Chapter 7: Smoke and Steel
The weeks of their journey west had transformed Daenerys and Mat from wandering exiles into a force that rippled across the Dothraki Sea. As they advanced other Khalasars crossed their path, some willing to submit, others foolish enough to stand in opposition. With each battle, Mat's strategies won them victories that seemed impossible, leaving Jorah and Viserys awed by his skill and ferocity. The horde swelled, more bloodriders and warriors joining their ranks, drawn by the victories and the tales that spread of a Khal who wielded both a sharp mind and a sharper blade.
For Daenerys, watching Mat was a thrill she had never imagined. His presence, both on the battlefield and by her side, filled her with a new kind of confidence, an unshakable certainty in their destiny. Their nights together were filled with laughter and passion, the bond between them only growing stronger with each victory. Mat's prowess in battle only fueled her admiration, and she found herself more enamored with him with every passing day.
Today that admiration reached new heights.
They had arrived at a small, dusty town on the edge of the lamb men's territory where Khal Ogo and his khalasar awaited. The air was thick with tension, and the horde was ready for blood. Mat had surveyed the land, studying every corner of the town, his mind working through strategies with practiced ease. The enemy was nestled within the town's cramped streets, a maze of buildings that would prove dangerous in a traditional assault.
But Mat had another plan.
He divided their forces, sending small groups to circle the town from all sides. He had them block the exits while others prepared smoldering embers, torches at the ready. The tactic was simple, ruthless, and brilliant—smoke them out.
As the attack began, his bloodriders set fire to the outer buildings, sending plumes of thick black smoke into the air. The winds swept the smoke inward, filling the narrow streets and forcing Ogo's men to stumble out coughing and disoriented. When they tried to fight they found themselves facing a wall of Dothraki warriors, each one as ferocious as the last, Mat's military maneuvers funneling them into a deadly trap.
The town erupted into chaos, cries and the clang of steel echoing through the smoky haze. Mat moved through it all with a steady, practiced focus, guiding his fighters with sharp commands, his presence both commanding and deadly. It wasn't long before Khal Ogo himself emerged from the smoke, his eyes filled with fury as he shouted a challenge.
Mat stepped forward his ashandarei gleaming in the dim light, his face hard as steel. Without hesitation he accepted Ogo's challenge, and the two men met in the center of the town surrounded by the haze of smoke and the scattered bodies of fallen warriors.
The duel was fierce, brutal, a clash of strength and skill that sent sparks flying with every strike. Ogo was a towering figure, his movements powerful, but Mat was faster, his agility and precision unmatched. They circled each other, every strike met with a block, every opening closing in an instant. The battle was as much a contest of will as of strength, and neither gave an inch.
But Mat had always thrived in the heat of combat. His experience, his adaptability—qualities honed through years of warfare in a different world—were his edge. Ogo's movements began to slow, his strikes less precise, and in a moment of weakness Mat seized the opportunity.
With a final fierce thrust, Mat drove his ashandarei through Ogo's heart, ending the duel in one swift, brutal stroke.
Khal Ogo staggered, his eyes wide with shock before he fell to his knees, then collapsed to the ground. The town fell silent, the only sound the crackling of flames as the smoke began to clear.
Mat took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his brow as he looked around. The fight was over. He had won.
He found a spot by a fallen wall and sat, his mind clearing as the rush of battle began to fade. The weight of victory settled over him, and he allowed himself a moment to breathe, to let the realization sink in. The town was theirs, the victory secured.
He looked up as he heard the sound of horses approaching, and his heart lifted as he saw Daenerys riding toward him, her face filled with relief and pride. She dismounted swiftly, crossing the distance between them, her eyes scanning him for any sign of injury.
"You're safe," she said, her voice a soft exhale of relief.
Mat grinned, pushing himself up to meet her. "Safe, thanks to you and your Dothraki. And another Khal down," he added, his tone light, though his eyes held the weight of what he'd done.
Daenerys smiled, her expression filled with admiration. "You were incredible, Mat. You always are." She paused, reaching out to touch his face gently, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "You're my strength."
Mat's grin softened and he took her hand, pulling her close. "And you're mine."
They shared a quiet moment, the noise of the camp around them fading as they looked into each other's eyes, a mutual understanding passing between them.
Daenerys placed a hand on his chest, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Perhaps tonight we can celebrate. You've earned it."
Mat chuckled, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "Now that's an offer I won't refuse."
