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A SONG FOR DRAGONS

I

A BEGINNING

SON OF WHITE HARBOR

For any son of the Mander, nothing tasted of home like the salt-licked sea. He was across the Narrow Sea, he was standing on the Pentoshi harbors, but Wendel Manderly was only half-certain he wasn’t home. It felt same in all the ways that White Harbor would. The heavy breeze pulling at his hair, the whipping of the masts, the yells of sailors and shiphands as they load casks and crates. It was all a thousand different sounds that were music to his ears.

Wendel turned and saw Jon Snow taking his first steps off of the ramp. The boy had the Stark looks; the dark hair, the solemn face, the eyes that were gray steel in one light and silver in another. At the boy’s hand was a sword, a gift from Lord Eddard. Fine northern steel, with a thick and durable pummel. He saw the blade itself only once, and he saw the markings of a snarling wolf near the hilt. Jon Snow kept it close in hand.

If only the boy wasn’t bastard born, he would have had the prospects of the entire North. Wendel had no doubt that his nieces would have had an eye or two on him. If his name was Stark instead of Snow, Lord Eddard would need to wrestle with marriage proposals up to his shoulders. And all of his sons, it was only Jon that took on the Stark looks. Every lord in the North would want their next generation to have the gray eyes of the sons of Winterfell.

And to sweeten all that, Jon had a face to be proud of. It was a strong, sweet face that no doubt a serving girl dreamed of kissing. And maybe even some of those Southron flowers, now that Wendel thought on it. After three years, I’ll eat a clam’s shell if you don’t have a bastard of your own.

“Jon Snow, how goes your first step onto Pentos?”

Jon Snow looked around, eying his surroundings. His eyes were drawn to a man robed in green and gold astride a zorse. “Can I say unreal, Lord Wendel?”

Wendel smiled and laughed. “That you can. I can remember the first time I sailed to Essos. I thought the same as you. That this place is unreal, a place of fancy.”

“Almost as if the Night’s King will step from the shadows any moment.”

“By the true gods, let’s pray that won’t happen.” Wendel pulled at his long whiskers. “Where’s that wolf of yours?”

Jon turned towards the ship. “Ghost, to me,” he called, and from behind the railings of the Ice Wife Wendel could see the white furs of the direwolf. When Wendel Manderly arrived in Winterfell for the King’s feast, the direwolf pups were the size of a small dog. A month later, and Ghost looked like he could eat a runt. Lady Catelyn was wed to the north for near on twenty years, but Wendel doubted that prepared her for the direwolves. I don’t think any but the Starks are prepared for the direwolves.

Ghost padded to Jon, ever close to his master. Wendel could not count a moment when the two were far apart. Jon’s eyes were gazing everywhere, and Wendel could hardly blame him. Wendel had crossed the Narrow Sea half a dozen times. With White Harbor being the largest port in the North, it fell on the Manderlys to make sure trade flowed through the Stark domain. Sometimes that required a son of White Harbor to do business with one Essosi cheesemonger or another.

Wendel had seen Qartheen milk men, Dothraki raiders, dealt with the Iron Bank, witnessed YiTish in their tailed hats, and even met a shadowbinder in Qohor. It was all almost dull to Wendel by now, but Jon was like a maid here. Eddard Stark’s instructions were clear as glass: “Escort my son across the Narrow Sea. Find him a noble merchant to be a guard for, or failing that, a mercenary company of repute for him to contract his sword to.” Once Wendel had fulfilled his lord’s commands, then he could return home.

It was a tall order, but Wendel knew he was up to the task. White Harbor was not so remote as the Southron flowersuckers would believe, and the name Manderly and Stark was not so reclusive that people would look at him with bewildered eyes when he made introductions. Even if both were true, Jon had been trained by a Master-at-Arms since a boy could be instructed. He was not some lice ridden fool with a sharp blade. He was a more than capable swordsman, with the knowledge and form to back it up.

He knew the name of some of the magisters that ruled Pentos. Arelos Menartis, Julien Solarno, Alergio Turaktos. But never Illyrio Mopatis – that one had been scorned by the magisters and the Prince of Pentos ever since some scandal with his second wife. Wendel was half certain he took a bed slave as a wife, or something along those lines. Jon Snow needed a good repute, and it would not do to have him protect one who was cut off from the other rulers of the city. Even if his “crime” was something Wendel could hardly see fault in.

And even beyond all that, there was still the possibility that Jon Snow wouldn’t find favor with any of the magisters. Unlikely, for Wendel had pride in how he could sell any deal, but it was still there. If so, he would need to set Jon up with one of the mercenary companies. That didn’t sit well with Wendel. Mercenaries flew with the wind, going to which purse jingled the loudest. Jon could be fighting for a noble cause one moon, and then be killing for the prosperity of a vile man the next.

The Golden Company was ever in the back of his mind. The Blackfyre were wiped out, despite how much Aegor Bittersteel swore to put one on the Iron Throne. The Company had nothing more to fight for, no reason to cross the Narrow Sea. Well, more than a share of noble bastards had made up their ranks, so perhaps that was cause. But Wendel just could not see it. The Golden Company of today just was not the same legion that threatened Westeros a near half dozen times.

It was an option. A point of consideration. A bitter salve to swallow. The Company would not invade any time soon, or ever, but the North has a long memory. Signing Jon up with them would not sit right with anyone – least of all the bastard himself. Sending Jon into the ranks of sellswords was a last option, and the Golden Company was the very last of those options.

No, no, not the Golden Company, not today, not ever. Wendel could not see the fruits being so barren that the vineyard of Bittersteel was the only option. But even then, the idea that Lord Eddard had to send his bastard across the Narrow Sea was difficult to grasp. Had any other lord sent his baseborn son to Essos? Wendel could not find an answer.

What Eddard Stark did with his family was his business, Wendel knew that as well as any other man. Father’s ravings over him never taking a wife were the stuff of legends in White Harbor. But Jon Snow had options – he wasn’t just any lord’s bastard, he was the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell. Wendel knew for a fact that Father had offered a squireship to Jon on more than a few occasions, and surely the other honored lords of the North gave the same offer. There weren’t even any betrothals set for his oldest, Robb – and he will be Lord of Winterfell when Lord Eddard passes from the world.

It was always said that Eddard Stark was a cautious man. Very considerate of his choices, it was said. Still, how little Eddard seemed to be laying the groundwork for his house was queer. But what did Wendel know? He was just the second, wife-less son of the Lord of White Harbor. No doubt the King’s feast had brought more than a fair share of offers that Lord Stark was mulling over.

Offers that he would be mulling over in King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon had made Lord Eddard his Hand, and if Wendel could be honest to himself, it was a long time coming. Eddard Stark was half the reason it was Robert Baratheon was on the Iron Throne in the first place, and not that raper and traitor Rhaegar Targaryen. The wolves could not howl loud or fiercely enough for the murder of Lyanna Stark.

But that was all in the past. The bones were buried, the ash was swept away by the wind, and Wendel was entrusted to guide Jon Snow into Essos. He was nothing if not a dutiful son, and a lord that remembered his duites.

There was no retinue in their stead, all to Father’s aggravation and to Wendel’s relief. It was Wyman that preferred to be surrounded by his servants and attendants. For all of Wendel’s faults, he could pamper himself just fine. And he doubted Jon Snow would have wanted to be attended to every minute he was in Essos. “Are your legs as cramped as mine, Jon?”

He nodded. “Two weeks on a ship.”

“Two weeks on a cog, as exciting as that sounds. What did my Lord Father stuff into your mouth, Jon Snow?”

There was a lustful look in Jon’s eyes. “Crabs and lobsters, clams and salmon. I never knew the sea could be so delicious, Lord Wendel.”

He smiled. “A barrel of butter will make anything delicious, Jon. If my memory serves me right, there is a little hole we can rest for the night. And on the morrow, try to figure what we do next.

For once, his memory proved him true. The Golden Zorse was right where he remembered it, a small slice of a building cramped between two larger ones. The inn had many qualities, and by far the greatest was its discretion. The serving wenches would not pester the fat man in his fine velvets what his business in Pentos was. However, Wendel had to be honest in that their cod had far too much salt for his pallet. Salt was such a delicate thing, after all. Too much and the meal is ruined, but just a pinch and you might as well be sprinkling air. Much like conversations, a delicate hand was needed.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed as he wiped the salty grease of the honeyed chicken from his whiskers. “You speak only unless spoken to, Jon Snow. I knew your Uncle Brandon.” Jon Snow picked his eyes up from the spiced lamb. “That man was the first in everything. The first to speak, the first to laugh, and the first to bed what wench he saw, if I remember true.”

“I don’t know much of my uncle,” Jon admitted. “Or my grandfather. I know what happened to them.” The entire realm remembers what happened to them. “But Father would never speak of them.”

“In just a few years, your Lord Father lose nearly his entire family. I would be quiet too, if I were him. Or you, if I had to leave my brother behind while he was dying.”

There was a sharp look in Jon’s eyes then. “Bran isn’t dying.”

“No. No he’s not. You Starks are hard to kill. When you return home, your brother Bran will be waiting for you. Mark my words, Snow.”

“Consider them marked,” Jon said. Then he cut into his lamb.

The next morning had a faint chill to it. Even in the summer, when the snows were light, the seas drew in a cold frost in the air that would rush through your bones. There was something about the sea that gave no damns about the summer heat. Perhaps that’s how us Manderlys proved so resilient over the years. The sea made us stubborn as hell.

“Of all the Free Cities, why Pentos?” Jon ripped through the apple, and the juices flowed down his lips. “You said it a hundred times, Ser. Pentos is the most unremarkable of the Free Cities.”

“No doubt because Pentos is the closest city to White Harbor.” Of all the Free Cities, Pentos was the one that enjoyed the majority of Westerosi patronage for that very reason. It was the gate into the east for many of the merchants and nobles of Westeros. “And it is the richest. Well, behind Braavos and Volantis, but it is not far off. There are countless magisters who could use a sword of good repute. We just need to find a willing purse.”

“And just how willing will the purses be?” Jon wiped at his lips.

