hide her smile as the captain approached, stalking forward with predatory grace.
The captain was an Andahli man of tor-thi, his face smooth and pale beneath a beard as dark as the hair that swept to his shoulders. A black leather patch covered one eye; the other was as blue as Doreah's had been, blue as a summer sky. The air seemed to leave the room as he swaggered to kneel before the khaleesi, his smile the wickedest Irri had ever seen.
Even before he began to speak Irri felt the stirrings of mistrust. His speech was smooth as sandsilk as he declared himself to be Euron Greyjoy, Captain of the Silence , rightful Lord of the Iron Islands of Westeros.
"My younger brother and my niece betrayed me and usurped my title, just as the Usurper and his followers betrayed King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar," the captain said. "He claims to be King of the Iron Islands, but what man needs a driftwood crown when the Mother of Dragons arises to reclaim her rightful throne?"
"The gods are good to send you to me," the khaleesi said carefully. "How did you know of my need?"
"No man has sailed as far as I, nor delved so deeply into the secrets of warlocks and maegi and shadowbinders. In my travels I heard tell of the fairest woman in the world, mother of dragons, last of her illustrious line, and in my dreams I saw her, proud and strong and besieged by foes."
"Yet I had heard House Greyjoy joined the Usurper against my father."
The captain shrugged, an insolent smile on his lips.
"I was but a boy at the time, but I shall not deny that the ironborn raided the Reach, who were allied with House Targaryen. Your Grace knows the value of conquest, though our poor longships are nothing compared to your dragons. And I come bearing gifts to make amends for the faults of my forebears, wergild for your father and brother so cruelly slain."
"What gifts?" The khaleesi asked sharply. Euron smiled then, his eye devouring the khaleesi as her cheeks turned pink.
"The first gift is that of service, though I am but one man with one ship."
He laid a sword before the khaleesi's feet.
"The second gift is that of truth. A harpy plagues Your Grace. I offer her to your justice."
Euron held up a slip of paper, folded and sealed with wax. Missandei stepped forward, taking the paper in a small brown hand and handing it to the khaleesi. The khaleesi broke the seal with her fingernail, her lips tightening as she read, and when she looked up her eyes were flaming.
"And the last gift?"
"The last gift is that of your ancestors, a gift so rare it is for your eyes and ears alone," he said softly.
A cry of pleasure pierced the night. Irri shuddered, wishing she could not hear the grunts and moans and slapping of flesh coming from the tent. Sometimes Irri wondered if wedding Khal Drogo had broken something in the khaleesi. First Daario Naharis, now Euron Greyjoy... the khaleesi was a little older than Irri, but she was a child still, not yet tor-tor. Her eye should delight in bashful youths her own age, but no man could not catch her eye unless he was at least tor-ori and as cruel as Drogo.
Thrice the whitebeard had begged the khaleesi to change her mind, to refuse the captain's precious gift. The Crow's Eye was no common sellsword like Daario Naharis; his name was known from the Sunset Kingdoms to the Free Cities, his reputation drenched in blood. The khaleesi would not listen.
"Men say many things of me, Ser Barristan," the khaleesi replied. "They say I bathe in the blood of virgins and slaughter men each night to feed my dragons. They say I am a liar, a kinslayer, a sorceress." She raised an eyebrow, her fine silvery hair falling across her face. "Tell me, ser, do you think those rumors true as well?"
The whitebeard bowed his head, defeated, and left the khaleesi's chambers. At her command Jhiqui helped the khaleesi out of her clothes and into her terrace pool while Irri fetched goat cheese and olives and sweet wine. When she returned it was to find the khaleesi laying in the pool, her eyes closed as Jhiqui washed her silvery hair.
"Thank you," the khaleesi said as Irri set the food at the edge of the pool. A persimmon tree shaded the pool from the worst of the sun, its leaves a rich green that reminded Irri of the grasses beside the Selhoru.
"Khaleesi, please," Irri begged, for what reason she could not say. "The Andahli means you ill."
The khaleesi opened her eyes, and Irri quailed before her violet stare.
