Daenerys Targaryen stared at the heart placed before her, fresh and dripping with blood.
It still steamed in the cold night air of Vaes Dothrak, its muscular valves twitching from time to time as white mist rose from it.
Blood had soaked Drogo's arms up to the elbow.
Behind him, his bloodrider knelt on one knee in the sand beside the wild stallion's body, the stone dagger still in his hand.
The pale, powder-white walls surrounding the pit flickered with torchlight.
Orange-red flames cast the stallion's blood into utter darkness.
Looking at the heart before her, Daenerys felt her throat tighten on its own.
Then, just as instinctively, she laid a hand on her swollen belly.
Sweat beaded on her skin and slid down from her temples.
She could feel the ancient crones watching her.
Their faces were already carved full of wrinkles, yet their eyes were shockingly bright—like flint polished to a shine, glinting with black light.
'I cannot shrink back. I cannot fear. I am the blood of the dragon.'
Daenerys Targaryen told herself this in her heart.
These words seemed to grant her endless courage, enough for her to lift the stallion's heart her husband had placed before her.
She raised the heart to her mouth and, with all her strength, bit down on the toughest raw flesh.
Warm blood flooded her mouth, spilling down her chin.
The indescribable taste nearly made her retch.
But Daenerys forced herself to endure it.
She pushed down the violent urge rising from her throat and stomach, and kept chewing—kept swallowing.
The Dothraki believed that a stallion's heart would make a son strong, swift, and fearless.
But all of that depended on the mother devouring the entire heart.
If she choked on the blood or spat out the flesh she bit into, it would be an ill omen.
It meant the child might be lost—or born sickly, or malformed.
Or even born a daughter.
All of this was what Daenerys could not accept—and could not afford to bear.
So, for the sake of this ritual, over the past two months—even though the pregnancy had made her body somewhat unwell—she had still forced herself to eat bowl after bowl of half-congealed blood clots, using this method to accustom herself to the taste of blood.
Not long after she married Drogo, Daenerys became pregnant with the Khal's child.
At first, Daenerys felt nothing but fear toward her husband Drogo and toward the Dothraki people.
But as she gradually came to understand them, she found herself slowly falling in love with Drogo, for beneath his rough exterior there was a kind of indescribable care and gentleness.
Then she no longer feared the Dothraki, nor did she fear her brother.
Every night, Drogo drank with his bloodriders until dawn.
Only then would he return to the tent, wake her from sleep, carry her out beneath the sky, and take his pleasure in her.
After living like this for two months, Daenerys discovered she was pregnant.
This forced them to revive the plans that had been set aside because of the war that had broken out across the Narrow Sea in Westeros.
By Dothraki custom, after she and Drogo married, they were supposed to travel to the "city of the Horse Lords," Vaes Dothrak.
But at the time of their marriage, news had come from across the Narrow Sea: House Baratheon and House Lannister had gone to war.
This unexpected conflict halted their journey.
For the wealthy governor of Pentos—a shrewd merchant, Illyrio Mopatis, who had arranged her marriage to Khal Drogo—had begged Drogo to stay a while longer.
He had paid a great price to persuade Drogo to agree to help him safeguard Pentos.
And if possible, he could even grant him the army he had promised to Viserys Targaryen.
During that time, her brother Viserys Targaryen waited every day with longing for news of the war in Westeros.
Every day he watched the sellswords whom House Lannister had hired at great expense board ships and sail across the Narrow Sea.
Every day he went into the streets to ask the mercenaries how the war across the water was progressing.
He wished those men all belonged to him—that they were his army.
And he would be their king.
So that he could then lead his army to reclaim his crown, reclaim the honor of House Targaryen, and reclaim the Iron Throne.
And afterward, he would cut off the usurper's head, spear it on a long pike, and set it above the city gate to display his deeds.
Every day, Viserys Targaryen told his sister Daenerys Targaryen these same words.
So every day he demanded from Illyrio Mopatis the army Drogo was supposed to grant him, for he wanted to go at once to join the war that belonged to him.
But each time he left empty-handed, so he grew more and more irritable, and from time to time would even throw a tantrum in Illyrio Mopatis's palace.
