Chapter 3: A Gambler's Fate
The silence following Khal Drogo's death stretched for what felt like an eternity. Mat stood over the fallen warrior sweat dripping from his brow, his breath steadying after the intense duel. The shock of the Dothraki was palpable—their mighty Khal lay dead, killed by a foreigner with strange clothes, an even stranger weapon, and a grin that seemed carved into his face.
But the tension in the air didn't last long. Chaos erupted.
Almost a quarter of the Dothraki horde, those most loyal to Drogo, broke away, pulling their horses back and galloping into the horizon. Shouts echoed across the camp, and men scrambled to follow the lead of their now-departed brothers. Mat's hand tightened around his ashandarei as he watched the confusion. Light, I didn't mean for this...
Drogo's bloodriders, still in shock, suddenly came to life. Qotho, one of the most ferocious of them, locked eyes with Mat, his face twisted in rage. He shouted something in Dothraki that Mat didn't understand but he didn't need a translator to know what was coming.
Qotho charged forward, his arakh drawn and pointing straight at Mat.
"You kill Khal Drogo," Qotho snarled in broken Common, circling Mat like a predator, "but you are no Khal. Now, you die."
Mat sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow and shifting his grip on the ashandarei. The dice rattled in his head louder than ever, tumbling, guiding him through the chaos. He knew what he had to do next, even if it seemed insane. A mad scheme, but that's what luck's for.
He didn't want to fight Qotho—not because he was afraid, but because he had a different plan in mind. A crazy plan, but one that might just work if the dice had their way. He needed to gain the respect of the Dothraki. If he could, then maybe... just maybe...
He could protect Daenerys in a way that Drogo never would have.
Becoming a Khal. It wasn't something he wanted—Light, the idea of being tied to one woman for life was something he'd tried to avoid at all costs. But this wasn't about his freedom. Daenerys' fate was tied to his now, and the rattling dice were a sure sign of that. If he became a Khal, he could stop this marriage and offer her something else—a partnership, a bond that was built not on fear but on something real.
Still, first things first. He had to survive.
Qotho lunged, his arakh slicing through the air with brutal speed. But Mat was faster. He pivoted on his heel, dodging the strike and with a quick thrust, drove the blade of his ashandarei through Qotho's chest. The bloodrider froze, his eyes wide with disbelief and then collapsed to the ground, dead.
The remaining bloodriders tensed but they didn't attack. They were watching now, waiting.
Mat withdrew his ashandarei, wiping the blood on the ground before meeting their eyes. He raised his head high, speaking with a voice that carried, the same kind of voice he'd used on the battlefield when leading men into hopeless charges.
"Drogo is dead," Mat said, his voice firm. "Qotho is dead. I did not seek this, but I won by the laws of the Dothraki."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Rakharo, one of Drogo's younger riders who had lost to Mat in the earlier race, stepped forward. His dark eyes studied Mat for a long moment, and then, slowly, he spoke.
"You have defeated two in combat," Rakharo said, his voice carrying across the open field. "You have won the title through blood. You are a Khal now."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. The Dothraki murmured among themselves, hesitant but clearly weighing the truth of Rakharo's statement. The old ways were clear—power and leadership came from strength, from victory in battle. Mat had defeated their Khal. He had slain Qotho, a fierce warrior in his own right.
A moment later, Rakharo dropped to one knee, bowing his head in submission. "Khal Mat."
Mat's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't actually expected the plan to work so easily. Bloody hell...
One by one, the other bloodriders followed Rakharo's lead, kneeling before him. The rest of the Dothraki stood frozen, watching their leaders submit to the foreigner. They hesitated for only a moment longer before, as if a dam had broken, they too began to kneel, their murmurs growing into a chant.
"Khal Mat! Khal Mat!"
Mat stood there, his ashandarei in hand, blinking at the sea of kneeling Dothraki before him. He hadn't planned to become a leader of thousands of horse warriors when he'd wandered through that cursed portal. But luck had its way of steering him into the wildest of fates.
Mat knew better than to reject the call of destiny, no matter how mad it seemed. His grin widened as the realization hit him. He had become a bloody Khal. A fine twist, Mat Cauthon. Bloody brilliant.