Wendel rubbed at his hands. His pudgy fingers were feeling stiff in the morning cold. “Willing enough. You are a noble’s son. That comes with the expectation of a capable sword. You may need to best a guard or two in mock combat, but that won’t be too hard I’m certain. Nothing compares to Northern steel.”

“Lord Wendel,” Jon spoke in a serious tone, “I can take this from here. You have already guided me to Pentos. You do not need to do this on my behalf.”

“Nonsense. I swore to your Lord Father that I would see you into capable hands, and I mean to hold myself to that oath. What is a man not for his word?”

“He is nothing at all. It was just, I have been gone for only a few weeks and I can only imagine how much you long for home.”

“And I’m sure you do as well. It is a rare thing, to see a bastard be so beloved by his kin.”

A rare smile spread to the bastard’s face. “It will be a long three years, Lord Wendel.”

“It need not be,” he smiled. “There are wonders to be seen in Essos. I have never crossed past the hills of Norvos. You could tell me of the golden woods of Qohor. Perhaps you will even return with a wife to keep you warm in the winter?”

Wendel had meant it as a well meaning jest, but a serious look had taken hold in Jon’s eyes. “No woman would ever wed a bastard.”

“Essos is not Westeros. I remember the command that Lord Eddard gave you. He wanted you to find happiness, Jon Snow. A woman could surely be a part of that. Surely he would have a place for you upon your return.”

Jon shook his head. “Three years across the sea to find a place for me? There is a place in Westeros where even a bastard would be welcomed. An honored institution.”

“The Wall,” Wendel realized. “You are a man of twenty, Jon Snow. Trust me when I say your father had the right of it. You do not realize what you would be throwing away with a vow taken so young.” Every boy in the North knew of the Night’s Watch. The sworn brothers of the black that kept the realm safe from Wildling invaders. But the Night’s Watch of today was a distant thing from the order that was visited by Queen Alysanne atop Silverwing. Wendel had amused the notion of joining the order. Briefly. Father made sure to rip that prospect from his mind forever.

“My Uncle – “

“Had just survived a war which took the lives of nearly his entire family. I imagine the Wall had some appeal. But you have a full life ahead of you, bastard or not.” He laid a steady hand on Jon’s shoulders. “Take advantage of it. Take the ripe fruit into your mouth and have a mouthful.”

Jon’s steps came to a stop. For a moment, the boy said nothing. “I want to believe your words, Lord Wendel.”

“Then do so.”

“But I will always be a bastard. Any son and daughter of mine will be a Snow.”

“Aye, that is true. But they will have the Stark blood flowing their veins, just as you do. Think on that, when some pretty Lyseni girl smiles at you. Mark my words Snow, Essos will find itself in hell and fire for slavery. But the fact that the rank of bastard does not exist here should not go pass your notice.”

In the distance, high above the walled estates and the Sunrise Gate, Wendel could make out the red temple to R’hllor. The pink walls of the city were lit aglow by the nightfires set by the red priests. Wendel could have considered their songs beautiful, if they didn’t do such a damnably good job to keep him awake. “One word of advice bastard, that I pray you heed.” Jon turned to him. “Beware those red priests.” He remembered the first time he had heard a sermon. Beware the night, for it is dark and full of terrors. The way the woman with skin like ash looked at him…well, Wendel would never forget it.

They made their way down the Street of Pedals. Wendel could hear the faint moans coming from the brothels that gave the street its name. “You will be spending quite some years in this country. Best learn of it. No better place to do so than in the Court of Baubles.” Wendel was amused to see how Jon tried to avoid the tempting looks of a woman with silver hair. No doubt she was a daughter from Lys. “It is a giant bazaar, where merchants and travelers from all over pilfer their goods and services. If we don’t hear one bit of intriguing gossip, I will swear off fish forever.”

“Ser Wendel, I cannot imagine you without a bit of lobster hanging from your beard.”

“Then it is a good thing that lobsters are not fish. Keep your wolf close, Jon. I want a keep a good pace.” With a quick command the wolf was at the boy’s side and they weaved through the shining streets. If the boy had a careful eye, he’d notice than many of the stones had a different flower carved in. Many a brothel owners used these to indicate where guests could find some more exotic and repugnant stock.

Wendel took a quick glance into the brick windows of the street. Women of pale skin, dark hair, flaming manes, blue eyes, golden eyes, they were all slaves. True, Braavos waged a dozen wars on Pentos, and by the end of it the city was forced to renounce slavery forever. But only in name. How little were these bedwarmers paid, and how much were their lodgings and meals? Slaves with collars unseen.

The Street twisted into the Court, but Wendel heard it before he saw it. The Court of Baubles may have been a yard at some point, but now there were makeshift walls of timber and shacks that has divided it. It was a whirling maze of auctions and negotiations. Wendel was almost reminded of the Deck of Seals in White Harbor, except home had the smell of the sea and fish. The only thing that Wendel could smell were spices and perfumes.

But there was more to the Court than just the stench. Jon and he walked past Tyroshis with their blue hair and golden beards, winesellers showcasing their casks of exotic arbors, sons and daughters of Lys with their hairs of silver and eyes of lilac, jewelers showcasing exotic jewels, glowing tiaras and belts of pearls to behold. Jon took in the sights, looking this way or that, catching the sight of a Norvoshi peddling his tapestries and carpets.

They heard a dozen things. The first was that the Dothraki were at war with one another. The son of a Khal Bharbo was waging war on the Dosh Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak. The Sealord of Braavos was dealing with an upstart named Tormo Fregar. The Volantanes had raised the tariffs on slaves from Mereen, and the Wise Masters had raised the taxes on all their slaves in return. A Myrman insisted that a council of the remaining Free Cities was to be joined to settle the matter.

Then they found out that the Targaryen exiles were in the city. “You are certain of this?” Wendel leaned in so close that he could smell the perfume on the Volantene. “The Targaryens are housed here? In Pentos? At this very moment?”

The man spoke in a confident tone. “Viserys and Daenerys, yes. I heard it was one of the magisters of the city that have harbored them. Can’t say for how long – perhaps a year, or less even?”

“Your Father would not have known,” Wendel said turning to Jon. “He would not risk it. If the Targaryens have the favor of a Pentoshi cheesemonger, they may demand your head.”

“If it’s true, then let’s be quick,” Jon said. “We should return to the Golden Zorse. There are other cities, surely."

Wendel placed a steady hand on his shoulders. “Calm yourself, Jon. It’s not like we lit a beacon announcing our presence. Pentos still has potential, and just because one magister has favor with the Targaryens does not mean all of them do. We should at least find out what more that we can. For all we know, the Targaryens have long since fled, and this nugget is just an expired rumor.”

He saw Jon frown at that. If there was one thing that Wendel noticed, it was that the boy never went into things head first. “And if I have a magister’s favor, then I may be able to do something.”

“Now boy, don’t be rash.”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “But even across the Narrow Sea, I am still the son of Eddard Stark. If the Targaryens are here, I have to do what I can. Even just learning about what they intend.”

“We can decide on a course when we have something in our bellies. Come now, I smell something savory.”

As Wendel ripped through some speared sirloin, the dark pink juices rolling down his lips, the Qohorik argued that the Golden Company was bought out by Myr. “Qohor had hired them against Khal Drogo, but then the Black Priests saw only death if they went against the horselords. They sold us to the Golden Horde, and ended the contract to the Company. I hear they are marching south now. Trouble is rumbling in Myr, I hear.”

“Another quarrel in the Disputed Lands?”

“No doubt,” said the Qohorik. Wendel could not see a trace of hair on the man’s face. By all rights, Webdek should not trust a man without hair. But his appetite was too fierce a thing to ignore for long. Jon Snow took more considerable care as he nibbled on the cut.

“How are you so certain?” Jon asked.

“I have heard it a dozen times over. Once from a Lysene pleasure slave, who said she serviced a brother of Lys who served the Company. Then again from a Tyroshi that sold a decanter of wine to a Company man. My words are trustworthy. The reputation of Iargo Thoart is beyond repute.”

“Well, Jon, I suppose there are worse things than to rely on the reputation of a Qohorvik.”

“But what could the Company be doing in Myr?”

“Soldiers follow the purses that jingle the loudest.” They walked through the streets, Ghost trailing behind him. Jon took a careful look at his speared meat, then tore through a chunk of it and lazily tossed it to the wolf. Ghost ripped at it eagerly. “And Myr is always fighting over the Disputed Lands. They are the bread basket of the country, after all.”

“It’s a good thing Pentos is far off from Myr then,” Jon considered. “What if the Targaryens buy out the Golden Company?”

Wendel snorted. “I doubt it. Twenty years they had to buy them out, and that hasn’t happened yet. And the Company does not come cheap. I wonder if they came to this magister on bent knees, begging for shelter? Would be a welcome sight, and well deserved.

“No, Jon Snow, I think as far as the Targaryens are concerned, you have nothing to be worried about.”

THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL

The Golden Zorse was thick of the smell of mead and wine, and his ears were ringing with the cheers and murmurs. Ser Wendel was filling another glass. “It is our last day in Pentos. The crossroads of Essos. Honestly, I should not be surprised this would only be our first destination.”

Jon drank from his cup. He could feel Ghost curling at his feet. “Why is that, My Lord?”

“Simple.” He wiped his walrus beard with the back of his hand. “Pentos is a trading city. It values only what it can exchange from others. The only thing it is known for is being a slave city without any slaves.”

“Slaves in all but name,” Jon grumbled. “They don’t have collars, but the servants are chained to their masters.”

Wendel sighed. “That’s the truth of it, Jon Snow. Don’t get righteous over it. It is as you said – Essos is not Westeros. You will need to stomach it.”

Stomach slavery. Stomach men and women being forced to the will of another. Jon reached across the table for the decanter and filled his cup. He drank deep.

“The last time I saw you drink like that, it was at the feast.” Jon did not forget. The one benefit he could see of being a bastard was that he could drink to his content. While his brothers and sisters had to keep up a noble farce and drink from only a single cup, Jon could be goaded on and on by the squires and stableboys and indulge in cup after cup. It took him twenty years, but Jon learned what it meant to be well and truly drunk.