"Euron has sailed halfway across the world," the khaleesi said, water dripping from her pale skin as she rose from the pool. "His ships freed the bay from the Qartheen and Yunkish; already the fishermen bring nets full of fish to my hungry city. If Euron meant me ill, he might have saved himself such trouble. Every longship was lost but for his own; he has no men but for his crew. For months the Shavepate gives me nothing but excuses as I watch my men die, and yet Euron delivers me the harpy herself. Do you think me so weak that I must fear one man, a mere captain?"
Irri lowered her eyes, trembling. The khaleesi had never spoken to her so sharply; was this the moment Irri woke the dragon? The khaleesi spoke little of her brother since his death, yet still Irri feared that someday the khaleesi would turn as cruel and vicious as the Khal Rhaggat who raised her.
But he had been weak, only an adder in the grass; the khaleesi was fierce and strong. She had shed her brother's blood in Vaes Dothrak, red tears dripping from his cheek where the bronze medallions of the belt had struck him. The khaleesi did not seem to care that she had profaned the sacred city, nor that Jhiqui and Irri would be slain alongside their mistress if any man learned what their khaleesi had done. She merely told them to eat her supper before curling around a dragon's egg, the deep green one flecked with bronze.
The khaleesi screamed again, and this time the green dragon screamed with her, his cry echoing across the bay. Rhaegal . It seemed strange to remember how she had once stroked his warm scales, watching him doze on a cushion like a cat. Now Irri could not go near him for fear of him snapping at her. From snout to tail he was nearly as big as a horse, but light and slender, too small for even the little khaleesi to ride.
The khaleesi had not wanted to attempt the ritual with Rhaegal. The great black dragon was her favorite, his name as ill-favored as his temper. Drogon. Sometimes Irri feared that the khal's spirit possessed the dragon his wife loved so much. Perhaps that was why Drogon had flown so far. The khaleesi could never command the khal, no more than she could command the dragon who had eaten a little girl.
Chaining Viserion and Rhaegal beneath the Great Pyramid had only made them more wild. The white and gold dragon had been the khaleesi's second choice, but Viserion had snapped one chain and melted the rest, and clung to the roof of the pit like a great bat. Only Rhaegal remained bound, and so it was the green dragon who had been dragged to the shore, wrapped in a net of heavy iron chain. Four men had died to bring him here, and nine more were burned as they staked the net to the sandy shore with great iron spikes.
To Irri's dismay the sky was growing lighter. On the beached ship she could see the shadows of men moving in the dark, silent as the grave. She wondered what tasks made them rise so early when their captain was still abed.
Her stomach flipped as she remembered the captain. Comely he might be, but he scared her, with his lips bruised blue from the foul wine of the warlocks. He had smiled at Irri as she poured flutes of the deep blue wine, one for the captain and one for the khaleesi. It flowed slow as honey and smelled of rot and death. When the flutes were filled Irri stepped back, Jhiqui murmuring words of comfort under her breath as the captain and khaleesi raised the flutes.
The khaleesi frowned at the first sip, and moaned at the second. The third she gulped down as if it were mother's milk, her pupils blown so wide her eyes looked black. The captain downed his flute in a single swallow, and wiped his mouth as he led the khaleesi into the tent.
Neither the khaleesi nor the captain had left it since. All through the night they growled like animals in rut or cried out in strange tongues. Listening to Khal Drogo ride the khaleesi had been worse, but at least it had been quiet. The khaleesi was wise enough to muffle her cries of pain in her pillow, and the khal was as silent as he had been the few times he'd ridden poor Jhiqui before he wed the khaleesi. The khal had only spared Irri for her lack of flowering; her first moon blood had come at Qarth. Though many moons had come and gone since then, Jhiqui woke sometimes in the night, weeping silently from her nightmares as Irri held her.
Irri glanced around. Jhiqui was on her sleeping mat beside the tent, fast asleep and snoring despite all the noise. The khaleesi had left Ser Barristan and his disapproving stares behind; it was the Unsullied who guarded the tent, backs straight. Their captain, Sure Spear, paced the shores, alert to any danger. More Unsullied guarded the edge of the shore, but they were so far away they were almost out of sight. There was no one watching Irri, no one but the bright stars above, the khalasar of the blessed dead. She wondered which star had once been Dhako.
