"Gods... I went from a medical student to a girl nine months gone? A pregnant Dragon Queen?"
The realization hit like a physical blow. One moment, she was a twenty-six-year-old surgical graduate; the next, she had woken up in the body of a fourteen-year-old girl: Daenerys Targaryen.
Her former life—her name, her accomplishments, her very identity—had been stripped away, rendered meaningless by the sheer weight of her new reality. She was now the woman of a thousand titles: Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Protector of the Seven Kingdoms; Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; Breaker of Chains; Mother of Dragons.
But as she looked at her reflection in the polished bronze of a nearby shield, she knew the truth. For now, she had only two titles that mattered: "Stormborn" and the "Khaleesi of Khal Drogo".
The "Mother of Dragons" was a distant dream. Her immediate concern was far more primal: how to survive the impending death of her husband.
Drogo was dying. The infection had rotted him to the marrow, and the dark blood-magic of a vengeful maegi had done the rest. Not even the finest modern surgeon, let alone an ancient miracle worker, could pull him back from the brink now.
Daenerys—the soul within the shell—rested a hand on the heavy curve of her stomach. She forced herself to breathe, pushing aside the panic to observe the world she had inherited.
The sun hung in the sky like a molten furnace, searing the earth. Before her lay the fractured patchwork of the Lhazareen countryside—unkempt fields of rye, their stalks turning a sickly gold as the heavy ears began to swell with grain. Stunted soy plants lay trampled in the dirt, interspersed with small plots of withered vegetables.
As her silver-maned filly trotted forward, the dry seed pods of the soybeans snapped underhoof with a rhythmic, brittle pop.
Daenerys tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the blinding glare. "What a waste," she murmured to herself. "To come all this way just as the harvest begins, only to have the Dothraki find them."
Drogo's khalasar was a force of nature. Fifty thousand screaming warriors made up the vanguard, but the entire migration exceeded a hundred thousand souls. In the Dothraki tongue, a khalasar was a city on the move, and every man, woman, and child traveled on horseback. Ten thousand hooves meant that the Lhazareen's labor was being ground into the dust.
The low, rhythmic thrum of the horses was the sound of a death knell for the harvest.
In truth, the Lhazareen—contemptuously called "Lamb Men" by the horselords—were past caring about their crops. Faced with the most powerful khalasar on the grasslands, their spirits were held fast in the icy grip of terror.
Daenerys glanced aside, catching sight of a crumbling farmhouse. Behind low walls of sun-baked mud, the locals watched them pass. Their almond-shaped eyes—so similar to those of the Dothraki—flickered with a volatile mix of bone-deep fear and simmering, hidden hatred.
Living south of the Skahazadhan River, the Lhazareen were a peaceful, sedentary people. They shared the copper skin and dark eyes of the Dothraki, but where the horselords were tall and bred for slaughter, the Lhazareen were short, flat-faced, and gentle. To the Dothraki, "gentle" was merely another word for "prey."
The thunder of approaching hooves drew her attention. Daenerys tucked a stray lock of silver hair behind her ear as eight riders broke from the main column.
They were quintessential Dothraki: long, dark braids heavy with oil and victory bells that chimed with every stride of their mounts. Unlike the warriors of her old world's history, they left their foreheads bare, their hair pulled back tight to show their scars.
Sifting through her new memories, she recognized them. These were Drogo's bloodriders—Kohollo, Haggo, and Qotho. Behind them rode the khas leaders, the kos who commanded the smaller sub-clans: Jhaqo and Pono.
They rode past her as if she were part of the scenery, drawing up beside the swaying figure of Khal Drogo. Jhaqo pointed toward a stone-walled estate in the distance, his voice raspy and eager.
"Khal," he barked, "there is a cluster of Lamb Men nearby. Shall we ride them down?"
They were looking for permission to hunt. The Dothraki had no industry, no craft, and no mercy; they lived by the blade, their very genetic makeup refined over generations for plunder.
Drogo's head hung low, his consciousness flickering like a dying candle. He looked up, squinting through a haze of fever to recognize the man speaking. His lips were cracked, his voice a dry rasp. "You may... I..."
Daenerys felt a pang of bitterness. According to the story, this "husband" of hers was a walking corpse. She had traveled across dimensions only to become a widow within hours.
She felt no love for the man, but she feared the customs. In the Dothraki world, power wasn't inherited; it was taken by the strongest. When a Khal fell, his Khaleesi was sent to Vaes Dothrak to live out her days as a crone of the Dosh Khaleen. As for his unborn son? A new Khal would see a rival's babe as nothing more than a threat to be extinguished.
"Can you not see the Khal is ill?"
Daenerys nudged her horse forward, ignoring the murderous glares of the bloodriders. "These are small villages," she called out, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "There is no glory there, no plunder worth the effort. Certainly nothing that requires the Khal's personal hand."
Haggo, a mountain of a man, turned his cold gaze upon her. "Khaleesi, this is no place for the talk of women—"
CRACK!
Daenerys lashed out with her whip. The leather cut through the air with a sharp whistle, but her body was heavy and her movements sluggish. Haggo leaned back in his saddle with casual grace, the tip of the whip missing his chest by an inch.
"You dare strike at me?"
With a metallic shing, Haggo drew his arakh. The curved blade caught the sun as he stared at her, his eyes rimmed with red fury.
Daenerys didn't flinch. She met his gaze with the icy resolve of the Targaryen blood flowing through her veins. "I am the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo, and I am the blood of the Dragon," she said in the harsh, guttural tongue of the Dothraki. "Do you truly wish to baring steel against me?"
It wasn't empty bravado. Her memories told her that the Dothraki respected only strength. If you showed weakness, you were no better than the "Lamb Men" they slaughtered for sport.
Haggo fumed, but he did not move. He was a bloodrider; he would not harm the woman carrying his Khal's heir while the Khal still drew breath.
Besides, Daenerys was not alone.
Ser Jorah Mormont, the "Exiled Bear," guided his mount between them. He sat tall in the saddle, his hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his longsword as he scanned the Dothraki. Behind her, Daenerys's own khas—the small guard assigned to her—drew their bows, their expressions carved from stone.
Kohollo, the oldest of the bloodriders, finally spoke. His hair was silver-streaked, his face a map of jagged white scars. He looked at Daenerys for a long moment before turning to Haggo.
"Put your steel away. Haggo, you shall lead the vanguard for 'our blood of our blood.' Go. Ensure the harvest of heads is bountiful."
Kohollo was the elder statesman of the group. He had saved Drogo's life when the Khal was but a boy, and he was the only one who treated Daenerys with even a shred of respect—or perhaps he simply saw her as Drogo's most valuable possession.
Haggo spat on the parched earth, his face flushed with suppressed rage, and wheeled his horse away. The other kos followed, their eyes lingering on Daenerys like wolves eyeing a deer before they galloped off.
As the sound of their hooves faded, Kohollo spoke softly. "A Khal must lead the charge. He must be the first over the walls of the Lamb Men. It is his burden, and his glory."
"I understand," Daenerys replied, a small, tight smile on her lips. "I only worry..."
Kohollo raised a hand, cutting her off. "You should worry that the kos will begin the slaughter without his command... though your worry will change nothing."
He rode off, leaving her in the heat. Soon, the wind carried the scent of smoke and the distant, thin wails of the Lhazareen.
Daenerys stood atop a small rise, the wild grass brushing against her leggings. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the reality of the fires beginning to dot the horizon. How many women like her were being butchered right now? How many children were being shackled?
"It is a cruel world," she whispered.
Around her, her small khas began to set up camp. They hammered stakes into the earth and unloaded heavy chests of silks and furs from the wagons. The center of the khalasar was becoming a forest of felt tents—the Dothraki hated stone houses, preferring the nomadic freedom of the yurt.
The sheer scale of the movement—over a hundred thousand people working in unison—was breathtaking, a living machine of bronze and horsehair.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys said, turning to her knight. "Walk with me."
Jorah Mormont, the disgraced Lord of Bear Island, rode beside her. He had traded his Westerosi wool for Dothraki leather and bronze, but he still bore the heavy, somber air of a Northman.
"Khaleesi, shouldn't you check on Khal's condition?"
"The 'hairless men' are swarming over him," she replied, referring to the eunuch slaves and herb-wives who served as healers. "It's too crowded. We will go when they have finished their chants."
As they moved through the camp, the air became a thick soup of woodsmoke, roasting meat, horse manure, and the iron tang of fresh blood. They passed a group of warriors who were openly assaulting a group of captive Lhazareen women. They didn't even pause as the Khaleesi rode by.
"You seem... different today, Khaleesi," Jorah noted, his eyes narrowing. "Usually, you would have tried to stop them."
The original Daenerys would have. She would have been filled with a desperate, naive pity, demanding the warriors marry the women they were ravaging. But the woman in the saddle now knew better. Without Drogo's strength to back her, such demands were a death sentence.
"I have learned that an order no one obeys is worse than silence," she said quietly.
"Khaleesi, if you command it, I will kill them all," shouted Aggo, one of her young Dothraki guards. He and his companions—Jhogo and Rakharo—were fierce, loyal, and arguably the best warriors in the camp.
"It would cause a riot, boy," Jorah warned. "And that would put the Khaleesi in danger."
Daenerys looked away, her gaze landing on a stout, balding Black man carrying a pair of squawking geese.
"You," she called out, pointing her whip. "Stop."
The man turned, sweating profusely under the sun. "How may I serve, Khaleesi?"
"I want those geese."
The Dothraki lived on horseflesh, but the thought of it made Daenerys's stomach turn. She needed something else—both for her palate and to change the subject.
The man's face went pale. "Khaleesi... I am the cook for Lord Jhaqo. His lady, Lilith, cannot stomach horsemeat. I found these at the farm... I have no authority to give them to you."
WHIP-CRACK!
Aggo's whip lashed out before the man could finish, leaving a bloody welt across the cook's cheek. "Fool! Nothing the Khaleesi asks for can be refused!"
The cook collapsed, wailing and clutching his face, while the geese fluttered away into the dirt.
"Who dares steal my dinner?" a thunderous voice roared from a nearby sky-blue tent.