He wanted to confront Drogo and demand, face-to-face, what he deserved for giving him his sister—his future wife.
But every time, Illyrio Mopatis cleverly stopped him and told him the time had not yet come.
Yet the war across the Narrow Sea had only just begun, and Viserys, who never found a good chance to join the fighting, saw his hopes collapse completely after the news of Daenerys's pregnancy came.
Khal Drogo declared that he was leaving.
He would take his wife—his Khaleesi, the wife of the Khal of the khalasar—to Vaes Dothrak, the "city of the Horse Lords."
Because Daenerys needed to meet the dosh khaleen—the order of Dothraki crones, all former Khaleesi, widows of dead Khals—and take part in a traditional Dothraki ritual.
She needed to eat the heart of a stallion to prove and pray that the child in her belly was Khal Drogo's son and to foretell his health.
She needed to give her husband, Khal Drogo, a khalakka—the Dothraki term for the Khal's heir.
A wild stallion's heart was nothing but dense muscle. Daenerys had to use all her strength to tear at it, then chew slowly, bit by bit, before she could swallow.
In the holy city of Vaes Dothrak, under the shadow of Mother Mountain, weapons were strictly forbidden, so she could only use her teeth and fingernails to tear the heart apart.
Each time, she felt sick, her stomach churning.
But all she could do was grit her teeth and persist, enduring the spurts of horse blood that splashed onto her face from time to time.
As time passed, the heart that had once still throbbed grew cold, and the blood that had been warm and steaming turned icy; her lips and fingertips felt nothing but slippery chill whenever they touched it.
The stench of blood grew even stronger, and the churning in her stomach surged harder each time.
Her belly was already full, and every single time, Daenerys Targaryen had to use all her strength to force it down.
Khal Drogo stood tall at her side, watching her eat, his face stern like a bronze shield.
His long black braid gleamed with an oily shine, a small gold ring hung from his mustache, bells were tied into his braid, and a heavy gold medallion belt circled his waist—while his chest was bare.
Whenever Daenerys felt she could no longer hold on, she would lift her head to look at him, then grit her teeth and continue chewing and swallowing.
In his dark eyes that seemed carved from stone, she thought she glimpsed a kind of determined pride—but she did not dare be sure.
Only when it finally ended, when Daenerys swallowed the last piece of horseflesh, did she stop.
Her cheeks and fingers had long gone numb.
Only now did she dare turn her gaze back toward the old women—the crones of the dosh khaleen.
"Khalakka! Doshi! M'anha! (The prince rides inside me!)" Daenerys Targaryen shouted with all her strength.
These were the words she had practiced over and over with her handmaid Jhiqui.
"Khalakka! Doshi!" cried the eldest of the crones—an old woman bent and crooked, little more than skin and bone, with only one smoke-blackened eye—raising both hands high as she called out sharply.
With her lead, the other women shouted as well: "Rakh! Rakh! Rakh ha! (A boy, a boy, a strong boy!)"
The bells chimed, ringing like sudden bronze birdsong.
In the chamber, the warhorns let out a deep, long note, and the old women began to chant.
Under their painted leather vests, their withered chests swayed back and forth, glistening with oily sweat.
The eunuchs serving them threw bundles of dry grass into the bronze fire basin, and at once it filled the air with a thick herbal fragrance.
A trail of smoke shot upward toward the moon and stars above, which, in Dothraki eyes, were a great herd of fierce stallions made of fire, galloping across the night sky.
As the thick smoke rose and the chanting grew softer, the eldest crone closed her one eye and looked toward the future.
The entire place fell silent—so silent that Daenerys could hear distant birdsong, the hiss and crackle of the burning torches, and the gentle lapping of lake water.
The Dothraki were all watching her, waiting for the prophecy.
At some point, Khal Drogo had come to Daenerys's side.
He reached out and gripped her arm.
From the force of his fingers, she could feel his tension.
Even one as strong as Khal Drogo felt fear when the dosh khaleen read the future through smoke.
At last, the eldest crone opened her single eye and raised both her arms.
"I saw his face, and I heard his thunderous hooves," she declared in a thin, trembling voice.
"His hooves thunder!" several of the old women echoed.
