At birth, a young dragon does not resemble the mighty beast of legend. Instead, it looks more like a sickly, half-starved cat—bony, skeletal, and fragile. Its torso seems almost nonexistent, as if only its long neck, spindly tail, and delicate wings have substance. When held in the hand, a hatchling feels weightless, as though it might dissolve into dust if gripped too tightly.
But once its wings unfold, the illusion of frailty shatters. Each wing is three times the length of its thin body, a web of translucent skin stretched taut between slender bones. Light shines through them like stained glass, vibrant with shifting hues, delicate yet full of potential power.
Dany's childhood had been miserable, a life of scarcity and neglect. From the time she was five, she wandered the nine Free Cities like a beggar, always hungry, always overlooked, always too small for her age. By fourteen, she was still a slight figure, her body stunted by years of want. Even her breasts, no larger than small apples, were incapable of producing milk—another reminder that she was still half a child herself.
Yet in her arms rested the three greatest wonders the world had seen in more than a century. And those wonders were starving.
The black hatchling stretched its neck and loosed a strange cry—half whinny, half screech, its breath puffing out in smoky bursts like a miniature chimney. White plumes of heat curled from its nostrils and mouth as it called for food again and again.
Dany panicked. She tried everything: strips of dried horsemeat, bowls of mare's milk, fresh blood still steaming from the carcass of a goat, even cooked morsels from the khalasar's fire. The hatchling sniffed, turned away, and cried louder. Jorah Mormont, grim as always, could offer no wisdom. Dragons had been gone for more than a hundred years, reduced to fading bedtime tales. No one alive knew how to keep them alive.
It was not until the night of their first fire bath that the truth revealed itself. The black dragon wriggled from Dany's arms, darted to the campfire, and savaged a charred bone with feral hunger. Only then did she understand—dragons did not eat raw flesh. They devoured only that which the flames had already claimed.
They were too young to breathe fire themselves, too weak to roast their own food, yet their appetites defied imagination. That was the first proof of their true magic—not their hatching in the flames, but the endless hunger that drove them.
Dany herself tested their limits. She weighed meat before feeding and again after, watched them gorge until their bellies swelled, only to discover that they could consume three times their own body weight in a single meal. Three times!
(This, she would later think, was no myth. If the dragons had been less ravenous, they would never have grown swiftly enough to counter the White Walkers' march. The world might have ended before their wings ever darkened the sky.)
Compared to her hatchlings, the greatest eaters of the khalasar—the so-called Big Eaters and tireless Wanderers—were nothing. And though she tried to reason with herself, Dany could not fathom where all that food went. She pressed her palm to the black dragon's belly once, felt the mass of half-digested meat squirming inside, and recoiled in wonder. He simply kept eating. His belly writhed and churned, and yet the hunger never ceased.
And because of that hunger, their growth could almost be measured with the naked eye. Each day they grew taller, longer, heavier. Each day their wings stretched farther. Dany's heart swelled with the wild thought: perhaps soon, she might ride one.
But first they had to learn to fly.
Her black dragon was the boldest, yet even he flapped furiously only to crash headlong to the ground after rising no more than two feet. Again and again, the sight made her wince. Still, she did not give up.
At last, one dawn as the yolk-colored sun struggled up from the horizon, she witnessed a miracle. Her little one managed to glide, skimming low across the sand like a paper toy cast into the breeze. Joy lit her face.
From that day, training became ritual. After each feeding, she tucked the three dragons into a woven bamboo basket, carried them to open ground, and tossed them skyward with all her strength. They flapped, tumbled, and sometimes soared for a heartbeat before collapsing back into the dust. Patiently, Dany bent, scooped them up, and tried again. The fallen hatchlings would scramble back to her side, line up obediently, and wait for their turn to leap once more.
The sight soon drew an audience. From behind a nearby rise, a cluster of half-naked children spied with wide almond eyes. They were little more than mud-streaked imps, clad in ragged shorts, whispering and gasping with each attempt. Every so often, a giggle or cheer escaped them, betraying their hiding place.
By midmorning, their mothers—bronze-skinned horsewomen hardened by endless travel—called them home to eat and sleep. The Dothraki children would drowse through the heat until late afternoon, wake to wash and groom their ponies, then resume the march.
Life in the khalasar was relentless. A child's world was circled only by horse, mother, and khal. Fathers were rarely known, save in the cases of khals or ko. Most men drifted, conquered, or died before bonds could form. Sons grew to become warriors, daughters to bear the next generation. The cycle had endured for thousands of years.
But now—now there were dragons. And dragons changed everything.
