Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her
brother told her thestories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight
shimmering19 on the ship’s black sails. Herbrother Rhaegar battling the Usurper
in the bloody20 waters of the Trident and dying for the woman heloved.
The sack of King’s Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper’s dogs,
the lords Lannisterand Stark21. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy
as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breastand murdered before her eyes.
The polished skulls22 of the last dragons staring down sightlessly fromthe walls of the
throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father’s throat with a golden sword.
She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a
raging summer stormthreatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that
storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet wassmashed while it lay at anchor, and
huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtlinginto the wild
waters of the narrow sea. Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her
brotherViserys had never forgiven her.
She did not remember Dragonstone either. They had run again, just before the
Usurper’s brother setsail with his new-built fleet. By then only Dragonstone itself,
the ancient seat of their House, hadremained of the Seven Kingdoms that had once
been theirs. It would not remain for long. Thegarrison had been prepared to sell
them to the Usurper, but one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyalmen had broken
into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail
undercover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.
She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring
and bellowingorders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him,
but he had always been kind to Dany.
He called her “Little Princess” and sometimes “My Lady,” and his hands were soft
as old leather. Henever left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him
day and night, a hot, moist, sicklysweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos,
in the big house with the red door. Dany had herown room there, with a lemon tree
outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants hadstolen what little
money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany
hadcried when the red door closed behind them forever.
They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to
Qohor andVolantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would
not allow it. The Usurper’shired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though
Dany had never seen one.
At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome
the lastTargaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the
Usurper continued to sit uponthe Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew
meaner. Years past they had been forced to selltheir last few treasures, and now
even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In thealleys and
wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother “the beggar king.” Dany did not
want to knowwhat they called her.
“We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. Sometimes
his handsshook when he talked about it. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone
and King’s Landing, the IronThrone and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken
from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived forthat day. All that Daenerys wanted
back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outsideher window,
the childhood she had never known.
There came a soft knock on her door. “Come,” Dany said, turning away from the window.
Illyrio’sservants entered, bowed, and set about their business.
They were slaves, a gift from one of themagister’s many Dothraki friends.
There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, theywere slaves.
The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up forit.
She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who
chattered constantly asshe worked.
They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and
scented it with fragrant oils.
The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany’s head and helped her
into the tub. The water wasscalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch28
or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean.
Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a
Targaryen. “Ours is the house ofthe dragon,” he would say. “The fire is in our blood.”
The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed
out the snags, all in silence.
The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was.
“Drogo is so rich that evenhis slaves wear golden collars. A hundred
thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in VaesDothrak has two
hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.” There was more like that, so
much more,what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless
in battle, the best rider ever to mount ahorse, a demon29 archer30. Daenerys
said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed23 Viseryswhen she
came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since
Aegon theConqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure,
Viserys had told her a thousandtimes; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden
blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragonsdid not mate with the
beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle31 their blood with that of
lessermen. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian32.
When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry.
The girl brushedher hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman
anointed her with the spiceflowerperfume of the Dothraki plains, a dab33 on
each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, andone last one, cool
on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps thatMagister
Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk
to bring out the violet in her eyes.
The girl slid the gilded34 sandals onto her feet, while the old woman
fixed35 the tiara in her hair, and slidgolden bracelets36 crusted with amethysts37
around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy goldentorc emblazoned with
ancient Valyrian glyphs.
“Now you look all a princess,” the girl said breathlessly when they were done.
Dany glanced ather image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully
provided. A princess, shethought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal
Drogo was so rich even his slaveswore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and
gooseflesh pimpled38 her bare arms.
Her brother was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool,
his handtrailing in the water. He rose when she appeared and looked her over critically.
“Stand there,” he toldher. “Turn around. Yes. Good. You look …”
“Regal,” Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He moved with surprising
delicacyfor such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of flame-colored silk, rolls of
fat jiggled as hewalked. Gemstones glittered on every finger, and his man had oiled his
forked yellow beard until itshone like real gold. “May the Lord of Light shower you with
blessings39 on this most fortunate day,Princess Daenerys,” the magister said as he took
her hand. He bowed his head, showing a thinglimpse of crooked40 yellow teeth through
the gold of his beard. “She is a vision, Your Grace, avision,” he told her brother.
“Drogo will be enraptured41.”
“She’s too skinny,” Viserys said. His hair, the same silver-blond as hers, had been
pulled backtightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch.
It was a severe look that emphasizedthe hard, gaunt lines of his face.
He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that Illyrio had lent him,and said,
“Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?”
“She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal,” Illyrio told him,
not for the first time.
“Look at her. That silver-gold hair, those purple eyes … she is the blood of old Valyria,
no doubt, nodoubt … and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new,
she cannot fail to entrance ourDrogo.” When he released her hand,
Daenerys found herself trembling.
“I suppose,” her brother said doubtfully. “The savages42 have queer tastes.
Boys, horses, sheep …”
“Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo,” Illyrio said.
Anger flashed in her brother’s lilac eyes. “Do you take me for a fool?”
The magister bowed slightly. “I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of
common men. Myapologies if I have given offense43.” He turned away
and clapped his hands for his bearers.
The streets of Pentos were pitch-dark when they set out in Illyrio’s elaborately
carved palanquin.
Two servants went ahead to light their way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with
panes44 of pale blue glass,while a dozen strong men hoisted45 the poles
to their shoulders. It was warm and close inside behind thecurtains.
Dany could smell the stench of Illyrio’s pallid46 flesh through his heavy perfumes.
Her brother, sprawled47 out on his pillows beside her, never noticed.
His mind was away across thenarrow sea. “We won’t need his whole khalasar,”
Viserys said. His fingers toyed with the hilt of hisborrowed blade, though Dany
knew he had never used a sword in earnest. “Ten thousand, that wouldbe enough,
I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers.
The realm willrise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy,
they have no more love for the Usurperthan I do. The Dornishmen burn to
avenge48 Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us.
They cry out for their king.” He looked at Illyrio anxiously. “They do, don’t they?”
“They are your people, and they love you well,” Magister Illyrio said amiably49.
“In holdfasts allacross the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while
women sew dragon banners and hide themagainst the day of your return from
across the water.” He gave a massive shrug50. “Or so my agents tellme.”
Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone