We rode east for a week after the wedding.
The khalasar moved like a tide across the grass, their numbers stretching over hills and valleys in endless motion. Smoke from their fires rose like banners. Laughter, drums, and hooves filled the air. The Dothraki did not camp—they occupied.
Drogo rode at the head, silent and sure.
Dany and I rode beside him, sharing a silver mare gifted to her at the wedding. I sat behind, arms around her waist, head resting on her shoulder as she leaned back against me.
It was peace, in its way.
Wild, dusty, sun-baked peace.
And beneath it, something deeper stirred.
At night, we slept in a tent trimmed with fine furs and heavy with incense. Dany took to the Dothraki ways slowly, but with quiet grace. She wore leather now, loose tunics and flowing skirts. She braided her hair, practiced riding with her own reins, and began to speak their words.
I encouraged her.
But I had other tasks as well.
Each night, after she fell asleep beside me, I slipped outside with the egg.
Mine.
Not Illyrio's gift—mine. The one from the Elyrian trader. Blue and copper, still warm at times, still silent.
I sat beside the fire with it in my lap and opened the leather-bound tome I had smuggled from Illyrio's library.
It was ancient. Written in High Valyrian so old, even I had to sound out the words phonetically. Most would mistake it for a book of poetry.
But it wasn't.
It was a ritual guide.
The Targaryens had lost more than just dragons after the Doom. They'd lost their tongues—the older spells, the deeper connections to fire and blood. What was left was instinct. Tradition. But not understanding.
I wanted more.
So I read.
I traced every symbol, spoke each line aloud, careful to never do more than whisper. Fire is power—but power taken too quickly is always fire uncontrolled.
And I needed control.
The egg hummed beneath my palms.
Not with noise.
With possibility.
On the eighth night, I heard it.
A single, soft crack.
I froze.
Nothing moved. The fire crackled. Dany shifted slightly behind the tent flap. But the egg in my lap… breathed.
Like stone being kissed by wind.
I leaned down.
Pressed my ear to the shell.
There. Again.
Thump.
A heartbeat.
My heart matched it.
The next morning, I didn't speak of it.
I simply sat beside Daenerys as she practiced with her new handmaiden, Doreah, learning to braid her hair in the Dothraki fashion. Doreah chattered easily, half-laughing as she tried to get the silver strands to stay in place.
"She says I have a baby's hair," Dany muttered under her breath.
"You have a queen's hair," I said, tying a loose knot over her ear.
She gave me a sidelong look. "Will you ever stop saying things like that?"
"No," I said. "Because they're true."
She flushed.
And smiled.
That evening, the black egg pulsed again.
Illyrio's gift. The one she had claimed.
We sat together near the fire, both of us holding our respective eggs. Mine in my lap, hers pressed against her stomach.
"It's getting warmer," she whispered.
"They all are."
She looked at me. "What if they hatch?"
"Then we'll fly."
Her lips curled upward.
"You're always so certain."
"I am certain."
She looked down. "I had another dream."
I waited.
"I was walking through fire again," she said slowly. "But this time… I wasn't alone."
"Who was with you?"
She looked up.
"You were."
Viserys returned on the tenth day, riding hard into camp with a scowl and a broken whip at his side.
He had tried to command Drogo's riders. They'd laughed. One had nearly knocked him from his horse for touching her braid.
His fury rolled off him like smoke.
When he found Dany and I eating by the fire, he stomped toward us like a child denied his toy.
"You're ignoring me," he spat.
"No," I said. "I'm relaxing. You should try it."
His face twisted. "You think this is a joke? Do you know how long I've waited for this army? For my throne?"
Dany flinched, but didn't hide.
I stood.
"I know exactly how long you've waited," I said evenly. "And I know how quickly you're squandering it."
His hand moved toward his belt.
I didn't flinch.
"You want to hit me?" I asked. "Do it. Right here. In front of the Khal's warriors."
He hesitated.
"They'll kill you," I added casually. "And not because they like me. Because you're weak."
His mouth opened. Closed.
Then he spat at the ground and stormed away.
That night, I kissed Daenerys under the stars.
Not soft, this time.
Not hesitant.
She climbed into my lap as the fire burned low, fingers trailing over my chest. Her mouth found mine with hunger. Her breath caught as I tugged her closer.
"You've been dreaming of fire," I whispered.
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