Their laughter filled the air, a rare sound amid the chaos, a reminder of the bond they shared. As the Dothraki horde began to settle into the conquered town, Mat and Daenerys rode side by side through the dusty streets.
The deeper they moved into the conquered town, the more Daenerys and Mat saw the aftermath of battle—the buildings still smoldering, the faces of villagers filled with fear. But it was what lay hidden in the shadows, in the alleyways and side streets, that sent a chill through Daenerys. She saw Dothraki men dragging women away, their cries muffled by the harsh laughter of their captors.
Daenerys clenched her fists, her stomach turning at the sight. This wasn't victory—it was cruelty.
Mat noticed her reaction immediately and his expression hardened. Without a word he stepped forward, his voice ringing out over the noise of the camp.
"Enough!" he shouted, his tone sharp, commanding. The Dothraki nearby froze, turning to look at him with expressions of surprise and irritation.
"Leave the women alone," he said, his gaze sweeping over the warriors. "No one touches them. We're not here to conquer like savages. We're here to build something better."
The men exchanged confused glances, some of them scowling as they muttered among themselves. Rakharo and Aggo looked at each other, frowning as they stepped forward, clearly uneasy.
"Khal Mat," Rakharo said cautiously, "this is the way of the Dothraki. The spoils of battle are ours to enjoy. You cannot deny them that."
Daenerys stepped forward, her voice steady as she addressed the crowd. "No woman should suffer because of a man's strength. I am your Khaleesi, and I will not allow this to continue."
The warriors' murmur grew louder, some of them looking away, others casting dark glances at Mat and Daenerys. Rakharo's frown deepened, and he shook his head. "This is not the way of the Dothraki."
Mat's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched as he took in their expressions. "Weak? You call this weakness?" He stepped forward, his voice carrying a tone of authority that silenced the crowd. "If any of you have a problem with the way I lead, then take it up with me—not with her. This is the way we'll do things from now on. Follow it or leave."
At that Aggo scoffed, his eyes hard as he looked at Mat with disdain. "You are no true Dothraki. And neither is she," he spat, his gaze moving to Daenerys with a sneer. "You let a woman make you soft. We don't bow to weakness."
Daenerys felt a surge of fear as Aggo's hand moved to the hilt of his arakh, his gaze fixed on Mat with open hostility. Mat raised a hand, stepping in front of her protectively. But before he could say a word Aggo lunged, his arakh flashing in the sunlight.
The crowd gasped, Daenerys' heart pounding as she watched the attack, the blade arcing toward Mat's chest. But Mat's instincts, sharpened by the years and guided by his ever-present luck, warned him just in time. He sidestepped, barely avoiding what would have been a deep, fatal cut.
In a swift motion, Mat drew his ashandarei, the steel flashing as he deflected Aggo's next strike. They circled each other, Aggo's face twisted with anger while Mat's expression was focused, deadly calm.
The duel was quick, brutal. Aggo lunged again, but Mat's skill and speed were unmatched. He sidestepped once more, his movements almost effortless, and in a single decisive strike he brought his blade across Aggo's throat.
Aggo staggered, his hands clutching at his neck as blood poured from the wound. His eyes widened in shock as he fell to his knees, then collapsed to the ground.
Mat stood over him, breathing heavily, his heart pounding as the reality of what he had done settled in. He had just killed one of his own bloodriders—someone he had fought alongside, someone he had trusted. The weight of the act sat heavily on him and for a moment he felt a pang of grief.
But his resolve remained. He knew that he could not afford to let this go unpunished, not if they were to lead in a way that was different from the brutal traditions of the past.
He turned to the remaining bloodriders, his gaze fierce, his voice unwavering. "Anyone else want to question my orders? Or my Khaleesi's?"
The bloodriders exchanged tense glances, their expressions wary but respectful. Rakharo, though clearly shaken, bowed his head, his face solemn. The others followed, their loyalty to Mat and Daenerys cemented by the harsh lesson of Aggo's fate.
Mat stepped forward, his voice carrying across the crowd. "From now on, we follow our own path. We fight with honor, not cruelty. And we respect the people we conquer. If anyone has a problem with that, speak now."
No one moved. The tension in the air was palpable but the defiance had faded, replaced by a reluctant acceptance. Daenerys watched, her heart pounding as she saw the strength, the leadership in Mat that had drawn her to him from the beginning. She knew that with him by her side, they could change the way the Dothraki lived.
Mat held out a hand to her, and she took it standing at his side, their united front unbreakable.