Khal Drogo did not deserve to ride the night lands with the father who bounced her on his knee. May your soul burn in hell , Irri thought viciously. The desert air was dry, but the breeze across the shore was damp upon her skin. When at last her mouth was wet, Irri spat four times, once for each of the four hooves of the horse god. Once for her father, once for her brothers, once for her sister, and once for her khaleesi, who had slain the khal in her attempt to save him.
The khaleesi was growing louder, panting and sobbing by turns. "Yes," she gasped. "Please, please..."
"Daenerys," the captain growled. The khaleesi sobbed again, then shrieked as she peaked.
Irri wondered what it was like to sob from pleasure. Qotho had not cared whether she had flowered yet, and made her sob many times upon the Dothraki Sea from the pain of his cruel hands and fingers as he raped her.
She had been glad when Ser Jorah killed him for attacking the khaleesi outside the maegi's tent. While the maegi wailed and the khaleesi screamed and the men fought and shouted and died, Irri laughed at Qotho's corpse. Her slim copper fingers pulled loose the dangling forearm that had hurt her so, her mouth spat on the ruined face with its hateful eyes. May he burn with his khal , she thought. May he walk through the desert and never find a stream. May the vengeful spirits of his horses trample him from dusk to dawn.
No man had dared lay on hand on Irri since the khaleesi birthed her dragons. Fierce as she was, cruel as she might be to those who crossed her, Daenerys Stormborn did not offer herself nor her handmaids to win men to her side. And so Irri slept beside Jhiqui each night, her sister's snores as familiar as old friends.
Irri wished that sleep would find her now. Her stomach roiled with nerves as she awaited the dawn. Could the Andahli deliver what he had promised? Despite the end of the blockade Meereen was still besieged by the armies of the slavers. But if the khaleesi could control Rhaegal as she had once controlled Drogon... Irri could not feel safe until her khaleesi felt safe.
The slapping noises had stopped. Irri glanced over her shoulder at the tent, praying that they were done. What madness had possessed them? Men and women were not meant to ride through the long night; it is known.
"Lie back," the captain commanded. "Spread your legs for me."
For a moment all was quiet, then the khaleesi began to keen. Irri winced at the high sharp sound. The Andalhi uses his tongue better than his manhood. If the captain was intent on giving the khaleesi such pleasure, perhaps he was not lying after all. Please, please let the ritual work , Irri prayed. Dragons were evil beasts, but if the Mother of Dragons could bend them to her will...
Without the dragons we would have perished. Only three riders remained after that terrible night, three riders and near a hundred women and children and old men. The riders were meant to escort the khaleesi to Vaes Dothrak, but the rest... the best they might hope for was to be enslaved by the first khalasar to come upon them, if they did not starve to death first. Khal Pono and Khal Jhaqo had taken all the herds, the goats with their milk and meat, the sheep with their wool and lambs.
The khaleesi saved us . She had birthed dragons, led them across the Red Waste, she had burned the maegi in their house of dust, she had freed the eunuchs and slain the Good Masters. Yet the khaleesi was still a khaleesi, and she expected to be obeyed. Irri was her handmaid, not her sister, nor her friend.
The little scribe Missandei was the only one who might dare take liberties with the khaleesi. Even so... the khaleesi granted Missandei leave to visit her brother only begrudgingly, her face reproachful though the scribe thanked her on bended knee.
Jhiqui snored even more loudly than usual, briefly drowning out the crash of the waves and the khaleesi's moans. With a fond sigh Irri focused on the familiar sound, letting it soothe her as she stared across the poison water.
Dawn came too slowly and too quickly. Irri rose to her feet, stretching her stiff limbs before creeping into the tent. Her khaleesi lay across the captain's chest, silver hair draped over her blissful face as she shivered, her pale skin cold to the touch. By the time Irri finished helping her dress the captain was awake, his blue eye smiling. The Andahli dressed himself while the khaleesi stared at his deft fingers, her tongue wetting her lips as Irri hid her revulsion.
Rhaegal screeched as the Mother of Dragons walked out into the rising sun. The khaleesi approached him carefully, murmuring under her breath as the green dragon struggled against the iron net that bound him. She was still whispering to him when the captain's men brought his gift.