The dice stopped rolling in his head, landing with an almost deafening finality.
With a deep breath, Mat stepped forward and swung himself onto his horse. He lifted his ashandarei into the sky, the tip of the weapon glinting in the sunlight.
The Dothraki roared their approval, their cheers echoing across the plains. The sound of it sent a thrill through Mat's veins, and despite the craziness of it all he couldn't help but feel the exhilaration of the moment. The sheer madness of what he had accomplished.
He had won the respect of the Dothraki. He was their Khal.
From the sidelines, Viserys stood frozen, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. "This is absurd!" he spat, his voice full of venom. "A foreigner—he is nothing! A common fool playing at games! This was meant to be my horde, my throne!"
But no one was listening. The Dothraki had chosen their Khal, and Viserys, in all his arrogance, was left powerless in the wake of Mat's victory.
Mat, still on horseback, cast a glance toward Viserys his grin mocking. "Looks like your plans just took a little detour, eh, 'King' Viserys?"
Viserys fumed but it was Daenerys who caught Mat's eye.
She stood there, her hands trembling and tears brimming in her eyes. But they weren't tears of sadness—they were tears of relief. She had been terrified for him during the duel, her heart pounding with every clash of steel. And now, seeing Mat alive, victorious, proclaimed a Khal... it was overwhelming. She had never dared to hope for this, never thought it possible that someone could fight for her and win.
Mat gave her a small nod, a silent reassurance that this had been for her. For them.
And as the tears rolled down her cheeks, she smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in what felt like forever.
Viserys, disgusted by the sight of his sister crying, sneered. "You weep like a child, Daenerys. Pathetic."
Daenerys ignored him. Her future had just shifted in a way she hadn't imagined, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of control. A sense of hope.
Mat turned his horse back toward the crowd of kneeling Dothraki, feeling the weight of his new title settling on his shoulders. He knew his path had truly started in this world. He was no longer just a gambler and a wanderer—he was a leader now, a Khal.
It was mad, of course. All of it. But Mat had learned long ago to trust his luck, to let it guide him through the impossible. And the dice had stopped rolling for a reason.
He would figure it out. One step at a time. One mad gamble after another.
As the Dothraki cheered and Daenerys wiped away her tears, Mat couldn't help but grin again.
Well, Matrim Cauthon, let's see where this bloody ride takes you next.
The sun had long since set by the time Mat, Daenerys, Viserys, Illyrio, and Ser Jorah Mormont returned to Illyrio's manse. The night air was cool and thick with the scent of the Dothraki campfires burning just outside the walls of Pentos. The sounds of horses and the low murmur of Dothraki voices drifted up from the plains, a reminder of the army now under Mat's command.
Mat dismounted his horse and handed the reins to one of Illyrio's servants. His body ached from the duel with Drogo and the fight with Qotho, but there was a strange exhilaration thrumming in his veins. He was still processing the events of the day—how he had become a Khal, how the dice had stopped rolling after he'd made that impossible decision.
Now, here he was, standing on the precipice of something much larger than himself. He glanced at Daenerys who walked beside him in silence, her silver hair glowing in the moonlight. Her face was unreadable, though Mat had seen the mix of emotions flicker across her features during the long ride back to the manse.
She's trying to figure this out, same as me.
Once inside, Illyrio wasted no time guiding them into a private chamber where wine and food were waiting. The large, round man settled himself into a plush chair, his rings glinting in the candlelight as he gestured for everyone to sit. Mat dropped into his chair with a groan, his muscles protesting the movement. He picked up a goblet of wine and took a long drink, savoring the sweetness on his tongue.
Viserys on the other hand paced angrily in front of the table, his face red with fury. "This is unacceptable!" he spat, his voice rising with each word. "A foreigner—this gambler—has no right to the Dothraki! That was supposed to be my army! My horde!"
Mat grinned, setting down his goblet. "Well, your 'army' seems to think otherwise. Funny how that works."
Viserys whirled on him, his eyes blazing with fury. "You dare mock me? I am the rightful king of Westeros! You're nothing but a fool who stumbled into power by chance!"