"These are your Khals," Jorah called out, stepping forward, his voice steady as he addressed the crowd. "They have the strength of the Great Stallion. Follow them, and you will see a future greater than any you have known."
The crowd murmured in agreement, the initial resentment fading as the bloodriders and warriors knelt, bowing their heads in respect.
Mat glanced at Daenerys, a small smile breaking through the severity of his expression. "Guess we're doing things our way, Khaleesi."
She smiled back, her eyes filled with pride. "Yes, we are."
The Dothraki Sea stretched wide and dark under the pale light of the moon, its rolling grasslands swaying in the cool night breeze. The camp was quiet save for the occasional snort of horses and the soft rustle of fabric in the wind. It was a rare moment of peace, and Daenerys had just begun to drift into a light sleep when a sudden, rough hand clamped over her mouth.
Her eyes flew open to see Viserys, his face twisted with determination and desperation.
"Don't scream," he hissed, his voice low but frantic. "We're leaving, sister. You're coming with me, away from these savages and that foreign fool."
Daenerys struggled against his grip, her heart pounding with fear and fury. Viserys was relentless, dragging her from the tent as she kicked and twisted, her muffled cries lost in the night. Outside, his horse waited, and he hoisted her onto it before mounting behind her.
"Hold still!" he snapped, his voice tinged with madness. "You'll thank me when we're far from here."
He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, and they took off across the grasslands, the camp shrinking behind them. Daenerys struggled, her eyes searching the horizon for any sign of help. Her mind raced with a mix of fear and anger.
He's lost his mind.
Back at the camp, Mat stirred awake, his instincts prickling with unease. The dice in his head rattled ominously, loud and insistent, warning him of danger. He bolted upright, immediately noticing Daenerys' absence.
"Dany?" he called, his voice sharp with alarm. When she didn't respond, he leaped to his feet, grabbing his ashandarei as he ran outside. The camp was quiet, but the absence of her presence was deafening.
A bloodrider approached, concern etched on his face. "Khal Mat, Viserys is gone. He took the Khaleesi."
Mat's blood ran cold, but his expression hardened into one of pure resolve. "Saddle my horse."
The grasslands blurred past him as Mat rode hard, his heart pounding with fury and fear. The moonlight illuminated the trail of trampled grass left by Viserys' horse, and Mat followed it with unerring precision, his instincts and luck guiding him.
In the distance, he saw them—a lone rider with a struggling figure clutched in front of him. Mat's jaw clenched as he urged his horse faster, the wind whipping at his face.
"Viserys!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Stop, or I'll make you stop!"
Viserys glanced back, his face pale but defiant. "You're too late, Matrim! She's mine! She's always been mine!"
Daenerys seized the moment, wrenching herself against Viserys' grip. The sudden movement unbalanced him, and he struggled to keep control of the reins as the horse stumbled. Mat seized the opportunity, closing the distance between them.
He leaped from his horse, tackling Viserys to the ground as Daenerys tumbled free. The two men rolled across the grass, Mat's ashandarei clattering to the side as they grappled in the dirt.
Viserys fought with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose, his hands clawing and striking wildly. "She's my sister! My throne!" he spat, his voice filled with rage and fear.
"You don't deserve her," Mat growled, his voice low and deadly. With a quick, brutal motion, he pulled his knife and plunged it into Viserys' side.
Viserys gasped, his eyes widening in shock as blood spilled from the wound. Mat froze for a moment, the weight of what he'd done sinking in.
"Mat!" Daenerys cried, rushing to his side. She knelt beside Viserys, her hands trembling as she pressed against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Mat stood, his chest heaving as he looked down at the scene, his fury fading into something heavier. "We need to get him back to camp."
They rode back as fast as they dared, Viserys slumped against Mat, his breaths shallow and ragged. Daenerys clung to his arm, her face pale with worry. When they reached the camp, the Dothraki warriors and bloodriders stirred, their murmurs filling the night as they took in the sight of the wounded prince.
From the shadows a figure emerged—an older woman with piercing eyes and a quiet, commanding presence. Her clothes were simple, adorned with charms and trinkets, and there was a knowing air about her.
"I am Mirri Maz Duur," she said, her voice calm but firm. "I can try to save him."
Daenerys' eyes snapped to the woman, a flicker of hope breaking through her fear. "You're a healer?"
"I am a maegi," Mirri replied, her gaze steady. "I know the ways of life and death. But the cost will be great."