He felt the presence of Uncle Benjen then, as a squire to House Broom cheered Jon to take another glass. The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with the smell of mead, and Jon was well and truly drunk when Benjen shook him by the shoulders. “Why, isn’t it my most favorite bastard nephew?”

“Your only bastard nephew, you mean.” Uncle Ben took the cup of summerwine from his hands and took a sip. He took his seat on the bench at Jon’s side.

“Summerwine,” Uncle had said, with more than a hint of longing in his voice. “Been too long since I could succor a drink so sweet. How many cups of this have you had?” Jon could only smile in response. “More than enough, mayhayps. Well, I remember the day when I first got well drunk. You like it now, but trust me, the morning will be less kind.”

Jon could almost see him, as he drank from the wine in the Golden Zorse. A thick mane of dark hair sprawling down his shoulders, a wide chin and an even broader smile. He was all in black, as befitted a brother of the Night’s Watch. Far more elegant wear than what he would surely wear on the Wall – rich dark velvet, high leather boots and a belt with a silver buckle.

“You’ve had a few days to look at the Queen.” Uncle Ben stuck his hand into a bowl with onions. He took a big bite into it, producing a satisfying crunch. “Does she always look so displeased?”

“Mayhaps,” Jon guessed. “I’d say that it was because Father brought the King into the crypts. She was not pleased.”

Uncle Ben had grinned with satisfaction. “Nothing slips by you, does it Jon? The things I would do to have another with eyes as sharp as yours on the Wall.”

“Then take me with you,” he had said. “Let me become a brother of the black. Robb is the better lancer, but I am the better swordsman, and Harwin always said I took to the horses like I was born in the saddle.”

“Maybe you were,” Uncle said bemused. “But I won’t test it on the Wall.”

“I have had my twentieth nameday. I am a man grown.”

“Maybe, but have you seen the world?” Uncle had looked at him with judging eyes. “Have you known life outside of Winterfell? You would be giving up everything. Maybe when you have a bastard of your own, when you know what you would be giving up. But son, you are still too young yet.”

“I will never have a bastard,” Jon had sworn with venom. “And I am not your son.”

“That’s a pity,” Uncle had said, before he rose from his seat.

This all felt wrong to him. It was his father’s demand to make a life for himself in Essos, but this wasn’t home. This wasn’t Winterfell, or Last Hearth, or the Wolfswood, or the smell of the pines in the morning air. Robb was sitting in Winterfell an ocean away, and Bran was fighting to survive. Wendel was certain that Starks were difficult to kill, but how long until Jon would know if Bran would wake?

As he looked into the cup of the brownish red wine, Jon could almost see Arya. He could see her smiles and the freckles on her cheek, her hair like a nest of crows. Jon remembered how he would ruffle her and call her names. And whenever he saw a red haired woman, he would see Sansa. Sansa would have loved it in Essos, with all of its strange beauty.

And as he drank, Jon could see Robb. “When I see you again, your arms will be covered in golden bands.” The summer snow was melting in his hair, and he laughed as he slapped at Jon’s arm.

Ser Wendel was saying something, but Jon could not hear him. All he could hear was Lady Stark, pale faced as she looked wearily over Bran, her fingers tight around his. “It should have been you,” she said. “It should always have been you.”

Because you were a bastard. Those were the unsaid words, and they were the truth. His brothers and sisters were Stark, but was Jon Snow, and he always would be. The world knows that Eddard Stark had only three sons, not four.

Jon rose from the seat and dragged his feet towards the door. “Jon!” Wendel called out. “Where are you going?”

“Air,” he slurred. “Air,” he muttered. “I need some air.” He pushed the door open, and he felt the damp summer wind hit him. He could almost feel the street rush up to meet him as he stumbled out the door. He felt Ghost brush against his leg as he weaved through the streets. Catelyn Stark was whispering his ear. Bastard. It should have been you. Why my husband’s true son over you?

Jon felt himself tumbling towards the brick wall, his body slugging against it. Ghost padded to him, and Jon gave him a straining ruffle. He looked at the wolf’s fur, as pale and white as snow, and Jon could only think of the day when they found the pups. Five small and tiny things, drinking with abandon from the corpse of their mother. And a sixth one, tucked away beneath the bushes and trees. “By all rights I should not even have you,” he said. Ghost only looked at him quietly, and then lapped at Jon’s fingers. The tickling sensation brought half a laugh to Jon’s face.

Ser Wendel could talk of how much Jon had the blood of the Starks, but he was always a bastard. “You may not have my name, but you have my blood”, Father had assured him. Jon could feel the slight tingle of the morning heat on him as they rode through the Kingsroad. He wanted to say “Then why not make me a Stark? Give me your name. Make me your son.” But he was always too afraid to say those words. He only promised to return.

Now he was a world away from home, and he found himself crying then. The tears came more freely than they ever had any right to be. I am a bastard. I did not deserve anything I had. I should not have known a brother’s love, or the willful smiles of a sister. Did I have ever your pride, Father? Was I ever truly the son of Eddard Stark?

Ghost broke free of Jon’s embrace and padded away. “Ghost,” he called out, “where are you going?” The wolf made no answer. He groaned as he rose to his feet, the world shaking and beating as he did so. He followed in the wolf’s steps, taking a step into an alley.

He saw Ghost then, silent and fangs bared, and as Jon tumbled he saw why. In the darkest ends of the alley he saw men. Hands crossed against their chest, their hands holding knives and bludgeons, their clothes tattered at the frays. Two stood as the watchers, while the rest push and taunted at another. Someone weaker and with eyes full of fear.

“What are you doing here?” asked the first. “This does not concern you.”

“Best be gone, friend,” cautioned the second. “Take your dog and live another day?”

Jon could almost hear the shouts of his name. “What are you doing?” He could feel the pommel of his sword brush against his hand.

“Like I said. Something that does not concern you.”

There were six of them, Jon saw. Four of them were at work harassing the man in his fine silks, beating at him and tearing through his sleeves. One against six. They were impossible odds. Jon would have no chance against them. He heard someone call out his name. He had no choice. He drew out his sword. It felt heavy in his hands.

“Just who the fuck are you?” backed away the first man. The others at the end of the alley turned, their eyes sharp and ready. Their fingers were gripped around their jacks and knives.

“Only a bastard,” Jon said, with sword in hand.

THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE

She had been harbored by Illyrio Mopatis for half a year when the Stark boy was brought in. The night songs of the Red Priests were high and clear when the doors of the manse were thrown open. Viserys had raged when he saw the bloody man that was guided in on a stretcher. “Who is this, Illyrio!” Viserys’ hand had clenched into a fist, his fingers rubbing against a ring bought for him by their benefactor. And where only a few were needed for the boy, dozens were required to drag the fat and bloody corpse.

“Prince, my birds have told me that a son of the North had made his way to Pentos. I had hoped to meet with him before anything unfortunate had occurred.” Illyrio’s servants rushed past them, their hands filled with cloths and bandages. “Unfortunately, I was too late. One of them is dead, his life ripped from this world, and the other is clinging to his most desperately.”

The North. Viserys had called the Northmen barbarians and savages. “They are traitors,” Viserys had told her. He said they were in bed with the Stag and the Hawk. “They turned on their king. Our father. On us.” The Northman that was ferried through the hall did not look old enough to have betrayed them. He looked as old as she.

“Why would you bring any Northman into our home, Illyrio?” But this wasn’t their home. We are privileged guests. Illyrio gives us silk, spicy vintages. But we do not belong here. Dany remembered a place that she called home. It was a house with a red door in Bravos. She remembered the lemon tree that grew outside the window of her room.

And she remembered Ser Willem Darry, however foggy. Viserys would tell her how Ser Willem and a few other loyal knights had broken into the nursery and escaped with them across the Narrow Sea. Ser Willem was a massive man, gray of hair and all strength. Even as he died on his bed, he was roaring at the servants of their house. They were all afraid of him. Even Viserys spoke softer around him. But he was always kind to Dany. She remembered how soft his hands were, like well-tanned leather. He had always called her “My Princess”.

But then Ser Willem died. The servants stole most of their belongings and wealth. Dany had cried when the red door shut behind them, closed to her forever.

She saw a white beast rush by, following the train of servants and trail of cloth. “And now you allow animals in your home?”

“There was no dissuading it,” the spice merchant said. He rubbed at his forked mustache. “It is the sigil of his father’s house, after all.”

Viserys’ eyes had opened wide then. His borrowed sword shook at his hips. “He is the son of Eddard Stark?” He had nearly screamed.

“He is the bastard son of Eddard Stark,” Illyrio said, as if that would make all the difference. “And the fat one was Wendel Manderly, son of Lord Wyman Manderly, who controls the port city of White Harbor.” She could almost see the fury pour from her brother’s eyes. Viserys’ anger was known to Dany. He had called it “waking the dragon”, and she had woken it many a times. Sometimes she woke it just by being in his presence. Once she woke it because she was born too late, and if she had been born sooner than Rhaegar would have married her instead of the Stark woman. She thought, by that logic, it was Viserys’ fault that he was not born a girl.

Viserys had beaten her well for that.

It was not long after that the surgeon had arrived, followed by a servant holding a large box. “The Stark bastard has a fracture in the skull. I need invest to secure his life.”

“Save his life? He is the seed of a traitor!”

“Half of your kingdom rose up against your father, My Prince. Would you sentence them all to die as well?”

“If it suited me. I should salt their lands, and set their woods to ash. That is the might of the dragon. If I willed it, the traitors and all their offspring would die. They deserve nothing less.”

But it was not Illyrio Mopatis’ wish for the Northman to die. So the surgeon got to work. Servants surrounded the room, a small allowance by Illyrio. Dany had to step on her tiptoes to watch.  The Northman was strapped to a table, iron bands holding his head in place, rope for his hands and feet. The man’s hair was washed, and then it was shaved with a blade. The man squirmed, but he could do nothing as the surgeon cut into his scalp. The surgeon wielded the thin knife with precision and care. He did not falter as the Northman screamed with his gagged mouth. His hands rattled against the rope.