The dragonhorn was larger than the dragon. It shone black in the rising sun, six feet long at least, so long that the thickly muscled man who presented it to khaleesi held it with both hands as he knelt. The khaleesi pressed a hand against the horn, tracing the glyphs graven into bands of red gold and dark Valyrian steel.
"A treasure fit for the last daughter of the dragonlords," the Andahli said. "I found it in the ruins of Valyria."
Irri shared a look with her sister. The poison water was one thing, the Smoking Sea another. No man had seen Valyria since the Doom and lived. The Andahli's lips were blue as a warlock's, and blue lips told only lies.
The khaleesi woke dragons , she reminded herself. Perhaps he never saw Valyria, but he has the horn. Irri shifted from one foot to the other, biting her lip. The pitcher was heavy in her hands, the enormous bronze vessel filled to the brim with oil.
"You are sure of the ritual?" The khaleesi asked, still staring at the strange glyphs.
"I am, Your Grace. Only death can pay for life; only through sacrifice can you claim power over the horn of your fathers."
"Sacrifice," the khaleesi murmured. "There is always a price to be paid."
When the Unsullied brought the lamb, he was forced to carry it. The scent of the dragon made it squirm and struggle in his arms, fighting to get free. When he tied it to the stake the lamb baaed piteously, pulling at the cord that bound it. For a moment the khaleesi hugged herself, her eyes filled with doubt. Irri handed her the pitcher of oil, but the khaleesi did not move.
"My queen has a merciful heart," the captain said. "But what is one lamb against all your children? How much longer must you tolerate this harpy and her sons?"
The khaleesi's eyes hardened as she stepped forward, ignoring the lamb's bleeting as she drenched it with oil, the soft tawny brown wool turning dark and slick. When the pitcher was empty she handed it back to Irri, violet eyes still fixed on the lamb.
"Now?" She asked the Andahli. The captain nodded.
"Dracarys."
Beneath the iron net the dragon reared, spitting flame at the helpless lamb. It screamed for a moment, green veins swirling in the blaze of orange-red fire, and then the lamb was silent. Without a word the khaleesi slit the palm of her hand, holding it so the blood dripped onto the small charred body. When the dripping ceased, she smeared her hand against the dragon horn, anointing it with her blood. A few drops fell on the silent man who held the horn, but he remained still as stone.
"Blood for fire, fire for blood," the khaleesi murmured, lifting the lamb with her own hands and presenting it to the dragon. Rhaegal sniffed at the lamb, his long tongue lapping at the khaleesi's blood as Unsullied carefully pulled up the stakes that bound the net about the dragon's head. No sooner was his muzzle free than he snapped at the lamb, devouring it with razor sharp teeth.
"You may want to have your people stand back, my queen," the Andahli warned. "This is no ram's horn that you claim. The sound is perilous to lesser men."
The khaleesi nodded, waving for her Unsullied to back away from the dragon's horn. They obeyed, but slowly, their eyes fixed on the Andahli captain. Irri and Jhiqui followed them, holding hands as they turned to watch as the silent man raised the horn to his lips.
aaaaaaaRRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
The sound seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, a hot scream that made Irri fall to her knees and cover her ears. Jhiqui fell to the sand too, then the Unsullied, all of them helpless beneath the horn's fury. Irri could feel her bones shivering and thrumming, the wail searing her flesh from within. This was the day she died, her heart was beating so fast it must burst-
The hornblower staggered, and the horn fell. Blisters rose and burst upon his lips; his cough splattered blood upon the sand. A thin wisp of black smoke rose from the horn, twisting and writhing like the souls of the damned. Despite her fear, Irri crept forward. The khaleesi had not fallen, nor had the Andahli captain. Daenerys Stormborn's eyes were shining as she gazed upon her dragon, the hornblower forgotten.
"Release him."
The Unsullied hurried to obey, still trembling as they removed the stakes and pulled away the heavy iron net. With a screech the green dragon reared on his haunches, stretching his wings to the sky. Then, meek as a lamb, he crept to his mistress, placing his snout against her outstretched hand, bronze eyes closing as she petted the shimmering scales.
The Andahli watched, his blue eye smiling as if he had claimed a dragon himself. Some instinct made Irri glance at the longship. The crew were all over it, busy at their work. The poison water had risen in the night and the longship was floating again. A small boat lay beside the longship, two strong men pulling at the oars.
The khaleesi only had eyes for her dragon as Irri glanced at Jhiqui, tapping her shoulder and pointing at the longship and its boat. Something is not right. Atop the longship's mast the Andahli's banner fluttered, a terrible red eye beneath two crows.
"A feast worthy of the Mother of Dragons awaits us on my ship," the Andahli said, bowing to the khaleesi. "I would be honored if Your Grace would break her fast with her most devoted subject."
Eyes narrowed, the khaleesi glanced at the small boat. "I go nowhere without my handmaids," the khaleesi said. Irri and Jhiqui drew up behind her, one to either side, Irri still holding the empty oil pitcher.
The captain smiled. "Of course. They are welcome to attend you."
"And what of my Unsullied?"
Euron Greyjoy's smile did not change at the suspicion in the khaleesi's voice.
"I have only one boat, Your Grace," he replied, shrugging. "I would be glad to send it back back for your honored guards."
Fine silver hair fluttered in the breeze as the khaleesi shook her head. "No. Your cook may bring the feast to the shore."
"Of course. My thanks, Your Grace."
The khaleesi's brow furrowed.
"For what?"
In answer the Andahli pulled the khaleesi close, lifting her easily as he kissed her. For a moment the khaleesi kissed him back, her slim legs wrapping around the captain's waist.
Then he began to carry her toward the boat.
The closest Unsullied were already charging for the Andahli as the khaleesi pulled away, slapping the captain across the face. He laughed, the sound as rich as it was cruel. Jhiqui grabbed Irri's arm, nails piercing her skin, her heartbeat galloping in her ears.
"Now now, Daenerys," he scolded.
"Sure Spear!" The khaleesi shrieked. The Unsullied captain's spiked bronze hat gleamed in the sun as he sprinted for the Mother of Dragons, his spear raised, his men hot on his heels.
The captain's blue eye smiled. "Dracarys."
The khaleesi screamed a word, but the green dragon did not seem to hear. Rhaegal snarled, and even as the Unsullied turned their heads his flames engulfed them. For a moment the eunuchs twisted and danced, shrieking in agony as they died.
"Come come, my love," the captain purred, ignoring the khaleesi's small fists pounding at his chest, his grip tight as iron as he pulled her up for another kiss. Across the sand the dragon sank his claws into Sure Spear's limp body, bowing his head as he began to feed. In the bay the captain's men awaited, oars clenched in their massive fists, the boat rising and falling with the waves.
The Unsullied were dead, but the Andahli had forgotten the handmaids, and he roared in pain as Irri's pitcher caught him on the shoulder. Jhiqui slammed into him from behind, her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him back with all her weight. He twisted and shook, trying to throw her off, but he could not fight both Jhiqui and the khaleesi.
With a bellow of rage he released the khaleesi, dropping her to the ground, the khaleesi's ankle snapping under her. With his hands now free the Andahli spun, yanking Jhiqui's arms away from his neck and flinging her down beside her mistress. Irri had reached the fallen pitcher by then, and she grabbed the heavy bronze vessel with both hands as the Andahli picked up the stunned khaleesi.
Her first throw had been from several feet away, an act of frantic impulse. This time she held onto the pitcher as she swung it in his face, the vessel smashing against his nose. The Andahli screamed, dropping the khaleesi again as he turned on Irri, wrapping a hand around her throat. Stars danced in her vision as she choked for air, then she was flying, until the beach rose up to slap her.
The Andahli was less comely with his nose broken and bloody, his face as bruised and blue as his lips. "Have it your way," he sneered, backing away from the three women lying helpless on the ground, the khaleesi whimpering with pain. "Rhaegal!"
With a screech the dragon raised his wings and took to the air, circling above the shore. Irri tried to crawl toward her khaleesi, but the world was spinning, and her arms and legs would not heed her.
"I should have liked to have you again," the Andahli said, licking his lips as he looked down on the khaleesi. "Ah, well. Once was plenty."