Mat hesitated, his mind racing. He had no love for Viserys, but he knew what losing him might do to Daenerys. She was strong, but he had seen the pain in her eyes—the remnants of a sister's love, despite everything.
"Do what you can," he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. "Just save him."
Mirri nodded, stepping forward and gesturing for them to lay Viserys down. The camp buzzed with tension as the maegi set to work, her hands moving with practiced precision as she prepared her tools and whispered incantations.
Mat stood beside Daenerys, his hand resting on her shoulder, offering what comfort he could. "We'll get through this," he murmured, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest.
Daenerys leaned into him, her eyes never leaving her brother's pale face. "We have to," she said softly. "We don't have a choice."
The dice in Mat's head were still rattling, louder than ever. And as Mirri Maz Duur began her work he couldn't shake the feeling that the cost she spoke of would be higher than any of them could imagine.
The camp was shrouded in an uneasy quiet, the air thick with the scent of blood and grief. The attempt to save Viserys had failed, despite Mirri Maz Duur's incantations and dark whispers. His body lay still now, pale and lifeless, and Daenerys stood over him, her face calm but her violet eyes stormy with emotions Mat couldn't quite read.
He watched her closely, his heart heavy. He had no love for Viserys, but he hated seeing the pain etched in Daenerys' face.
"What now, Dany?" Mat asked, his voice low. "What do you want to do?"
Daenerys didn't answer right away. Her gaze drifted to the dragon eggs resting nearby, their surfaces glistening faintly in the firelight. She seemed drawn to them, her fingers brushing over the smooth shells as though they whispered secrets only she could hear.
"Burn him," she said finally, her voice quiet but resolute.
Mat's brow furrowed. "Burn him? Dany, that's not—"
She turned to him, her face calm but her eyes blazing with a determination that stopped him in his tracks. "It's instinct, Mat. I need to do this."
He opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. He had learned to trust Daenerys' instincts. She had grown stronger, more sure of herself, and though he didn't fully understand her reasoning, he knew better than to doubt her.
She turned to the gathered Dothraki, her voice carrying over the silent camp. "Prepare a pyre. We will burn my brother's body tonight. And the maegi, for her treachery."
The Dothraki murmured among themselves, some exchanging uneasy glances, but they obeyed, moving to gather wood and prepare the pyre. Mirri Maz Duur, bound and glaring defiantly, was dragged forward by the bloodriders. Her lips curled into a mocking smile as she was placed at the center of the growing pile of wood.
"You think fire will cleanse you of your sins, little Khaleesi?" Mirri hissed. "You think it will bring you peace?"
Daenerys didn't respond. She stood tall, regal, her face expressionless as she oversaw the preparations. Mat stayed close, his grip tight on his ashandarei, his instincts screaming at him that something was off.
When the pyre was ready, Daenerys moved forward, the dragon eggs cradled in her arms. Mat's eyes widened as he saw her place them gently among the wood, arranging them around Viserys' body and the maegi with deliberate care.
"Dany," Mat said cautiously, stepping closer. "What are you doing with the eggs?"
Her gaze flicked to him, her expression unreadable. "It feels right. I don't know why, but it does."
He hesitated, his mind racing. This wasn't like her—this sudden, unexplainable resolve. But the look in her eyes stopped him from arguing further. She was certain, and he wouldn't undermine her now.
As night fell the pyre was lit. Flames roared to life, devouring the wood, the heat intense as it climbed higher and higher. The Dothraki watched in silence, their faces filled with a mix of awe and unease. Mat stood at the edge of the gathering with his eye fixed on Daenerys as the fire burned.
And then she stepped forward.
Mat's heart lurched as she began to walk toward the pyre, the flames casting an eerie glow across her silver hair.
"Dany," he called, his voice sharp with alarm. "What are you doing?"
She turned to him, her face calm, her eyes blazing with something fierce and unyielding. "Trust me, Mat. This is how it has to be."
"Dany, no!" he shouted, but she didn't stop. She stepped into the fire, the flames wrapping around her like a cloak, and disappeared into the inferno.
Time seemed to freeze. The Dothraki gasped, their murmurs rising into cries of shock and disbelief, but Mat couldn't hear them. His world narrowed to the sight of the fire, his heart pounding as he stared into the roaring flames.
And then, without thinking, without hesitation, he moved.
"DAENERYS!" he shouted, his voice raw, and he ran toward the pyre, his ashandarei clattering to the ground as he reached for her.