The surgeon had cut out a small and thin flap of the man’s head. The man howled behind his gag, his feet struggled and scraped against the wood. The surgeon produced a small circular saw, and pulling upon a lever cut into the skull. Shards of bloody bone fell from the table. The surgeon’s assistants collected the bloody shards into a small brass bowl.

Then Dany saw a metal plate in the surgeon’s hands. With slow and considerable care, he inserted the plate into the Northman’s flesh. The assistant gave a small hammer and a handful of nails. The nails were so tiny that Dany had to squint to see them.

And the surgeon hammered the plate into the skull. Every soft tap of the hammer must have been like a thunder in his mind, for the Northman yelled and screamed. By the fifth tap the Northman said no more. Dany feared him dead - to suffer so much only to die before the end. But Viserys only looked on in disapproval and the surgeon continued his work.

The Northman had to live, for as the assistant dressed the wound the surgeon felt the man’s neck. He nodded, pleased to himself. Perhaps he only fainted. I would have fared much worse than him. Viserys even more so. The man’s head was wrapped in bandages with such abundance Dany thought it looked like a turbine. The pure white bandages were soon a dark crimson.

With the Northman passed out, the surgeon was able to finish the rest of his work with ease. He used a knife to cut away at the man’s trousers, revealing a knife that had imbedded itself into his leg. He removed it with care. As the surgeon set to stitch the gash, his assistant went to work on the Northman’s neck. There was another cut there, although not nearly as deep. Dany imagined they would be tending to a corpse if that were not the case.

The men of the north must be strong. How else could a man survive such wounds?

As the Northman was being lifted to a bed, his fingers dangling, the surgeon set to terms with Illyrio. He kept his hand open for a flurry of golden towers that were placed within. “The boy will be asleep for a day, a week, or perhaps forever. It is hard to say with such afflictions. First there will be pus from the wounds. At first malignant, and then amiable. Set to cleaning the bandages every day with warm water. Steamier is best.”

“I will see that it is done,” Illyrio said as he rubbed at his belly. “You know your trade well.”

“I do,” the man said with pride. “I would advise a sacrifice to R’hllor. A white rabbit works best, I have found.”

“I shall have several produced. Thank you again.”

The surgeon shook his hand, filled with coin. “With pleasure, Master Mopatis. I will have my servant come daily with fresh bandages and poultices. He will see that they are applied correctly.”

In the days that passed, the corpse of Wyman Manderly was prepared. Viserys wanted him to be tossed into the sea, but Magister Illyrio said such an act would only bring misfortune upon them. Instead, Wyman Manderly was drowned in oils and burnt, and his ashes were contained in urn. “I will have it set aside, for the bastard to decide upon. Should he awake.”

The weeks rolled past, and the Northman did not awaken. But neither did he die. His white beast was always with him. When Dany could slip from Viserys, as he gorged on Illyrio’s plates or slept with one of the many pillow servants of the manse, she would try to visit the Northman. He was from Westeros. Viserys had always called it “Our land”, but Dany never knew it as hers. She had never even visited the Seven Kingdoms.

Viserys would tell her about Casterly Rock, High Garden, Sunspear, Winterfell, and all sorts of other names. Places that displayed the beauty and splendor of Westeros, the realms of influence and power throughout the kingdoms. But they were just names to her, letters on a map. This Northman knew them, surely. They weren’t just names to this man. They were his home. Westeros was his home.

At first Dany was scared of the beast. She would stay at the furthest edge of the room, as far from the beast as she could. The beast would look at her in silence, his red eyes beaming at her. But as the days became weeks, she found her courage. She drew closer to the Northman’s bedside. And the beast did not strike out. It did not growl or snarl. It looked at her in silence, as it always had.

And then it had walked out to her. At first Dany was frightened. She had never seen those crimson eyes take leave of its master before. But then Dany extended her hand, and the beast nuzzled against her. “You should have a name,” she said. She was certain the beast had one. All the dragons had names. Balerion, Sunfyre, Vhagar, Arrax and Moondancer. This wolf surely had one as well.

What is your name? She wondered what the Northman called himself. Viserys told her that the Northerners were a crass and barbaric people, and that their names reflected their nature. Names like Brandon, Rickard, Jonnel and Harlon. She did not see them so simple, but she did not voice those thoughts. She did not want to wake the dragon.

“His name is Jon Snow,” Illyrio told her once over a dinner of grapes and figs. The Magister ripped into the figs, and the red juices mixed with his golden and sheened beard. “At least, that is what my friends tell me. I have no reason to doubt it, Princess. Eddard Stark only broke his honor once, and that produced the boy sleeping in my bed.”

“He is a living corpse,” spat Viserys. “Snuff out his life now. To live as such is a waste.”

But what are we? Are we not beggars? Is that not worse?

Viserys would be mistaken. In the days that followed, the boy’s fingers began to twitch. Dany could see his eyes move and convulse behind his eyelids. But they did not open. She saw his fingers curve, ready to tighten into a fist. But they did not. She heard a gurgling in his throat, as he prepared to speak. But he said no words.

As Jon’s condition improved, Viserys set to distract her. He displayed on her many lovely gowns granted by Illyrio. Silk from Myr, jewels from Volantis, baubles from far and distant lands. She was awed by them all, of course. She had never felt anything so soft, or graced with jewels that shone so brightly. Viserys said she was a princess, but it was only then that she felt like one.

Why are you giving me these things, Brother? But she dared not voice her thoughts to him. She did not want to wake the dragon.

Then came the day when Viserys presented her with the finest fabric Dany had ever seen. “Come on, feel the fabric,” he said softly. Urgently. She felt the hems of the dress, and it was soft as wind, and twice as soothing. She felt frightened. She knew this came with a cost. She pulled away.

“A gift upon gifts,” she said. Illyrio had blessed them with endless gifts. Viserys’ image was overflowing with them. The rings on his fingers, the dragon brooch on his shirt, his fine leather boots. Even the pride in his voice was bought with the luxuries the Magister had provided. “The Magister continues to help us, and he asks for nothing.” Dany was afraid to ask, afraid to say anything that would anger her brother. But she could not keep her curiosities from her lips.

A knowing smile came to Viserys’ lips. “Illyrio knows his friends well. He will be remembered when I ascend to the Iron Throne. The dress will bring out the violet of your eyes. You will be a beauty to behold.” You have said that many a times, to calm me. Or when you would threaten to put your son in me. Despite the warmth of summer, Dany felt a chill race up her arms.

One of the servants came and took the dress from Viserys’ hands. “Come sister,” he said as he showed her his hand. She took it. “Let us feast outside.” And Viserys led her through the winding halls of the manse. More than half a year they have been houses by the Magister, and still Dany could barely find her way. She longed for a much smaller home. Some stretches of the hall she knew, such as the long passage that led to her chambers. It was the one with the window open to the coast and the bed wide enough for three.

They ate upon a wide circular table, carved from a thick and dark wood. It was adorned with mint tea, legs of duck, and sweetened honeyfingers. Dany kept quiet as Viserys and Illyrio spoke amongst themselves. She would nod in approval when asked, but otherwise sipped at her tea.

Then Viserys looked to her. “I have news, sister. You are to be wed.”

Her heart stopped. “To whom?”

“To Khal Drogo,” Illyrio Mopatis said. He wiped honey from his lips and sucked on his fingers. “Khal of Khals, some say, or soon will be. He gathers upon him a wide host. Dothraki, Ghiscari, men freed and proud. And slaves aplenty, of course. A large and fascinating court. Many were gifts from his father, Khal Bharbo, who envisioned a Golden Horde for himself. The son has inherited that dream.”

“And with such a horde I shall descend upon my kingdoms. Sweet sister, your marriage bed shall be the key to my throne.”

Dany felt a clutch in her throat. She felt her fingers grow cold. “Who is this man?” She said the words so softly.

Illyrio shrugged. “He is a Khal of the Dothraki. A leader of men, a great warrior. He takes what he wants. Gifts, lives, women. He surely has a great many bastards that he knows not of.” A rapist and a murderer. My brother will sell me to a monster. Dany knew of the Dothraki. Illyrio had told her once that the Free City of Pentos gives a great bounty to many khalasar every year. But most of all to the Golden Horde. “We could fight them off, for Pentos is great and powerful. But why do so, when peace comes so cheap and easily?”

She heard footsteps behind her. Servants began to gather the plates. She had always assumed Viserys would be the one to claim her. The Targaryens had always wed brother to sister, to keep the blood pure and strong. Viserys had said as such a thousand times. Theirs was the blood of Old Valyria, of the dragonlords and rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. She had feared the day when Viserys would name her wife. But she feared marrying a stranger far more. “I do not want to marry him. I do not want him to be my lord husband. I want to go home.” She remembered the house with the red door and the gentle breeze of Braavos.

Illyrio was quiet. He did not snatch another honeyfinger from the bowl in front of him. Viserys ground at his teeth. He stood up and approached her. The world was silent. “It is not about what you want.” He then pinched her at the chin, and his fingers dug into her bone. She wanted to pull away but his grip was too strong. “It is about your duty to me. Make no mistake, sweet sister. I would let all forty-thousand of his khalasar fuck you, and their horses too, if that is what it took. You serve House Targaryen in all things, and I am House Targaryen. I am the last dragon.”

Then she heard the sound of something hard hitting the ground, like a stick striking against stone. “Is she not a Princess of Dragonstone?” The voice was hard, full of fury and anger. Dany, Viserys and Illyrio Mopatis turned. It was Jon Snow. He was leaning on a cane, his hand wobbling. His loose robe flowed from him. His other hand held onto the railing of the stairway, and he stepped down. She saw with every step there was a slight grimace on his face.

But she saw his eyes. They were gray, like the sky of a distant storm. But there was a hotness to them, a fury like her brother’s. But instead of being focused on her, Jon looked only towards Viserys. The pain must have echoed through his every step, and yet his focus did not waver. Stay away. Please. You will only awaken the dragon. I deserve the words. I spoke out. Run

But Jon of Winterfell, of Westeros, of the Seven Kingdoms that were denied her brother, did not run. The white wolf was by his side, his silent companion. How much strength did the wolf give to master? The wolf stared at her as his master approached, and the master stared only at Viserys. “You would barter her like meat.”