"You will die screaming," the khaleesi promised, her voice tight with pain. "He is not yours."
"Oh no?" The Andahli smiled as the dragon swooped low. "Dracarys."
Irri closed her eyes and waited for the end. What would it feel like when the flames seared her flesh? Would it seem like an eternity, or would it be as quick as blowing out a candle? A breeze danced against her skin, a last blessing before her death. She could hear the dragon's wings flapping, flapping—
Irri opened her eyes. Rhaegal stared at the khaleesi, bronze eyes shining. His jaws trembled and shook, opening for a brief moment before snapping shut again.
"Dracarys," the Andahli repeated, his face an angry mask. The dragon shrieked once, his tail lashing back and forth as he closed his jaws tight.
"Rhaegal!" The khaleesi cried.
The Andahli looked up at the dragon, then across the beach. In the distance Irri could see the rest of the khaleesi's guards, the Unsullied who had guarded the edge of the shore, spears shining as they charged.
With a sneer the captain retreated to his boat, the dragon following after him.
"Rhaegal! Rhaegal! RHAEGAL!"
The green dragon never looked back.
NOTES
1) Would writing Dany probably have been easier? Yes. Did I refuse to do so because Irri deserves her own goddamn point of view and backstory? Also yes. Also GRRM wrote the Dothraki as Conan the Barbarian level ridiculous. Their culture makes no sense and is almost entirely based on racist stereotypes of Native Americans and the Mongol people. I'm trying to fix that as best I can.
2) Canon facts about Irri are quite limited. We know she is around Dany's age; I made her slightly younger. She is newly 15 here, while Dany is almost 16. In canon Irri and Jhiqui are given to Dany by Illyrio Mopatis, but it is later mentioned that Khal Drogo destroyed their father's khalasar. So... they went from the second-highest ranking women of the khalasar to handmaids. Holy shit, what a compelling journey! Wow, that would have a huge impact on how Irri and Jhiqui see themselves, on how they process slavery, on how they see Dany... Except this is never referenced again. Ever. But, you know, in ADWD they get to argue over Rakharo and Irri calls Jhiqui a fat cow and Jhiqui calls Irri a skinny boy. Groundbreaking.
3) I invented the name Caana (pronounced caw-nuh). It deliberately resembles "khan" as in Genghis Khan. Usually I would use a name from canon, but only two Dothraki women are named in the entirety of ASoiaF- Irri and Jhiqui. Meanwhile, there are twenty-five named Dothraki men from ASoiaF and the show. This pisses me off.
4) The show cast Emilia Clarke when she was 24. This was a pretty necessary decision because jesus christ, Dany is 13-14 in GoT?!?!?! And there is SO MUCH rape and so many references to her breasts and god it is so so so gross. What the fuck, GRRM. She is almost 16 in this chapter, and writing the offscreen sex with Euron made me want to hurl, even though Dany believes it is extremely consensual because she doesn't know the extent to which she is being manipulated. Her immediate crush on Euron tracks with her reaction to Daario after he brought her two heads in a bag. Drogo seriously screwed up her sexuality. Westeros needs therapists.
5) Euron made up the ritual. Given how much the Valyrians loved slavery and blood magic, Dany really should have been suspicious that all it took to claim the horn was a lamb and a little of her own blood. But Euron had destroyed the enemy fleet, he told her who the harpy was, he was hot… dammit, Dany.
6) This chapter takes place in the middle of ADWD. The Sons of the Harpy are murdering people, Meereen is besieged by land and sea, Drogon has flown off, and Dany is trying to keep it together even though she's a traumatized child of 15. Who is also walking a very dark path. I see Dany as a tragedy, a victim of abuse and violence who tries to protect herself by identifying with her abusers (she becomes the dragon Viserys could not be; she becomes a conqueror like Drogo). She's sympathetic, but also makes mistakes and does very fucked up shit. Like, you know, birthing dragons by burning a slave woman alive. Even though Mirri Maz Duur had every reason to want Drogo and Dany dead for the destruction of her village.
As we get into Part IV I hope to do Dany justice as a very flawed girl who does monstrous things while also wanting to be a good person.
