The grand wedding unfolded across the vast grasslands outside the city of Pentos, the open sky above bearing witness to the ceremony. The Dothraki, whose customs were steeped in reverence for the heavens, insisted that all momentous life events be conducted under the open sky. Every blade of grass, every stretch of horizon, would observe this union.
For Daenerys Targaryen, the bride, the sight before her filled her with unease. Stretching as far as the eye could see was a vast sea of people—forty thousand Dothraki warriors had gathered at the Khal's command, along with countless women, children, slaves, and the livestock they had brought. The sheer scale of their arrival had consumed all nearby resources, leaving the city of Pentos on edge. The Magisters had doubled the city guards, but even this offered only minimal reassurance.
By tradition, the wedding feast would begin at dawn and continue until dusk. Daenerys sat beside Khal, elevated on a mound of grass-built palaces, her gaze distant as she took in the enormity of the scene. Her mind, however, drifted to a recent, haunting dream.
In the dream, she had seen a dragon, and Viserys, her brother, struck her mercilessly. She was naked, helpless beneath his fists, unable to move, her body betraying her as she fell to the ground, thighs bloodied. Her groans of anguish filled the dreamscape.
Then, the dream shifted—she heard a roaring fire erupt, flames towering all around, illuminating the darkness. The abusive Viserys vanished, and in the center of the inferno, a colossal dragon lay prostrate, its molten eyes meeting hers with an unspoken understanding.
The memory sent a shiver down her spine, pulling her back to reality. Fear gripped her—not for the ceremony itself, but for the uncertainty surrounding it.
Beside her, Ser Jorah Mormont attempted lighthearted reassurance. "We must marry Princess Daenerys quickly," he joked, "lest the wealth of Pentos be seized by mercenaries and opportunists."
Jorah was a solid, middle-aged man, with dark skin and a sturdy frame. Though slightly bald, he exuded strength and confidence. He had pledged his service to Viserys on the night Daenerys was sold to Khal, becoming a devoted protector and advisor.
Illyrio Mopatis, the wealthy Magister, chuckled at Jorah's comment, his beard trembling with amusement. But Viserys, glaring at his sister from the platform, replied coldly, "He may have her when it pleases him, if that satisfies him."
"As long as he keeps his promise," Illyrio responded. "The khal has promised you a crown. If the omens are favorable, he will honor it." He reached for a roasted duck wing, tearing it apart with his hands and chewing thoughtfully, unconcerned by Viserys's growing frustration.
"I do not care for Dothraki omens!" Viserys bellowed, his voice sharp and imperious. "The Usurper sits on my father's throne, and I have waited long enough! How much longer must I endure?"
Illyrio merely smiled, dismissing the outburst with an air of patronizing calm. "Great king, you have waited most of your life. What difference will a few more months—or even years—make?"
Ser Jorah stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Viserys's shoulder. "Your Majesty, I advise patience. The Dothraki honor their word, but in their own way. One of lower status may plead with the khal, but never lecture him from above."
Viserys's temper flared at this advice, and he leaned toward Jorah, his voice low and dangerous. "Mormont, choose your words carefully, or I will cut out your tongue. I am the true king of the Seven Kingdoms, a descendant of the dragons—I bow to no one!"
Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully, while Illyrio's faint smirk betrayed amusement at the tension. Daenerys, observing from above, thought bitterly, The true dragon no longer exists… Her fingers clutched the luxurious silk of her dress, her heart heavy.
Viserys's dissatisfaction was magnified by his position beneath her. He seethed silently as the food was served first to Khal and his bride, leaving only leftovers for him. His pride wounded, he could do nothing but sulk, his frustration deepening as the ceremony progressed.
Daenerys, however, had no time to dwell on her brother's temper. Surrounded by tens of thousands of warriors and observers, she felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. She forced a smile, her facial muscles aching, and fought back tears, aware that any display of weakness would draw ire from both her brother and Khal.
She sipped wine mixed with honey, keeping still and quiet. Khal laughed and shouted to his bloodriders, his words unintelligible to her. She could only sit, dressed in her wedding gown, silently affirming her own strength:
I am the Blood of the Dragon. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, with the blood of Aegon the Conqueror flowing through my veins.
As the sun rose higher, drums began to beat, and women danced to entertain the khal. Khal's gaze followed their movements without acknowledgment of his bride. He occasionally threw bronze medallions to the dancers, prompting deadly competitions over the rewards.
Daenerys's eyes widened as she witnessed the brutal customs firsthand. A warrior emerged from the crowd, shoving a dancer to the ground, and the pair mated in full view. Daenerys recalled Illyrio's warning: The Dothraki mate as they do with their livestock. There is no privacy, no concept of sin as we understand it.
Her gaze averted in horror, yet she could not ignore the spectacle. Soon, more warriors engaged, and when disputes arose, arakhs were drawn. Deaths occurred in swift, brutal duels, blood staining the ground as life was extinguished with startling immediacy. The victorious warriors moved on to new partners without pause, their actions leaving Daenerys both fascinated and terrified.
By sunset, she had witnessed twelve deaths, all silent yet definitive. The scarlet blood was trampled into the dust, leaving no lasting trace. Each passing moment intensified her fear, yet she clung desperately to her composure. I am the Blood of the Dragon, she reminded herself, over and over.
Finally, Khal clapped his hands, halting the chaos. The drumming ceased, the shouting faded, and the feast paused. He helped Daenerys to her feet, marking the final stage of the ceremony: the presentation of bride gifts.
Daenerys's heart pounded. Once the gift ceremony concluded, she would be fully bound to her new life. Her legs felt weak, her body tense, trembling despite her attempts to remain composed.
Viserys presented her with three maidservants: Irri and Jhiqui, Dothraki women, and Doreah, a girl from Lys. "Irri will teach you to ride, Jhiqui will instruct you in the Dothraki tongue, and Doreah," he said with a faint smile, "will teach you the ways of the bed. She is an expert."
Daenerys accepted the gifts with a blank expression, inwardly acknowledging the calculated care her brother and Illyrio had taken to secure her status.
Ser Jorah offered her books: histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms. Daenerys thanked him sincerely. Illyrio's gift was a cedar chest containing velvets and brocades, but what drew her attention were the three large eggs placed atop them.
Her breath caught. The eggs, with intricate patterns that suggested jewels, were the most beautiful objects she had ever seen. They were heavy, requiring both hands to hold.
"What are these?" she whispered.
"Dragon eggs," Illyrio replied, his voice tinged with reverence. "From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. Though petrified over millions of years, they remain magnificent, do they not?"
Daenerys's mind reeled. She had heard of dragon eggs, but never imagined she would see—or hold—them. I will treasure them forever, she vowed silently.
Following tradition, Khal's bloodriders presented her with weapons: a silver-handled whip, a gilded arakh, and a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. She politely declined, deferring them to her husband, as Illyrio and Ser Jorah had taught her. The gifts piled around her, ranging from luxurious to strange, including a robe woven from a thousand mice.
Finally, Khal presented his own gift: a spirited young mare, her grey coat glinting like the winter sea, her silver mane flowing like smoke. The horse radiated strength and vitality, leaving Daenerys awestruck.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Daenerys understood that her life had irrevocably changed. She was no longer merely a princess of Dragonstone—she was now bound to the Dothraki, immersed in their customs, their ferocity, and their world. And yet, beneath the fear, a spark of curiosity and determination began to grow. She was the Blood of the Dragon. She would endure, and she would rise.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)