Viserys released his grip. She felt the pain echo through her chin.

“Jon Snow,” said Illyrio Mopatis with a smile, “I welcome you back to the world of the living.”

The Northman did not turn to face the Magister.

Dany could hear the rattling of her brother’s loaned blade as he shook with fury. The dragon is awoke. Run from him. But Jon did not. He stared with defiance into her brother. Viserys’ balled his hands into a fist, his ivory fingers rubbing against his loaned rings. “I am the Dragon’s son. I do what is best for everyone. Who are you to say how I treat her?”

“You treat her like meat,” Jon said. Dany sucked in a breath. “She is your sister, and you barter her like an auroch.”

“How dare you!” screamed her brother. He raced towards Jon, but Illyrio stood between them.

“My Prince, please. Jon is a bastard, he knows not the way of respect. He simply only cares for the wellbeing of your sister, whom he recognizes as the true Princess of the Kingdoms. Is that not right, Jon of Winterfell?” Illyrio looked to Jon, and at first his iron gaze was transfixed on the Magister.

She felt the designs of the dragon brooch upon her breast. My brother is the dragon. And his passions are wild. “Brother, please.” She laid her hands on the sleeve of Viserys’ coat. “He is recovering from his wounds. You saw what the surgeon had to do to heal him. The Northman are strong, but blunt. You said so to me yourself. He is simply healing. His head it is not right. Is that not true, Jon of Winterfell? Are you not well?”

Jon looked to her, and she saw his iron eyes soften. “Yes,” he slurred. “I am not well. I know not my way. I see no servants near me. Could the Princess escort me to my chambers? Surely she knows the way.”

I know not. I am simply my brother’s sister. But then Jon offered his free hand, his right still clutching to the head of the cane. She looked to Viserys but he did not look to her. She took a step and wrapped her arm around Jon Snow’s. He leaned against her for support, and she felt his warmth dance across her naked arm.

“I thank you for your kindness,” Jon said softly. It was a softness she had heard before. Ser Willem Darry often spoke as such to her. The bastard’s fingers were soft, like new leather. His steps were in tone with her own.

She thought of looking back to Viserys, to hear his cries of protest and rage. But she did not want to look away from Jon Snow of Winterfell. “You are very welcome.” They climbed the steps, Dany to his left, and the wolf to his right. She looked at Ghost for a moment.

“Are you frightened of Ghost?”

“Is that his name?” She had heard stories of the specters of Valyria. They frightened her as a child. Even now as a woman, she thought of them as fuel for nightmares. “It is not very fitting if true. I don’t fear him.”

Jon smiled, and she found herself smiling in turn. “That’s what I call him. He is quiet as the wind. Besides the steps of his paws or his drooling tongue, he won’t make a sound. He won’t wake you with night howls.” Jon smiled. “Perhaps I should have given a name after the wind, but my brother Robb got that honor first. He named his wolf Greywind.”

“Do all Starks have a wolf as pets? As my ancestors rode dragons?”

“All of my brothers and sisters do.” Dany saw a sadness in Jon’s eyes.

“Are they not well?” Dany said. She regretted saying the words.

“They are. My brother Robb is Lord of Winterfell. My sister Sansa, she is to be wed. My sister Arya, she has gone with her. And my brother Bran -” and Jon stopped speaking. His steps slowed to a stop, and Dany was almost afraid to look at him. But when she did, she saw that his eyes were soft. “He fell from a great height. He has never fallen, from branch or wall. I saw him climb a wall while it was raining, and although his Lady Mother screamed at him, Bran did not fall down. But days before I was to leave, he fell from a tower. He was still in bed when I rode for White Harbor.”

“I am sorry,” she said at once. “I should not have asked.”

But then Jon tapped her on the arm. “You meant no disrespect, My Lady.”

None had ever called her that before. She knew that in the wine sinks of the Free Cities her brother was known as the ‘Beggar King’. She dared not ask what she was called.

“Were you close? With your brothers and sisters?” Viserys had ripped at her hair and twisted at her breasts, but he was all that she had. He had taught her about Father and Mother, about the legacies of their family. If not for Viserys, she would have had nothing. Perhaps that meant they were close.

He nodded. “I was.” Jon Snow chewed on his lips. “My Lady, may I speak?”

She had never been asked for permission to speak. “You may,” she said, unsure.

“Do not marry this man, this Khal Drogo, if you do not wish it.”

“But it is my brother’s wish.”

“He is no brother to you. I would never treat any of my sisters in such a way. If I saw any man do the same to them, they would be missing a hand.”

And my brother would sell me. But he is my brother. He is all I have. He saved me from the Usurper’s knives.  She wondered if this was the way of knights that her brother told her about. Her brother said that knights would ride in tourneys and compete for a lady’s favor. Many a highborn wedding were conceived on the jousting track. But this was no tourney, and Jon Snow spoke of harming her brother. Her brother that is selling her. But Viserys must sit on the Iron Throne. It is his right and privilege. And she must help him in this, in whatever way she can. She is weak; she will not lead armies, and cannot wield a sword. But she can marry a man that will give her brother the army that he needs.

“I know my place, Jon Snow.” And then they arrived at his chamber doors. “He is my brother, and my king. Your king.” Jon furrowed his brows. The truth is hurtful. “Please rest well. Will I see you on the morrow?”

Jon gripped his cane. “I imagine so. I don’t think I would get too far like this.” He forced a waned smile.

Dany smiled. “Then make peace with my brother, if you will be Illyrio Mopatis’ guest.”

Jon was quiet. His fingers were gripping the head of the cane. “If that is your wish.”

“It is,” she said, with a mummer’s confidence.

THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL

The Princess was well ahead of Khal Drogo. But it would not last. She was not a skilled rider. Jon could see that, as far as he was from beneath the shade of the tent. They rode across the field and Khal Drogo was on her almost as soon as the chase had begun.

“The chase is purely ceremonial,” Illyrio Mopatis explained. For once the Magister was not stuffing himself with exotic meals as he spoke. “Although I have heard that most Dothraki brides put on more of a challenge than our dear Princess.”

The issue is she is not Dothraki. She is of Westeros.

Viserys was sitting on a plush chair, his ivory fingers fiddling with a dragon-stamped ring on his finger. His violet eyes narrowed as Khal Drogo ripped his sister from her brown mare and forced her onto his black coursier. Jon could hear her yells and gasps from even beneath the tent.

Ghost was sitting beside him. Jon rubbed at his white fur with his free hand. In the weeks that had passed, his fingers and knees had stopped shaking, and strength had returned to his wrists. If he were to feel the back of his head, he could still feel the scars. But his hair had begun to return. His knees still burned whenever he bent, but the cane helped. Illyrio was confident Jon would have his full strength when the many lords of the Golden Horde came to Pentos. It had been nearly a month since Jon was nearly killed, and a few weeks more before Daenerys’ marriage.

The night before Illyrio had invited Jon to a dinner in the privacy of his solar. Jon was provided a dish with a single dragon-pepper, hollowed out and filled with rice and pineapples. “A treat from Tyrosh,” the Magister explained. “The spices and the sweet juices are absorbed by the rice. A wonderful course, for those with a seasoned stomach.”  As he spoke juices flowed down the folds of his chin.

Jon filled his mouth with a spoonful of rice and pineapples. The sweetness washed away the hot rush of the spices. “You have kept me a month under your roof, and have never asked for anything in return. You healed me, gave me food and shelter. Put clothes on my back.”

“I am a gracious man.”

“Magister,” Jon said with doubt, “we both know you did not become so rich because of your generosity. My father is an enemy to Daenerys and Viserys. He is the Hand of the King.”

“My birds have said as such.”

“So why am I here?”

Illyrio wiped the juices from his lips. “Because I have a gift for you.” He made a motion, and one of the servants arrived holding a clay urn with copper engravings. Jon knew at once whom it was.

“Ser Wendel,” he breathed. He lifted off the cover and looked into it. The man was so large, he was several stones over Jon’s weight. But as he stared into the urn, as he looked at Wendel Manderly of White Harbor, Jon felt so small. He died because of me. Father sent him to guide my way into Essos, and now he is dead.

Illyrio fed himself another spoonful. “He was returned to form in the image of the Lord of Light. We were made from ash, and we return to it.”

Jon placed the lid on the urn with care. Ser Wendel told me to beware the Red Priests. “I never imagined you for a man of religion, Magister.”

He smiled. “We are made up of so many illusions, Lord Snow, and all but a few of them we keep to yourself. Do you know me? Truly? Am I just a magister of spices and wine?”

No. You have some secrets you hold to yourself. Whenever Jon looked on Viserys, he could feel only hate. But whenever he looked at Illyrio Mopatis, he knew the man was not to be trusted. “Why am I still here, Magister? You know that Viserys and I are no friends. Just my being here threatens…whatever it is you are trying to do. What do you want from me?”

“To keep Daenerys company. Because I care for her well-being.”

“Her well-being,” Jon scoffed. “You are selling her to a warlord.”

“This is true.”

“Her brother is selling her to a murderer and a slaver.”

“That is also true.”

“She is being enslaved, to a man she does not know, to a culture she can’t understand. And you speak of her well-being?”

“All you say is true, Jon Snow of Winterfell. But perhaps some things are worth more than a girl’s tears. A day comes when the glitter of gold loses meaning, where all jewels lose their luster, and promises hold all power. I would see a dragon on the throne. And I would see the wolf beneath my roof amongst the swords of Bittersteel.”

“To see me with the Golden Company?” His appetite escaped him. He placed the silver spoon on the table. “How does that benefit you?” He rolled his thumb across his fist. I am in his house. I must look respectful and dutiful. Jon kept the rage from pouring out of his tongue.

“Because the dragon needs friends among the Golden Company. The Dothraki are formidable and fierce, but they are a horde. Even a Khalasar as disciplined as Khal Drogo’s cannot hide its true nature. The Golden Company shall be the foundation of the dragon’s return to Westeros.”

