The heavy brown cowhide flap of the yurt swung open, releasing a wave of scent that was sickeningly sweet—a cloying mixture of expensive Myrish laurel perfume and the sharp, ammonia tang of stale urine. A woman emerged, leaning heavily on two Dothraki handmaidens, her own pregnancy evident beneath her robes.
Daenerys froze, her eyes widening.
The woman didn't wear the traditional painted leather vest of the horselords. Instead, she was draped in a gossamer-thin gown of Lysene lace, a pale primrose yellow that made her skin appear strikingly fair. She had a cascade of silver hair falling over her shoulders and eyes the color of pale amethysts.
For a heartbeat, the memories of her past life flickered—she almost thought she had stumbled upon another scion of the Targaryen bloodline.
Before his death, Jon Arryn had gasped, "The seed is strong," a cryptic warning about King Robert Baratheon's golden-haired "children." In this world, lineage was written in the flesh: the Baratheon black, the Tully auburn, the Lannister gold, and the ethereal silver-gold of the Targaryens.
Yet, silver hair and violet eyes were not exclusive to dragons. They were the marks of Old Valyria. Ever since the Doom shattered that ancient civilization four centuries ago, the blood of the Dragonlords had thinned and scattered across the Free Cities of Essos. To find such a woman in the khalasar of a Great Khal was rare, but not impossible.
"So, it is the Khaleesi," the woman said.
Unlike the small, waif-ish Daenerys, this woman was built on a grander scale—broad-shouldered, with a generous chest and a wide, square jaw. She was a classic Valyrian beauty, though older than Dany, likely approaching her thirtieth year.
Her gaze was unsettling. It was a toxic brew of mockery, pity, jealousy, and a sharp, venal triumph. Daenerys felt a prickle of irritation.
"You are the Lady Lilith?" Dany asked, her brow furrowing. "Consort to Ko Jhaqo?"
"Heh. Perhaps soon," Lilith replied, her lips curling into a knowing smirk, "I shall be called Khaleesi as well."
The implication hung in the air like a vulture. If Khal Drogo died, the khalasar would shatter, and the strongest kos would rise as new Khals. Their wives would then claim the title of Khaleesi.
In the Great Grass Sea, the title was often a death sentence of relevance. Beyond the roving hordes, the city of Vaes Dothrak was home to hundreds of widowed Khaleesis—the Dosh Khaleen. Only days ago, Drogo had dispatched a guard to escort two such widows to the mountain—the wives of the fallen Khal Oggo and his son, whom Drogo had personally butchered.
Dany's Dothraki guards weren't quick enough to catch the High Valyrian subtext of Lilith's words. Had they understood the veiled curse against their Khal's life, an arrow would have already found its way into the woman's womb.
Ser Jorah, however, felt the chill. His eyes hardened into flint. "I have never heard of Jhaqo taking a wife," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Even Khal Drogo has many women, yet only Princess Daenerys is recognized as Khaleesi."
He put a heavy, deliberate emphasis on the word Princess, reminding the woman that a concubine's ambition was nothing compared to the blood of kings.
Lilith's face flushed. A flicker of genuine rage crossed her features, her thick lips pressing into a bitter, jagged line. After a tense silence, she switched to a stumbling, accented Dothraki.
"Khaleesi... Do you intend to break the sacred traditions of the Great Grass Sea again? Will you steal the plunder of another warrior?"
The old Daenerys, the girl whose memories now resided in the surgeon's mind—had been a beacon of compassion. She had risked everything to stop the warriors from ravaging the Lhazareen women, claiming them as her own to save them. The women she saved rarely thanked her, but the Dothraki men she robbed of their "spoils" hated her with a passion that bordered on mutiny.
"It is only a goose," Dany said. She reached into her sash and unclipped a heavy silver medallion, tossing it onto the dirt at Lilith's feet. "You cannot refuse a gift from the Khaleesi. And in return..."
Nearby, Quaro ended the goose's flight. A single arrow hissed through the air, pinning the bird's long neck to the mud. The shaft buried itself four inches deep into the soil. The goose gave a final, weak honk, its snowy feathers turning crimson as it beat its wings one last time.
Dany pointed at the bird. "It is mine now."
The Dothraki didn't have banks, or markets, or even a formal currency. To them, trade was a series of reciprocal "gifts." When ten thousand warriors arrived at a city's gates, the city "gifted" them gold to keep them from burning it down. The Dothraki, in turn, "gifted" the city their departure.
They wore their wealth as medallions—bronze, silver, and gold—strung into belts. By throwing the silver, Dany had initiated a formal exchange that Lilith, by the laws of the horselords, could not refuse without inviting a blood feud.
It was the same brutal logic that had brought Daenerys here. Her brother, Viserys, had "gifted" her to Khal Drogo through the machinations of Magister Illyrio. In return, the Khal was expected to "gift" Viserys ten thousand riders to reclaim the Iron Throne.
But the Dothraki were a people of "eventually." They would give the gift, but the how and when were theirs alone to decide.
Viserys, desperate and half-mad with the "Wake the Dragon" fury, couldn't wait. As Dany's belly grew, and Drogo showed no sign of crossing the Black Salt Sea, Viserys had become a common nuisance. He hounded the Khal like a debt collector, screaming in a language Drogo didn't understand, insulting his sister, and even attempting to steal her dragon eggs.
He had finally crossed the line when he entered the sacred city of Vaes Dothrak with a bared sword—a capital offense—and threatened Dany's unborn child. Drogo had given him his crown then. A "crown" of molten gold medallions, poured directly onto his head.
The Dothraki gift-trade was as cruel as it was final.
Lilith looked at the silver medallion in the mud, then at the goose. She had no choice.
Before riding away, Dany reined in her filly. She rested a hand on her hip, looking back at the seething woman. "You have been with the khalasar for some time, have you not? If you care so much for tradition, you should know this: a Khaleesi who cannot ride is no Khaleesi at all... even when she is with child."
With a sharp click of her tongue, Dany trotted away.
In this world, life was the saddle. Dany had spent months learning the rhythm of the horse. The khalasar had carts, of course, but they were for the "hairless men," the crippled, and the dying. A noble who traveled by wagon was a noble who invited contempt.
Drogo himself, though his mind was a fog of fever and infection, stayed in his saddle by sheer instinct. To leave the horse was to leave life itself.
Dany remembered when Viserys had first tried to strike her on the road. Her own khas had stopped him, and as punishment, she had forced him to walk. The Dothraki had laughed, calling him Khal Rhae Mhar—the Sorefoot King. Later, when he accepted a seat in a wagon, they dubbed him Khal Rhaggat—the Cart King.
Lilith watched Dany's silver hair vanish into the distance, her lips drawn back in a snarl.
"Tomorrow," she hissed to her slave girls, "before the khalasar breaks camp, find me a horse. A silver filly, exactly like that bitch's."