Mat leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms lazily over his chest. "Maybe I'm a fool. Maybe I got lucky. But the fact is, I'm the one the Dothraki are calling Khal. And I'm the one who won't have to scramble for scraps anymore."
Viserys looked ready to explode, but before he could lash out, Illyrio raised a hand, his voice smooth and calming. "Now, now, let us not be hasty. The situation has... evolved, but it need not be to anyone's detriment."
Viserys stopped pacing but continued to glower, his chest heaving with barely contained rage.
Illyrio's eyes slid toward Mat, and then to Daenerys, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. "There is, of course, a simple solution to this... new reality." He smiled, the gesture as oily as his tone. "A wedding was already planned between Khal Drogo and Daenerys. It seems to me that nothing need change—except for the groom, of course."
The room fell silent.
Mat's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected Illyrio to suggest this so soon, but now that the words were out, it made sense. A wedding would solidify his claim as Khal. It would secure Daenerys' position, give her the protection she needed. And, perhaps most importantly, it would keep Viserys from spiraling any further out of control.
Mat's eyes met Daenerys'. She had been watching him, her expression still unreadable, but there was something in her gaze—something searching, as if she were trying to understand what he was thinking. Mat gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
If this is what we have to do, I'm in.
Daenerys blinked, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but she hesitated. Her violet eyes flicked to Illyrio, then to Viserys, and finally back to Mat. For a brief moment she looked vulnerable—uncertain, even—but then she straightened, the softness in her eyes hardening with resolve.
"I will marry him," Daenerys said quietly, but with a firmness that surprised everyone in the room. "If it is my duty as Khaleesi, then so be it."
Mat nodded, impressed by her strength. She's braver than most queens I've met.
Viserys, however, was not impressed. "You can't seriously be considering this!" he shouted, storming toward Daenerys as if he might physically drag her away. "You are meant to marry Khal Drogo! A man who would have led the Dothraki across the sea to reclaim my throne!"
Daenerys didn't flinch. "Khal Drogo is dead, Viserys. Matrim Cauthon is the Khal now. And if you want your throne, you'll need his support."
Viserys opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. He was trapped, and he knew it. Any further outburst would make him look even more powerless than he already was. With a low growl, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. "This is madness!"
Mat chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "Welcome to my world, Viserys."
Illyrio, always the opportunist, clapped his hands together with a satisfied smile. "Then it is settled. A wedding will take place tomorrow, and Matrim Cauthon will lead the horde with Daenerys by his side as his Khaleesi. With such a union, the strength of the Dothraki will be unmatched."
Ser Jorah, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up, his gravelly voice carrying a note of caution. "The Dothraki are not easy to lead, even for one of their own. They follow strength, yes, but they are also deeply tied to their traditions. Mat's victory gives him their respect for now, but his rule will be tested. They will want to see that he is worthy."
Mat nodded, appreciating the knight's honesty. "Fair enough. But I've always been good at playing the game, Ser Jorah. I'll find a way."
Jorah raised an eyebrow. "Let's hope your luck holds, then."
Mat grinned. "Luck's the one thing I never run out of."
As the conversation shifted toward planning the wedding, Mat found his gaze drifting back to Daenerys. She was seated across from him, her posture graceful and expression composed, but he could sense the tension in her. Her life had changed so dramatically in such a short time, and now she was being asked to marry a man she barely knew—all because of the whims of fate and power.
Mat wasn't sure how he felt about the marriage either. He'd never been one for settling down, especially not with one woman, no matter how beautiful or important she might be. He had been tied down to Tuon but that was by chance, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the Seanchan Empress. His heart had always belonged to the road, to adventure, to the thrill of the next gamble. But with Daenerys... there was something different. He had developed a fondness for her, a protectiveness that went beyond mere duty.
And those blasted dice had been rattling ever since he met her.
He knew their fates were tied together, whether he liked it or not. And if marrying her was the way to ensure her safety, then he would do it. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't like her company. Daenerys was strong, intelligent, and there was a fire inside her that reminded him of the women he had left behind in another world.