The heat seared his skin, the flames blinding him, but he didn't stop. He plunged into the fire, the roaring heat enveloping him as he searched for her, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Dany!" he screamed, his voice lost in the roar of the flames.
The flames roared around them, a searing wall of heat and light that should have reduced everything in its grasp to ash. Yet, as Mat and Daenerys stood at the center of the inferno, neither of them felt pain. Instead, the fire swirled like a living thing, embracing them rather than consuming them.
Mat's heart raced as he stared at Daenerys, her silver hair glinting in the firelight, her violet eyes wide with shock and awe. She was untouched by the flames, her skin unburnt, her expression a mixture of wonder and disbelief.
"You're not burning," Mat breathed, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the roar of the fire.
Daenerys reached out, her hand brushing against his, her touch warm but not scalding. "Neither are you," she said, her tone incredulous. Her eyes dropped to the medallion hanging around his neck, the small foxhead charm glinting faintly in the firelight. "It's you, Mat. The medallion... it's protecting you."
Mat glanced down at the medallion, a realization dawning on him. The foxhead, a gift from his world, had always protected him from harmful magic. Now, amidst the impossible flames, it shielded him once more.
"And you," Mat said, his gaze returning to Daenerys, "are a bloody Targaryen. Fire and blood. It's in your veins."
Daenerys gave him a faint smile, though her expression was tinged with uncertainty. The moment was surreal, the fire crackling around them, yet leaving them unscathed.
Then the visions began.
At first, they were faint flashes, like glimpses of a dream—a city in flames, ships with great dragon heads carved into their prows, soldiers clad in unfamiliar armor kneeling before a silver-haired queen.
Mat staggered slightly, his head spinning as the images grew sharper, more vivid. He saw Daenerys standing atop a great black dragon, her hand outstretched as fire rained down on a vast battlefield. He saw himself leading a charge of riders through golden plains, their cries echoing in his ears.
Daenerys gasped, her eyes wide as she clutched at Mat's arm. "Do you see it?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Mat nodded, his mind bombarded with the onslaught of visions. "Aye," he said, his voice tight. "I see... everything."
The visions grew more intense, overlapping and merging, a chaotic tapestry of futures that seemed both distant and immediate. They saw cities falling, great banners flying—some bearing the Targaryen sigil, others emblazoned with emblems Mat didn't recognize: a wolf, a lion, a rose, and more.
They saw alliances formed and shattered, blood spilled on distant shores, a throne made of swords glinting in the dim light of a cavernous hall.
One image struck Mat like a blow—a pair of dragons flying side by side, one black as night, the other pale as frost, their wings beating in unison as a great battle raged below.
"This is what's coming," Daenerys murmured, her voice faint. "This is our destiny."
Mat clenched his fists, his mind struggling to process the enormity of what he was seeing. His gambler's instincts screamed at him to look for the odds, to find the path that would lead them to victory. But the visions were too vast, too sprawling, and the dice in his head rattled like a storm.
"I don't know if I like destiny," Mat muttered, his voice rough. "It's too bloody complicated."
Daenerys let out a soft laugh, the sound tinged with nervousness. "It's ours now," she said. "Whether we want it or not."
The visions continued, relentless, pulling them deeper into the swirling vortex of fire and prophecy. Time seemed to lose meaning as the images played out, each one more vivid than the last.
Mat and Daenerys clung to each other as the fire raged on, their shared strength the only anchor in the maelstrom. Their breaths came in shallow gasps, their minds overwhelmed by the weight of what they were seeing.
Finally, as the night wore on and the fire reached its zenith, the visions began to fade, replaced by a deep, all-encompassing darkness. Mat felt his knees buckle, and he sank to the ground, Daenerys collapsing beside him.
Their hands found each other, their fingers intertwining as the last of their strength ebbed away.
As the flames crackled and danced around them, Mat and Daenerys lost consciousness, their fates entwined in the fire, the future of their world written in its embers.
The morning sun broke over the horizon, its golden rays illuminating the charred remains of the pyre. Smoke curled lazily into the sky, the ground beneath it still warm, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood and ash. At the center of it all, Mat stirred, groaning as consciousness slowly returned. His body ached, his head felt heavy, and he was uncomfortably aware of something sharp poking into his side.
"Bloody flaming..." he muttered, his voice hoarse.
As his eyes fluttered open, the world came into focus—Daenerys lay curled against him, her silver hair catching the light of the dawn. Her soft breaths stirred the soot around them, and for a moment, Mat allowed himself to feel relief that they had both survived the night.