Father told me how high a bastard can rise in the Golden Company. He told me the Blackfyres are dead. The men of the Company have no reason to return to Westeros. So why would they ally with the Targaryens?

What does Illyrio know of the Golden Company?

“When will I be allowed to leave, Magister?”

“After the wedding,” Illyrio said as he ate from a pepper filled with rice.

“Not before?” Illyrio had simply smiled. “What am I, a prisoner or a guest?”

“Both,” Illyrio had said as he licked at his lips. “I shall take no risks concerning you, Jon Snow of Winterfell. It would be a poor investment for you to collapse and die a day after leaving my manse. And, the world does not need you to wander through Essos aimlessly. You have worth in the Golden Company. A capable and strong young man would be valued to the legions of Bittersteel. With Ser Jorah having sworn to protect the Targaryens, I do not fear for her safety. She will be well. Let me help you, Jon Snow. In doing this, you can help the Princess as well.”

Ser Jorah sipped from his Tyroshi pear brandy as he watched Khal Drogo return with Daenerys. The entire North knew of Jorah Mormont’s crimes. The man was a kin slayer. He had drained the coffers of his house, and killed his cousin. But why swear fealty to the Targaryens? The man had fought against the Targaryens in the Rebellion, he and the rest of the North. Viserys had taken his vow instantly, and had seemed pleased that his Kingsguard was swelling on the eve of his sister’s wedding. But it would be her husband’s army that wins back Westeros.

Illyrio’s words echoed in Jon’s mind. The Magister said that he could trust in the exile to protect Daenerys, but Jon had no faith in such a statement. The man was a craven. He had murdered Jirah Mormont and fled from Westeros in disgrace. How did you find the Targaryens so easily? If Father knew they were sheltered by Illyrio, he would not have sent me to Pentos. And yet you came with such ease into Illyrio’s manse.

At Illyrio’s side sat a man with slick dark hair and deep copper skin. He called himself Hezzare. He was dressed in a black robe. “The Khal is surely pleased, Master Illyrio. She is a beautiful bride.”

“And when will I have my armies?” Viserys snapped.

“In time, Prince of the Andals. After the wedding, the Khal of Khals shall ride for Vaes Khadokh. The Shadowbinder favors war. But not war across the sea. Not yet.”

To Viserys’ credit, he did not lash out. But Jon could hear the Targaryen’s grip fasten on his fingers. Jon wondered how long until they would snap. Illyrio seemed displeased. He did not reach for another honeyfinger. “There are some who would remember Vaes Khadokh as Essaria, the tenth of the Free Cities.”

Hezzare smiled. “And their children will remember Vaes Khadokh as Vaes Sash. The New City, for a new Dothraki.” He sipped from the peach brandy. “For a new world.” Every word from the Ghiscari unnerved Jon. The man was doused in perfumes, and when Jon shook his hand a fine powder was left on his glove. Every action he was seeing unnerved him. A man should be in perfume and powder. A husband does not rip a wife from her horse. A wife should not scream and yell. And a brother should not sell his sister to a murderer.

And a Northman should not feel shame for a Targaryen. He knew what happened to his grandfather and uncle. Their deaths were at the hands of a monster, and the whole of the Kingdoms rose up against him. I should be glad for the Princess. This is the fruit that her family had reaped. But Jon only felt sickened by the thought. Daenerys was surely no younger than him, and Jon knew nothing of the war. He was a babe sucking at his mother’s teats in the final months. Was she even born when King Robert first sat on the Iron Throne?

It was nightfall when they returned to Illyrio’s manse. Viserys had looked pleased with himself. All he could talk about what the army that Khal Drogo would provide him with. Illyrio smiled at all of Viserys’ claims, assuring the Prince that the Dothraki honor all gifts granted him. Viserys did not seem to get the hint that Khal Drogo may not necessarily provide him with an army. And Daenerys remained quiet in the litter, her fingers entwined at her lap.

“You do not need do this,” he wanted to say. “Your brother is a fool.” But he couldn’t find himself to say the words. Jon remained silent as they were carried to the manse, his fingers gripping the cane.

THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE

Viserys was staring at Jon again, as they feasted on boiled ostrich eggs. It had been several months since Jon was brought into Illyrio’s manse, and the Northman had nearly healed. There were still flickers of pain, momentary spasms where his hands and knees would shake, Jon Snow looked restored. Viserys could not hide the seething look of his eyes whenever he saw Jon Snow. He surely saw the northman’s recovery as an insult. And for his part, Jon Snow remained ever defiant. When Viserys was hot, Jon was cool. If Viserys ever spoke of home, Jon would casually mention it in greater detail. Jon Snow was on the edge of a knife, somewhere between respect and insults, and he kept a beautiful balance.

Dany had insisted that Jon Snow make peace with her brother, their rightful king. And although the Northman swore he would, his actions said otherwise. He still looked at Viserys with a cold fury in his eyes. Dany could not blame him. Viserys was a difficult man to love. But he was her brother – she had to love him. Viserys was all that she had.

“Khal Drogo has brought a massive host to Pentos,” Ser Jorah announced as he sipped from Tyroshi brandy. The man seemed to favor the drink. “Forty thousand riders, and that does not account for any of the women or children.”

“My fellow magisters have doubled the city guard,” Illyrio Mopatis said with a smile. His yellow teeth ripped through the egg. “The Golden Horde has made my city very nervous indeed.”

“Then the Princess should be married before they grow even more nervous,” Ser Jorah said. Dany saw that Jon just lightly shook his head. Dany knew how pleased Jon was with this marriage – that is to say, not at all. And the idea of wedding a khal filled Dany with fear. The Century of Blood that followed Valyria’s Doom was named in their honor. They savaged cities, put kingdoms to the sword, and threw Essos onto the precipice of doom.

Jon Snow never voiced disapproval, but she could see it in every step he took. He did not want Dany to marry Khal Drogo. She did not want to marry Khal Drogo. If Jon Snow came to her with Ghost in the middle of night, and asked her to flee with him, she did not think she would refuse him. The thought both excited and frightened her.

“So long as I can get my army,” Viserys rubbed at his dragon-stamped ring, “then Khal Drogo can have her.” Dany saw the flare in Jon’s eyes. If Dany hadn’t pleaded with him to respect her brother, she was certain Jon would have risen from the table in a fury. Viserys turned towards her, and before Dany would have lowered her eyes. She did not want to see his stare, in fear of waking the dragon. But Jon looked to her then, and she found a comforting look in him. She looked at her brother.

“The Dothraki honor all gifts, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah spoke with a respect that placated her brother. “But in their own time.” Viserys frowned at that. “Khalasars can spend years before they send another city to the flames, if a previous raid gave enough of a bounty.”

Viserys’ nostrils flared in fury. “I will not wait years before I am given my throne! Twenty years I have suffered because of that bastard’s father. Him and the Usurper.”

Jon Snow was about to rise then. She saw the hot steel in his eyes. But Ser Jorah placed a steady hand on the Northman’s shoulders. Jon slowly fell back into his seat. “One must not presume to demand of a khal,” Ser Jorah advised. “To the Khal, you shall be a lesser man. Even less than your sister, whom would become his Khaleesi.”

“The dragon does not beg,” Viserys seethed. “Guard your tongue Mormont, or I will find ways to remove it.” Ser Jorah bowed his head out of respect. Dany wanted to say that there were no dragons left in the world.

But Jon said it first. “The last dragon died on the Trident.” His gray eyes were narrowed. “So you should tread carefully amongst the Dothraki. Your Grace.” Dany almost gasped. Ser Jorah narrowed his eyes, Magister Illyrio sighed.

And Viserys screamed. “I am the last dragon! I am the son of the last true king of Westeros! I should feast on your black heart, bastard.”

“I do not think Jon Snow meant disrespect, Your Grace,” Illyrio said quickly. Dany did not miss the critical glance he gave to Jon. “Rhaegar Targaryen is referred to as the Last Dragon with affection. It is a sign of how much the people wish for you to return home and claim your birthright. Is that not true, Jorah Mormont?”

“It is,” Ser Jorah said. But the reply was so cold that Dany was not convinced. But Viserys was, and she saw the temper recede in him. He bit into his ostrich egg, and she saw the white clumps dance down his chin. Illyrio always insisted that the people want them to return home. He says that his birds say as such. But Dany has no agents of her own, and all she could do was place her trust in the Magister.

And for all his gifts of velvets and silver, Dany did not trust Illyrio Mopatis.

That night she tried to sleep, but all she could think about was her wedding. It would only be a few more days now. The Golden Horde had made their camps around Pentos and along the dragonroads. Khal Drogo had summoned his lords and allies to witness the ceremony. Dany’s heart felt like it was beating like a drum. It was so hard and forceful she could have sworn it would burst through her chest.

Then she heard a familiar sound padding along the floor. She turned and saw Ghost, his red eyes staring at her through the narrow slip of the door. Dany considered, for half of a moment, of turning on her side and hoping she would find sleep. She slipped out of the covers and walked over to the direwolf. The marble floor was cold in the night; she felt the chill race up through her toes.

She opened the door. Ghost was staring at her, as silent as always. Your name is so fitting. She remembered how Viserys told her that she was named after the sister of Daeron the Good, who was wed to Maron Martell. Her union brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms. But what would her union bring? Death and fire?

Dany reached for Ghost, but the wolf turned from her. He took a dozen steps, but then Ghost turned his head towards her. “Do you want me to follow?” Ghost gave no reply as he padded away. Dany chewed on her lip. Viserys would be furious if he found her slipping through the halls of Illyrio’s manse so late at night, like some kind of bandit. But Ghost would be with her, and Viserys would not dare wake the dragon in the wolf’s presence.

She followed Ghost down the halls, and he led her to a chamber she was so familiar with. This is Jon’s room. The door was slightly ajar, probably from when Ghost had slipped out. She saw the orange glow of a brazier emanate from the room. Slowly she opened the door. “Jon?” Jon looked to her. He sitting across his bed. “Did I wake you?”