That afternoon, Dany returned to her tent, dust clinging to her skin. She scrubbed herself clean with fine red sand, shared strips of dried horsemeat with her brood, and curled up beside them on the straw. Exhaustion dragged her into deep sleep. For the first time in days, her Lysene handmaiden Doreah also rested soundly. The tent's low wall shielded them from the brutal sun; at last, even in the Red Waste, they could sleep at noon.
The land was merciless. Heat shimmered, turning the horizon into a wavering mirage. Even the strongest horsemen sweated and groaned. Yet Dany held the khalasar together with discipline. She ordered them to march in tens, to rest in turns, to share water and shade when possible. Her leadership, young though she was, made survival possible.
On the third evening, as the khalasar trudged westward, an old man suddenly slumped from his saddle.
Dany saw it instantly. Her system ensured no fall went unnoticed. She reined her silver mare, leaving Aggo and Rakharo to flank her while Jhogo continued leading the main host toward the scouts who searched for water.
The fallen elder's eyes were pale blue, the cloudy color of dead fish. His skin was lighter than most Dothraki, and though his hair had gone gray, the roots shone faintly gold. This was no horseman by birth, but a freed slave of Khal Drogo's khalasar.
When Dany had assumed command, her first decree had been to strike the slave collars from every neck, granting them the name of "tribesman." The old man with the broken arm had been among the first to taste freedom.
She knelt beside him, offering a pouch of fermented mare's milk. "How old are you, grandfather?" she asked gently.
His lips trembled, toothless gums exposed. "I do not remember, Khaleesi." He drank deeply and color returned to his cheeks.
"What pain seizes you?"
"I… coughed my hand," he muttered through the haze.
Dany frowned. She already knew his arm was shattered, but why had he fallen? Carefully she inspected the break, cleaned it, and bound it tight with splints of wood. Without medicines, it was the best she could do. Then she commanded the herder Avanti: "Carry him to the wagon."
Two other graybeards hastily cleared space, shifting tents to their horses so the elder might ride.
But murmurs rippled through the khalasar. Irri, bold as ever, spoke aloud: "Khaleesi, his time is done. No man should live beyond his teeth."
Others nodded. To the Dothraki, age without strength was shame.
But Dany's eyes hardened. "And yet he has lived. Ask yourselves—why? Khals do not keep useless men. He must have some gift, some skill that kept him alive." She turned to Avanti. "What is it? Tell me."
Avanti spurred his mount forward, his voice oiled with flattery. "Khaleesi, your eyes pierce all things. Nothing escapes you."
"What skill does he possess?" pressed Aggo.
"Watson is master of the Twelve Spring Cries," Avanti declared solemnly.
Dany blinked. "The what?"
Avanti smirked, then grew sheepish. "Ah… the stone dwellers have strange arts."
Realization dawned, heat rushing to her cheeks. Erotic arts. A secret knowledge whispered of in slave markets.
"And what use is that?" Dany snapped. "Why would any khal cherish such a man?"
Avanti panicked, scrambling to recall the elder's boasts. "Khaleesi, even in Kaiyen—the greatest school of pleasure slaves—they teach only seven cries. Watson knows twelve! Techniques preserved from Valyria itself, once practiced only by dragonlords. Even five would have been enough to make him famous. With twelve…"
Volantis. The word stirred unease. That city, proud and ancient, was the last surviving outpost of Valyria's legacy, its ruling families kin to the Targaryens themselves. Watson was no common man.
"Yet he is old. Toothless. What worth remains?" she challenged.
Avanti's face grew grave. "Because he fathered a khal."
"A khal?"
"Khal Haggo Blue-Eye, twenty years past. Even now, our herds remember his name. A khal's father cannot be abandoned."
Shock flickered through Dany. "Haggo? Not Drogo's bloodrider?"
"No. Another Haggo, born of Watson's loins and a Dothraki woman. A half-blood who rose by strength and cunning, who made himself a khal in his own right. He conquered wide lands until he fell to Drogo's father. Even now, there are three boys named Haggo in our khalasar."
Dany drew her cloak tighter, awed. A slave's son had become a khal. A toothless old man carried the weight of history.
"Did you know, Khaleesi," Avanti went on, "that Khal Drogo himself was once stolen as a boy?"
"I know," Dany replied softly. "Cohollo rescued him, though it cost him two scars across the face. He became Drogo's bloodrider for it."
She paused, sudden suspicion rising. "Tell me, Avanti. Was it Haggo Blue-Eye who stole him?"
The question hung heavy in the night air.
(End of Chapter)
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