Then he felt the sharp poke again.
"What in the Light—" Mat shifted slightly, reaching down to brush away whatever was prodding him, but froze when he saw what it was.
Perched on his chest was a small, scaly creature, its black eyes blinking up at him curiously. It cocked its head, letting out a soft chirp before stretching its leathery wings.
"By the bloody Light!" Mat shouted, sitting up so suddenly that Daenerys was jolted awake.
"Mat?" she asked groggily, her voice thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"
Mat gestured wildly at the creature now perched on his arm, its claws gripping his sleeve. "What's this? Is it supposed to be here?!"
Daenerys blinked, her confusion quickly giving way to awe as she looked at him. "Mat," she whispered, her voice trembling with wonder. "It's a dragon."
He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, he noticed movement behind her. Two more creatures emerged from the ashes—one with shimmering green scales, the other pale as cream, their tiny tails flicking as they climbed onto Daenerys' shoulders.
Mat stared his mouth slightly agape as Daenerys in her glorious naked form rose to her feet, the three small dragons draped around her like living ornaments. They chirped softly, their heads swiveling as they took in the world around them.
"They hatched," Daenerys said, her voice reverent, her eyes shining as she reached up to gently stroke the black dragon's head. "The fire hatched them."
Mat slowly got to his feet, brushing ash from his bare shoulders and cursed as he realized he was naked as well, the fire having burned through his clothes. His gaze locked on the dragons. "So the eggs... they weren't just rocks," he muttered. "Figures." He glanced at Daenerys, noting the way she stood taller, her shoulders squared, her expression radiant with newfound confidence.
The sound of shuffling drew their attention, and they turned to see the remnants of their army gathered at the edge of the pyre. Only a fraction of the horde remained—most of the Dothraki had fled in the night, convinced that their Khal and Khaleesi had been consumed by the flames. But those who stayed knelt now, their faces a mix of awe and reverence as they beheld the dragons perched on Daenerys.
"Bloody ashes!" Mat yelled as he covered his genitals and tried to stand in front of his wife to block her nudity from the horde's eyes, but they were only focused on the dragons. He was slightly irritated she didn't seem to care that she was naked in front of a horde of lusty soldiers, just stood there all hot and unbothered. Then Mat's attention was drawn away.
Jorah stepped forward, his face pale but his eyes filled with something close to wonder. "Khaleesi," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "They've returned. The dragons of House Targaryen."
Daenerys met his gaze, her chin held high. "They were never truly gone," she said, her voice ringing with authority. "Only waiting to be awakened."
Mat cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping over the ragged remnants of their forces. They were a pitiful sight—exhausted, hungry, and diminished in number. His gambler's instincts kicked in, and he began calculating odds, the dice in his head rattling faintly.
The dragons were a game-changer, that much was clear. But the horde was gone, scattered into the vastness of the Dothraki Sea, and what remained wasn't enough to launch any kind of campaign. The prospect of marching through the endless desert ahead to find another city made his stomach twist.
"Well, isn't this just grand," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Daenerys, who was already cradling the black dragon like it was an extension of herself, her confidence radiating with every movement.
She turned to him, her expression both fierce and serene. "We'll rebuild, Mat. We'll find a way. The dragons will guide us."
Mat raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a wry grin despite himself. "Dragons or no dragons, Dany, the desert doesn't care. It's going to be a rough month."
Daenerys smiled softly, stepping closer to him, the dragons chirping quietly as they adjusted on her shoulders. "We've faced worse, haven't we?"
Mat sighed, his grin fading into a resigned smirk as he looked out at the horizon, the endless grasslands and desert stretching before them. "Aye," he said, his voice dry. "But this... this is something else entirely."
He glanced back at the dragons, the reality of their situation settling over him like a weight. Then he muttered under his breath, the words escaping before he could stop them:
"Bloody flaming hell. I really hate destiny."
Daenerys laughed softly, her hand brushing against his. "You might hate it, Mat, but we're in it now."
With that, they turned to face their people, the kneeling warriors and scattered remains of their horde. Together, they stepped forward, dragons on their shoulders, their path uncertain but their resolve unshakable.
And as the sun climbed higher, casting its light over the smoldering pyre and the awestruck faces of their followers, Mat couldn't help but feel the dice rattling louder than ever.
Then he remembered that he and Dany were still naked.
"Somebody bring us some bloody clothes!"