Jon shook his head. “No. I was just thinking.” She stepped inside. “Trying to imagine what will come next.”

“After my wedding?”

He nodded. “Illyrio said he will have someone from the Golden Company escort me to Myr. They were hired there. Apparently, there is a war brewing.” He rubbed at his lips. “I never imagined I would join with the Golden Company.”

For some reason, Dany felt bold. “Did you imagine meeting the Targaryens? When you arrived in Pentos?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t think my father would have sent me to Pentos if he knew that you were here.”

Dany bit on her lip. She wanted to name him the Usurper’s dog. Viserys always called Lord Stark the dog of the Usurper. Eddard Stark had joined with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn of the Vale to drive them from their homes. Viserys had no shortage of curses for them. “I am glad he didn’t know. Your presence has been…a kindness.”

Jon smiled. Dany rarely saw him smile. She wished he did it more. Your face shines when you bring some warmth to it. “I’m glad for that. I know your brother does not hide his feelings of me. If he could have me hanged from my neck, would.”

Dany sucked in a breath. She could not imagine Jon dying. “You should be weary of my brother.”

Jon Snow narrowed his eyes. “Viserys needs to be weary of everyone else. My little sisters could fend him off.” Jon sighed, and then he looked at her. There was a softer look in his eyes. It reminded her so much of how Ser Willem would look at her, even as he laid dying in his bed. “You do not need to be afraid of him. Viserys is...he has no strength. All words, nothing to back themselves up with. I’ve heard stories of your family, before the Rebellion. Viserys is nothing like them.”

“You knew of my family? My ancestors?” She couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. She found herself stepping towards the bed. Jon slid to the side, and she sat beside him. “Viserys always told me stories, but I thought that the people back home…that they didn’t remember.”

Jon shook his head. “Maester Luwin told me about the ancient Targaryens. I loved hearing on the life of Daeron. The Young Dragon.”

“Daeron.” She spoke the name softly. She had heard of the man before. Viserys told her how after the Dance of the Dragons that the first Daeron led the Kingdoms into Dorne. She wondered what someone who was not a Targaryen knew of her family. “Could you tell me about him?”

Jon’s eyes glowed. “He was the son of Aegon, the Third of His Name. Or maybe it was the Fourth? Aegon the Conqueror always wanted to conquer Dorne, but he never could. But Daeron wanted to do what his ancestor couldn’t. He wanted to finish what Aegon started. And he would do it without the dragons. They had all died by then.”

“How could he? If the Conqueror couldn’t take Dorne with dragons, how could Daeron dream of it?”

There was a sly smile on Jon’s face. “His lords thought the same thing. He said ‘You have a dragon. He stands before you’.” Dany felt a shiver course through her. He was a true dragon, a mighty king. “He used the goatsway to avoid the traps the Dornish had set for Aegon and his sister-wives. Two other armies, led by the Tyrells and the Velaryons, attacked elsewhere. It took a year, but the Prince of Sunspear surrendered.”

“So Rhaenys and Meraxes were avenged.” Viserys had often told her how it was the Dornish that killed Aegon’s most precious sister and wife.

Jon shook his head. “Not quite. The Dornish rebelled from the mountains. In another year’s time, there was a third war for Dorne. And when Aegon agreed to meet with the Dornish for peace terms, they killed him. Under a white banner.”

“But Dorne were our allies in the war,” Dany said. “When the Usurper came, Prince Lewlyn led the forces of Sunspear.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “But not when Daeron was king.”

“Jon Snow,” she said after a time. “Perhaps I could speak to my betrothed. The Golden Horde needs men, and perhaps the Golden Company could be of use. I would very much like to see you again. I would like for you to tell me more stories about my family.” I would like to see you smile again. Her heart beat in a flutter.

He smiled again. “For what it is worth, Princess, so would I.”

THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL

Daenerys Targaryen was wedded with all of the splendor and barbarism demanded by the Dothraki. The ceremony went from dawn to dusk, an endless reverie of drinking and fighting and boasting and raping. That is what Jon called it, but Illyrio Mopatis explained that a Dothraki man can take any woman. So long as he is able to fight for the right. Just as many Dothraki were adorned in  rich perfumes and robes of silk as those that had not. “Khal Drogo has created a crisis within the Dothraki,” Illyrio said to Viserys. “Will they accept his new world, or die defending their old one?” Men and women in painted leathers moved amongst those in rich silk dresses. Jon could hear the jingling of bronze coin belts over the bellows of the festivities. Khal Drogo himself wore a glimmering red robe that was adorned in fox furs. He drank from a large bronze bowl, the mare wine seeping down his dark beard.

The Princess was seated beside her new husband, with Viserys and Illyrio below them. Jon would consider that an honor - he was glad to be sat just beneath them. Even at home he was placed at the far side of the Feast Hall. But he could see the rage in Viserys’ eyes. The Khal and the Princess were given the first offerings of every dish, and that was all passed down. Viserys’ fist tightened at his knees with every second helping.

Even at his sister’s wedding, Viserys demanded to be first in all things.

Jon was seated amongst the bloodriders, advisors, guests and companions of the khal. Down the grass platform were the bloodriders of the Khal; Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo. Even Khal Drogo’s mother, Virenni, was not too far from him. That was an honor in his mind, as twisted as it was. He was half expected to be sent amongst the throngs of the Khal Drogo’s Khalasar. He remembered when he joined the feast his family threw for the king. His brothers and sisters sat amongst the royal family. Robb sat a breath away from Princess Myrcella.

But Jon was not with them. For all of his Lord Father’s talk of how he still had the blood of Starks, Lady Catelyn did not want him on the high table. He had eaten and drank alongside the squires and stablehands, while his brothers and sisters feasted with the royal family. I was where I belonged. I could never hide who I was.

But as richly dressed as the Dothraki were, they could not hide what they were: barbarians that called the wastelands of Essos their own. Even the most well robed of the Dothraki still roared over the cooking fires, ripping apart horse meat that gleaned with honey and the buzzing of flies. The Dothraki wrestled and slapped, roared and cheered, filled themselves with spiced wines and fine arbors. Khal Drogo shouted out encouragements, and the Khalasar would cheer and roar whenever he did so.

Jon watched as an argument broke out between two Dothraki. They pulled out their arakhs, the crescent and slender blades renowned by any Khalasar. A slow and deadly dance ensued. The two Dothraki stared at each other, their curved swords glimmering in the summer sky. They threatened and pointed, and then they struck at each other. A blade reached too far, one of them took too liberal of a step, and curved blade met soft and supple flesh. With a twist, the man’s belly was split open and gore dropped onto the ground. Applause followed.

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair,” explained Illyrio. Jon looked back.

Viserys was grinning in amusement. Jon could not help his mouth from going agape. He prayed in silence. May he never go to Westeros. Don’t let him even approach the Essosi coast, lest he grow wings and take flight. Would he need to kill Viserys to make sure that never happened? As he watched the roar of the celebration, he wrestled with the thought in his mind.

He found his eyes wandering to Daenerys. Her hands were nowhere close to that of her husband’s. Khal Drogo keeps his hands on his knees as he leaned forward, eying the reverie laid down before him. He would often shout out encouragements to his followers below. Jon did not think he said a word to his wife. Not like she would understand a word of Dothraki, or he any of the Common Tongue. As he looked at Daenerys, Jon could not help but think of Arya. Whenever she was in trouble, Arya would snuggle away in Jon’s chamber, away from the vindication of Lady Stark or Septa Mordane. But the Princess had no place to hide. She was for all to see.

A flight of fantasy took over him. He imagined saving her, right then and there. He would rise up, draw out his wolf-marked sword, call out Ghost to him, cut down Viserys, cut down Khal Drogo, lift the Princess into his arms like Florian would Jonquil, and run. Run as far from Pentos, Khal Drogo, slavery and all the rest. Save Westeros and the Princess both in equal measure. Allow Daenerys to live a life of her choosing. Forge a life of his own making.

The idea left him just as quickly as it arrived. How could Jon cut through a huge horde of men? Khal Drogo’s large mane of dark, coarse hair was braided with a multitude of bells. Each bell signified a victory. Khal Drogo had never lost a battle. Jon was good, but Khal Drogo was better. And assuming he was able to kill the Khal, Jon could not escape the Khalasar. The Dothraki were called the horse lords for good reason. They would ride and strike Jon down in moments. I dream as Sansa would. Just far more dangerously.

Jon chewed on his lip. At the far end of the ridge sat the woman in the red mask. From the moment the Khalasar arrived for the wedding, this cloaked woman rode amongst them. But she was apart from them as well. No dothraki rode any closer than necessary. “She is Quaithe of the Shadow,” Illyrio had whispered to Viserys.

Her eyes were always on Daenerys. And Jon could not help but think that she was always staring at him as well.

“You look displeased, Jon the Andal.” Hezzare was drinking from a bowl of mare wine. “Is it so unusual, to see murder and copulation at a wedding?”

“It is,” Jon said.

“I agree. And so does the Khal. But some things are harder to cut out than the hearts of your enemies. I would rather feast upon honeyed locusts than horse meat, but here I am. And yet here you are, so far from home.”

“I was invited.”

“And one does not turn away the invitation from a bride so beautiful. If Daenerys is the Dragon’s daughter, she shall need to unleash it. My lord is civilized and enlightened, but he is still a warlord at heart.”

Jon’s father was civilized. He was the Warden of the North and the Lord of Winterfell. If Ned Stark was in Jon’s place, he would summon his banners and remove the Dothraki from the world. But Jon was no Lord, and he had no bannermen to call upon.

“Tell me Hezzare. Are you an honest man?”

“As much as my Khal needs me to be. Speak your mind, Andal, and I just might show you mine.”

“Why does the Khal want Daenerys? His Khalasar must have...I don’t know if you would call them lords. Would you?” The Ghiscari nodded. “Why not marry one of their daughters? Solidify alliances, make sure none would rebel against him? The Princess is an outsider. She is not Dothraki.”