"His horse runs swift as the wind. His khalasar spreads across the whole land, and the arakhs in their hands are sharp as blades of grass!"
"The prince will be fierce as a storm, and his enemies will tremble before him!"
"The enemy will weep blood, grieving in despair!"
"The prince rides, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world!"
The old woman looked at Daenerys, trembling, as if fearful.
The people answered with a roar, shouting until the night was full of their cries.
Her single eye turned toward Daenerys.
"What is the name of the stallion who mounts the world?"
"We will name him Rhaego," Daenerys said, rising from Khal Drogo's embrace, speaking the word Jhiqui had taught her beforehand.
The Dothraki crowd erupted with deafening cheers.
"Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!"
Even as Khal Drogo led Daenerys out of the pit, the name still echoed in her ears.
Their vast procession walked along the Avenue of the Gods—a broad green road that ran through the heart of Vaes Dothrak, stretching from the Horse Gate all the way to the foot of Mother Mountain.
"What does it mean? The name Rhaego?" Khal Drogo asked as he walked, speaking in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms.
Daenerys usually taught him single words, and he learned them with focus—and very quickly.
His accent, however, was far too thick, a true barbarian growl; Ser Jorah Mormont and Viserys could not understand a word he said.
But Daenerys could.
"My sun and stars, my brother Rhaegar was a brave warrior, but he died in battle before I was born. Ser Jorah says he was the last true dragon."
Drogo understood her meaning.
He lowered his head to look at her, and a faint smile hid beneath his long, drooping black beard.
"A good name, Daenerys wife—moon of my life."
They rode past a still lake thick with reeds, its surface smooth as a mirror.
The Dothraki called this place "the womb of the world."
Jhiqui had told Daenerys that millions of years ago, the first man in the world had ridden forth from the depths of this lake on the world's first horse.
The procession halted there, and Daenerys shed her clothing, cautiously dipping her foot into the water.
When she forced herself to endure the cold and washed the filth from her body, returning trembling and dripping wet, her handmaid Doreah hurriedly lifted a painted silks-and-gauze robe to wrap her.
But Khal Drogo waved her away.
Daenerys saw the horsehide trousers beneath his heavy gold medallion belt strain upward.
She stepped forward to loosen his belt, and the mighty Khal lifted her—cradling her like a child and raising her into the air.
Three thrusts, and everything dissolved into haze.
...
At last the vast procession arrived at Khal Drogo's palace.
The silk curtains were rolled high tonight, and moonlight followed them into the hall.
Three stone firepits blazed, flames leaping ten feet high.
The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and fermented, clotted mare's milk.
By the time they arrived, the hall was already roaring with voices.
Crowds jammed shoulder to shoulder, and the cushions were filled with people of lower rank, unqualified to attend the ritual.
Passing through the crowd, Khal Drogo dismounted and sat on the high stool.
Because Khal Jommo and Khal Ogo and their khalasars were also in the city, the two were given places of honor on Drogo's left and right.
Below them sat the bloodriders of the three Khals.
Below them were the four wives of Khal Jommo.
Daenerys slid down from her silver mare and handed the reins to a slave.
While Doreah and Irri arranged cushions for her, she searched the crowd for her brother Viserys.
Even in such a packed hall, pale skin, silver hair, and ragged clothes would have made Viserys easy to spot—yet today she did not see him.
"Where has my brother gone?" Daenerys asked Ser Jorah. "He should be here. He ought to attend the feast."
"I saw His Grace this morning," Ser Jorah Mormont told her. "He said he was going to the western market to find wine."
The feast continued.
Daenerys listened as Ser Jorah told her many stories and spoke of how Viserys had once tried to steal her dragon eggs.
They talked for a long while, until suddenly Doreah tugged at her elbow.
"Khaleesi," the handmaid whispered anxiously, "your brother, he—"
At the far end of the hall, a staggering, kneeling figure appeared.
He wore a bright red silk tunic, stained with sweat and dust.
His black velvet cloak and gloves had faded under the sun.
His boots were cracked; his silver hair tangled and disheveled.
And most important of all—a long sword in a leather scabbard hung slanted at his waist.
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