After another complaint from Daenerys about the rebelliousness of her white and green dragons, Jorah offered some practical advice. "You cannot be a mother to all three in the same way, Your Grace. Focus your efforts on the black one. He is bonded to you. Once he is grown and disciplined, you can use him to command the other two." He sighed, watching the three small specks soaring in the sky. "In the histories of your family, dragons were not invincible. The most famous, perhaps, was the death of Meraxes. Your ancestor, Queen Rhaenys, was flying over Dorne when a scorpion bolt pierced the dragon's eye. Meraxes fell from the sky and died on the spot." He looked at her, his face grim. "Their eyes are a weakness. A lucky shot can kill them. And right now… they are so very small."
She took his advice, in part. She did not give up on the white and green ones, but she changed her methods. Dahei, the black dragon, was her star pupil, and he received the most intense, one-on-one instruction. The other two were given more freedom, but were still expected to keep up.
While she was busy taming dragons, her khalasar was not idle. The old and the women continued to find small treasures in the three white cities. The warriors hunted in the western mountains, bringing back smoked meat to supplement their stores. And at Dany's request, Ser Jorah began to teach the Dothraki children the fundamentals of Westerosi combat. A Dothraki warrior was a light horseman, deadly in the open field but useless against fortifications. Dany knew that if they were to have a future, they would need knights clad in steel. The Dothraki fought in leather vests not because they were fearless, but because they were poor. She would change that.
After three months in White Cloud City, Dany stood in a newly tilled field and held up a turnip, no bigger than a child's fist. "The first of our crops is ready to be harvested!" she announced to the Dothraki around her. "We will not have to fear famine again!"
The world was strange. A turnip had matured in three months, in this blistering heat. But then, she thought of the orchards, where one tree might be in full bloom while its neighbor was heavy with ripe fruit. It was the Long Summer.
But the Dothraki did not cheer. Instead, Aggo stepped forward, his face set in a stubborn frown. "Khaleesi, we are horsemen. We are not meant to be cowardly farmers. We should abandon this city and return to the hunt."
"We have too many mouths to feed," she countered, glaring at her bloodrider. "We have no lambs or cattle. Hunting is too uncertain. We need a stable source of food. We need this city."
"But there is no danger here!" he argued.
"Report!"
A long cry cut through the air. A rider was galloping toward them, his horse kicking up clouds of red dust. "Report to the Khaleesi!" the scout shouted, his voice high and excited. "There are people coming to our city!"
Aggo's face fell. He had been proven wrong by reality itself.
"It is your crow's mouth that has summoned them," Dany muttered, glaring at him again. She turned to the scout. "Who are they? How many?"
"Three people," the warrior said, his expression strange. "They call themselves dragon seekers. They asked me if this was White Cloud City… and if a Targaryen girl had hatched a dragon."
"What?" The English word escaped her lips in a choked gasp of pure horror. "How is that possible? Are you certain they used the name 'White Cloud City'?"
"Yes, Khaleesi. A man in blue robes told them."
"A shadowbinder?" she whispered, her blood running cold. She had never posted a sign. She had never told an outsider the name she had given this place. "Where are my other dragons?" she asked, her eyes scanning the sky.
"They have not returned," her people murmured.
"The visitors knew your name as well, Khaleesi," the scout added. "Daenerys."
Aggo nodded gravely. "Everyone knows."
"Everyone knows," Jhiqui echoed, her voice trembling.
Dany rolled her eyes, a flash of her old self cutting through the fear. "Aggo, go and find Rakharo, Jhogo, and Ser Jorah. Bring them to the gate." She turned to her Dragon Guard. "Quilo, you come with me." She looked back at the scout. "You did not let them enter the city?"
"No, Khaleesi," the man said quickly. "You commanded that no outsider may enter without your permission."
She had forgotten giving the order, but the Dothraki, for all their stubbornness, had remembered.
She rode through the silent streets, her mind racing. As she passed through the narrow opening in the stone-blocked gate, her heart stopped. The three visitors were not on horseback. They were mounted on tall, loping camels.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. The Red Waste, the impassable wasteland that she had believed was her shield and her sanctuary, was only a barrier for horses. For those who knew its secrets, for those who rode the ships of the desert, it was just a road. This place was not safe at all.
She took a deep breath, forcing a calm, regal expression onto her face. "I am the one who hatched the dragons, Daenerys of House Targaryen," she called out, her voice clear and steady. "Welcome, guests from afar. The sun is hot. Please, enter my city."
The three riders expertly dismounted, unwrapping the silken scarves from around their heads. The man on the left had pale white skin, lips the color of a fresh bruise, and shriveled cheeks. He spoke in a rough Dothraki. "Great Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. I am Pyat Pree, a warlock of Qarth." He was speaking to her, but his burning eyes were fixed on the black dragon perched on her head.
The man in the middle was bald and fat, his skin a milky white, paler even than her own. A huge, uncut emerald was pierced through the side of his large nose. He spoke in the fluid Valyrian of the Free Cities. "Princess Targaryen, your kindness is as legendary as your beauty. I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant prince, and one of the Thirteen of Qarth." He bowed, but his eyes appraised her as if he were estimating the value of a prize mare.
Of the three, he was the only one who seemed entirely human.
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