Hezzare smiled as he drank from the bowl. “I misjudged you Andal. I thought you a simpleton. You would be true, completely, if Khal Drogo was just a khal. But he shall be the Khal of Khals by his own hand. He has already carved out his own capital. Free Men, Dothraki, and Ghiscari flood towards Vaes Sash.”

“So it is symbolic. A new royalty, for a new empire.”

Hezzare nodded. “Precisely. The merging of the east and the west. The last daughter of the dragons, with the first son of the horse lords. When the dragon and the horse marry, the world shall shake.” He smiled then, thinly as he wiped the mare wine from his lips. “But let me ask you something, Jon the Andal, since the mare wine have made us such good friends. Why are you so concerned about the girl? If I remember right, your people forced her from her home.” My father did fight against King Aerys. But only after my uncle and grandfather were burned at the King’s command. “Illyrio Mopatis offered to send you to the Golden Company with the highest regards.” A bastard could rise high within the Golden Company. Bittersteel was a bastard himself. Father told me to make a life of my own making in Essos. “So why these questions? Why such displays of concern?”

Because Eddard Stark would do nothing less.

As the festivities came to an end, it was time for the couple to be presented with their gifts. First came the dothraki honors. First was a bow made from dragonbone. Daenerys refused it and granted it to her husband. Then an arakh, and again Daenerys passed it onto her husband. And lastly a whip tanned from fine and thick leather. It cracked with power. Daenerys imparted it onto her husband. A Dothraki ritual of the wife bowing to her husband. She cannot even have a gift of her own choosing.

Then Viserys arrived with three women. Two had the hard skin and black hair of the Dothraki, while the third was fair and golden haired. “Sweet sister,” Viserys says with all the appeal of a viper, “these are my gift to you.” Your gift from Illyrio, no doubt. The only thing you have is your name. And even that was given to you. “Irri shall teach you how to ride, so no Dothraki can outpace you. Jhiqui will teach you the dothraki tongue, so none can slander you. And Doreah,” and Viserys laid his hands on her shoulders, “shall teach you how to bed.”

Jon did not miss the slight tense of discomfort that Doreah displayed. Have you tasted her for yourself, Viserys?

Then it was Ser Jorah that approached. Bundles in his hands were a stack of books, most of them worn and torn by use. Daenerys took them into her hands. “Histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, so the people themselves may teach you of them.”

The Princess took the books into her hands. Her fingers felt the eroded grooves in the leather, the frayed pages that stood out. “Thank you Ser. I will treasure them always.”

The Princess was given jeweled brooches from Qarth, glimmering rings from the Summer Isles, silk slippers from Yi Ti. A small pile of offerings rose up behind her and Khal Drogo. And Jon had none to give, save for a few kind words. “You are stronger than what they think,” is what he could say. But Jon didn’t truly believe it. “First chance you have, run,” but where would she go? Whenever he looked to Daenerys he saw Arya. He imagined Arya, being given gifts when she wanted to run away. He imagine Arya being sold to a slaver. He imagined Arya becoming trapped.

He imagined Arya in Illyrio Mopatis’ grip. Jon did not trust the man. How did the Magister become on such good terms with the Golden Company? That thought had been prickling at Jon for weeks now, and it would not fade away. Could Father have known something? Is that why he sent Jon over the Narrow Sea? No, Jon decided. Father had no idea of the Targaryens in Pentos. Illyrio Mopatis was planning something, and it involved the Targaryens and the Golden Company.

The Magister wanted Jon in the legions of Bittersteel. But why? Why? Whatever the cause, he wanted Jon away from Daenerys. He wanted Daenerys to be alone with Ser Jorah. Jon trusted that man less than the Magister. He was a craven and a tenderer in slaves. I won’t be one of your cogs, Magister.

Jon rose from his seat and approach the raised earth. He bowed his knee before Daenerys. He could feel the glare of Viserys on him. He could feel the curious silence of the gathering on him. He drew out his sword and laid it on his hands. “Princess,” he said. “I have no luxuries to offer. I don’t have any exotic heirlooms from distant lands. I can only offer myself, as your sworn sword. I offer myself to House Targaryen. I would shield your back, and give up my life if needed. I would give you counsel, and defer to your judgement at all times.”

“Ser Jon-”

“He is no Ser,” Viserys spat with venom. “He is just a bastard of Winterfell.”

“Jon of Winterfell.” Her words came slowly. He could hear the tint of the Tyroshi accent on her. “I will only accept your service if you would permit me to call you Ser. In return, I,” and Daenerys took in a breath. Jon watched as she turned towards her brother. His violet eyes were seething. But then she turned towards him. She looked to him. “In return, I will always find a place for you at my table. And I will never have you do something that would bring you dishonor.” The words came rehearsed. The Princess was not speaking from the heart.

But there was some fire in those purple eyes. You are using me to fight your brother.

“I can accept those terms, My Lady.”

Then as Jon stood and sheathed his sword, Khal Drogo roared out a command. Hezzare went to the Khal and whispered into the man’s ear. The Khal looked at Jon with his dark eyes and muttered some words. “The Khal,” Hezzare said, “says that he will allow his wife her “sword guard”. However, he will not allow a man to protect his Khaleesi while being ignorant of the Dothraki. You will be given a teacher, an ezzolat. You shall be made subservient to him, until such a time that the Khal decides you have earned your way.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then you will die. One does not refuse a Khal at his wedding feast.”

“I accept his terms then. Who is this man?”

“Me.” Jon turned and saw a Dothraki approach. Wrapped around his eyes were a thick cloth, a white eye painted across it. He was dressed in a white robe, with a crimson sash tied around his waist. If it impeded his movement, the man did not show it. He emerged from the crowd, and it seemed none of the Khalasar stood in his way. “And you are the Andal.” The man spoke the Common Tongue with a thick but manageable accent.

Then the man struck at him. Jon found himself spiraling to the ground, the hot pain coursing in his cheek.

Khal Drogo laughed and slapped at his knee. He spoke in his harsh tongue. “None has ever been able to escape No-Eyes’ slap,” explained Hezzare. “The Khal wonders how many bruises and broken bones you will suffer before No-Eyes is content.”

As many as is needed. He rose to his feet amidst the laughs and hoots of the Khalasar.

“A fine gift,” Illyrio said as he looked at Jon, “to give one’s life.” For the slither of a moment Jon could see anger in the Magister’s eyes. But then he turned to Daenerys, and glee found its way to his voice. “But there are more gifts to be bestowed.” Illyrio clapped his hands and four servants arrived, towing a large cinder box. They laid it at Daenerys’ feet and opened it. Jon could not see what was in it, but he saw the light dance in her eyes.

Then she lifted something up. It was round, and it must have been heavy because she used two hands to cradle it. Black and red swirls raced across the smooth edge, and it was covered in scales. “Dragon eggs,” Illyrio explained. “The years have turned them to stone, but that has done nothing to mire their beauty.”

Jon saw water well up in her eyes. “Thank you, Magister. I shall treasure them.” Every word rang with truth. How could they not? Jon wondered how long she had been told she was the daughter of the dragon. But what proof did she have? Until now, as she cradled that dark egg in her arms. Have you realized just now how low Viserys has sold you?

Then the Khal rose from his seat and clapped his hands. It echoed across the festivities like thunder. At once every mouth became silent, and even the burning braziers seemed to have dimmed. Khal Drogo stepped down from the earthly steps, and in a rare display of husband courtesy, extended his hand and guided Daenerys.

Jon saw one of the Dothraki have clasped in his hands the leather reins of a white palfrey. Its mane was like silver. Jon wondered how many other steeds Khal Drogo had amongst its horde. But Jon saw the way the Dothraki looked at it, and Jon realized this gift was as rare as the Targaryens themselves. Daenerys took careful steps, and her eyes were wide cast in wonder.

“Silver for the silver of your hair,” spoke Hezzare. “This is the Khal’s gift for you.”

Daenerys’ fingers ran through the white mane of the steed. She stroked the horse’s long neck, and for the first time Jon saw no fear in her. Then Khal Drogo approached her, and he lifted her up with considerable ease. Like she was just a bottle of air to be shelved. She gripped the reins, and Jon saw as she struggled to find her place on the slim Dothraki saddle.

Daenerys fiddled with the reins. For a moment she did nothing. “What should I do?” she asked softly.

Ride. As far and fast away as you can.

It was Ser Jorah that spoke. “Just ride. You need not go far.”

She bit at her lip. And then she gave the horse the slightest and most hesitant of nudges with her knee. The gray palfrey gaited with a silken grace, and the crowd parted ways to let her pass. The entirety of the Khalasar, of Pentos, her brother, Illyrio Mopatis, Khal Drogo, Jon and Ghost, were looking to her in silence.

But when Jon saw the glimpse of her purple eyes, he saw no fear in them. She smiled and kicked with her knees. The horse broke into a gallop, and the khalasar broke away to let her pass. Jon heard cheers admits the hoots and laughs. The mare was well trained; with just the slightest of nudges, the shortest of suggestions, it responded. No wonder they were the horse lords, if the Dothraki could breed such beasts. As she galloped through the fields, Jon looked to Khal Drogo. His dark and deep eyes were narrowed on her. His bronze hands were crossed against his chest. Are you filled with pride at your wife? Indifference? What are you, Khal Drogo, beyond being a warlord and slaver?

She raced back towards them, and in her way was a fire pit. Piles of cut meat were layered on top, and it was bolted deep into the earth. There would be no moving it. She whipped at the reins, and her smile became daring. The horse leapt over and above the brazier, the hoofs scattering the meat. Sparks and embers flew into the air, and for the briefest of moments, Daenerys Targaryen had wings of fire.

She pulled up to Hezzare. “Tell my husband he has given me the wind.”  There as a twitch of a smile on the Khal’s face as Hezzare translated the words. The Khal shouted out a command, and his men brought forth his fiery red stallion. Viserys made his way towards Daenerys, but Jon reached her first.

“Do not be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not.” Jon saw there was a hardness in her eyes. “I am the blood of the dragon. The dragon cannot be afraid.”

And then she rode off with her husband. She left behind Jon, the Khalasar, the grass steps and Pentos. The stars were just coming out as the darkness overcame the sliver of the sun.