As the night wore on Mat and Daenerys exchanged glances, each trying to gauge the other's feelings about the impending marriage. It wasn't a love match—at least, not yet—but there was an understanding between them. A silent agreement that this was the best path forward, not just for them but for the Dothraki and their shared future.
After all, they both knew that in a world as dangerous and unpredictable as this one, survival often came down to playing the cards you were dealt.
The meeting ended with the plan set in motion. Tomorrow, Mat and Daenerys would be wed in the traditions of the Dothraki, and Mat would formally take his place as Khal, with Daenerys at his side as Khaleesi. The horde would follow them across the Dothraki Sea, bound by blood and battle, and together they would face whatever challenges lay ahead.
As Mat stood to leave the chamber, he caught Daenerys' eye one last time. She gave him a small, tentative smile—one that spoke of both hope and uncertainty. Mat returned it with a wink, his grin never wavering.
Tomorrow, their journey would truly begin.
And for the first time in a long while, Mat wasn't just excited about the gamble.
He was all in.
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and hot, the sun hanging high over the Dothraki Sea like a burning coin. The vast camp outside the walls of Pentos buzzed with excitement, the smell of roasting meat already wafting through the air. The Dothraki loved their weddings bloody and wild, and from what Mat had seen so far this one would be no different.
Mat stood near the edge of the camp, dressed in the leather and furs that marked him as Khal. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, casting a glance at the growing crowd of Dothraki warriors and women, all eager for the spectacle to begin. They were already feasting and drinking, cheering on impromptu wrestling matches and occasionally watching as a fight broke out, blades flashing in the morning light.
He tried to look at ease, but inside, Mat was nervous. Not for the marriage itself—Light, he'd walked into worse—and Daenerys had shown enough strength in recent days to convince him that they could handle this together. No, what made Mat uneasy was the Dothraki themselves. He might have earned their respect with Drogo's death and Qotho's defeat, but the Dothraki were a fickle people. If he fumbled the customs today, if he showed weakness, that respect could disappear just as quickly as it had been earned.
He ran a hand through his unruly hair and adjusted the wide-brimmed hat that had somehow become his signature, even here. Alright, Cauthon, he thought to himself, time to learn a thing or two about being a bloody Khal.
The wedding was a spectacle of violence and revelry. Fights erupted left and right, men grappling with each other and drawing blood in honor of the new Khal and his Khaleesi. Every few minutes the Dothraki would cheer as another warrior was either defeated or killed, a bloody grin on the victor's face as he walked away from the corpse. The women jeered and shouted, offering food and drink to the victors and passing commentary on the losers.
Mat kept his expression neutral, though he couldn't quite shake the unease he felt at how casually life and death were dealt with here. This isn't the Two Rivers, he reminded himself. Different rules, different world.
But he knew he had to get it right. The Dothraki respected strength and tradition, and today, more than any other day, Mat had to walk the line between both. He was their Khal now. He had to prove he could lead them, without losing his own sense of self.
Daenerys, meanwhile, sat beside Illyrio with her perfect posture and violet eyes fixed on the chaos in front of her. She looked calm but Mat knew better. She was nervous—nervous about what this day would mean, nervous about the bedding ceremony that loomed at the end of the festivities. Even though she trusted him, she still had every right to be worried.
Mat glanced over at her, catching her eye. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, the kind that said, We've got this.
The wedding gifts began to pile up as the day wore on. Mat accepted them on Daenerys' behalf as was customary for the Dothraki, though he wasn't entirely sure what to do with half of the offerings. The bloodriders brought him weapons—beautifully crafted arakhs, curved blades honed to perfection. There were bows, quivers of arrows, and even an ornate helm crafted from silver and gold. Mat accepted them all with a nod of thanks, tucking each weapon away while Daenerys looked on quietly.
And then came the dragon eggs.
Illyrio's servants carried them to Daenerys, each egg nestled in a velvet-lined chest. The moment Mat saw them, the dice in his head started to roll again harder than ever. The black, green, and red eggs glistened in the sun, the colors shifting like fire beneath the surface of stone. Mat felt a strange pull in his chest as the eggs were placed before Daenerys, the weight of destiny pressing down on him once again. He knew, somehow, that these weren't just pretty trinkets. They were important—more than anyone could yet realize.
Daenerys reached out and touched one of the eggs, her fingers brushing the cool surface. She looked at Mat, her eyes filled with something he hadn't seen before—wonder, perhaps, or even hope. The dice rattled louder.
"We're tied to this, Dany," Mat said quietly, more to himself than to her. "The eggs, the horde, everything. We're in it now."
She didn't respond, but the look they shared was enough. They understood each other in that moment, both nervous, both unsure of what the future held—but both ready to face it together.
As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Mat stood before Daenerys once again, this time with his own gift. He had spent a small fortune on the horse but it had been worth it. The sleek black mare was magnificent, her coat shining like obsidian, her eyes alert and intelligent. She was as fast as she was graceful, and Mat had chosen her carefully, knowing Daenerys needed a horse that matched her strength and spirit.
"This," Mat said with a grin and leading the horse toward Daenerys, "is for you, Khaleesi."
Daenerys stood, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of the mare. "She's... beautiful," she whispered, reaching out to stroke the horse's nose. "I've never seen a horse like this."
Mat smiled. "Thought she'd suit you. She's got a bit of fire in her, like someone else I know."
Daenerys blushed slightly, but she smiled back, and for the first time that day Mat saw her nerves ease.
Without another word, Daenerys mounted the mare, her movements graceful and sure, and Mat quickly followed climbing onto his own horse. The crowd of Dothraki warriors and women cheered as they rode together, the newly minted Khal and Khaleesi, side by side.
They rode far from the camp, the sounds of the wedding celebrations growing distant as they made their way toward the open sea. The wind whipped through Mat's hair, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the freedom of the ride. Beside him, Daenerys seemed to relax as well, her posture softening as the tension of the day faded.
When they finally reached the beach, the sun was dipping low on the horizon casting the sky in hues of red and gold. The waves lapped gently at the shore, and the soft, salty breeze carried the scent of the sea.
Daenerys dismounted first, her hands trembling slightly as she stood facing the ocean. Mat could see the conflict in her eyes, the worry gnawing at her as the weight of what was expected of them pressed down on her shoulders.
"I... I suppose we should..." she began, her voice faltering as she reached for the ties of her dress, her fingers clumsy and hesitant.
But before she could go any further, Mat stepped forward and gently took her hands in his, stopping her.
"Dany, you don't need to do this," he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. "Not tonight. Not if you're not ready."
She blinked, clearly shocked by his words. "But... the customs..."
Mat smiled, shaking his head. "To hell with customs. I don't care about the Dothraki's traditions or what they expect. You're not just some prize to be claimed. If we're going to do this, it'll be because you want to, not because you have to."
Daenerys stared at him, her eyes wide, and for a moment, Mat wondered if he had said the wrong thing. But then, slowly, her expression softened, and a single tear slipped down her cheek.
"No one has ever said that to me before," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Mat."
He grinned, brushing a thumb gently over the back of her hand. "Like I said, I'm not much for following rules."
They stood together in silence for a while, the ocean waves crashing softly in the background. Daenerys wiped the tears from her cheeks, her posture relaxing for the first time that day.
Mat wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and together they sank to the ground, lying on the soft sand as the stars began to appear overhead. They didn't speak, didn't need to. The quiet peace between them was enough, the bond they had formed stronger than any forced ceremony could ever be.
As they lay there Mat felt Daenerys' head rest against his chest, her breathing slow and even. The weight of the day lifted, and for the first time since stepping into this new world Mat felt something close to contentment.
They had to pretend, of course. The Dothraki would expect certain things, and when they returned to the camp they would act as if everything had gone according to custom. But here, on the beach, away from the expectations and the eyes of the world, they could simply exist.
Mat tightened his arm around Daenerys, the warmth of her body against his, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to believe that this mad path they were on might just work out.
The dice were still rolling somewhere in the back of his mind, but for now, they were quiet.
And that, Mat decided, was good enough for tonight.