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Chapter 13: Blood of the Dragon
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:25:40 +0000 UTCLyra’s face was contorted with a vicious, triumphant spite. She thought she was delivering a killing blow, a final, shameful secret to shatter Dany's composure.
Daenerys simply looked at her, her expression flat. "And then what? Viserys was a bastard. I have always known that."
Lyra’s triumphant look faltered, replaced by confusion at Dany’s calm. Seeing her words had failed to wound, her anger flared hotter. She turned and pointed a trembling finger at Ser Jorah, who stood watching her, his hand on his sword. "He fucked me too!" she shrieked. "He didn't call out your name, but I saw the look in his eyes! He was looking at me, but it was your soul he was trying to touch through my skin!"
"No!" The accusation seemed to strike Jorah like a physical blow. He flushed a deep red beneath his beard, waving his iron-gloved hands defensively. "You slander me! I held no such thoughts!"
"I have known a thousand men," Lyra spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "You cannot hide your heart from me."
"Ahem," Dany cleared her throat, the awkwardness of the moment grating on her. "You are a Khaleesi now, Lyra," she warned, her voice severe. "You are no longer the most famous whore in Lys. I do not think Khal Jhogo would enjoy hearing of your past exploits."
She isn't wrong about Jorah, though, a weary part of Dany’s mind admitted. I've seen the way he looks at me sometimes. Another secret I must carry. Another truth I must pretend not to see.
The threat didn't faze Lyra in the slightest. Her mouth twisted into an even uglier sneer. She leaned close to Dany’s ear again, her whisper a venomous hiss. "And how do you think I became his Khaleesi?"
Dany’s heart gave a tired little squeeze. "He fell deeply in love with you? No, that doesn't seem likely," she whispered back, meeting Lyra's sarcasm with her own.
"He is the same as me," Lyra sneered. "He desires only what belonged to the great Khal Drogo. In his eyes, you are no different from Drogo’s horse or Drogo’s tent. A prize to be claimed." She pulled back, a bitter self-loathing in her eyes. "So you see, you are a thing to be owned. And I am the woman who sleeps with the man who owns you."
"Then you are worth less than Drogo's tent," Dany said, pushing the woman’s face away with the heel of her hand. "Go. I am tired of this boring conversation."
"Fine. I will go," Lyra snarled, scrambling to her feet. "The khalasars return to Vaes Dothrak almost every year. I look forward to seeing if the high and mighty Princess of Dragonstone is still so proud when she is just another dried-up old crone in the dosh khaleen." With a final, hate-filled glare, she turned and left.
In the cold morning mist of the next day, Khal Jhogo's new khalasar moved north. They had no choice. The firewood was gone, the water was gone, and the horses were starving.
Stepping out of her own small tent, Dany found the world outside was frighteningly bright. The rising sun was a furnace of molten gold, spilling its heat onto the earth and scorching the cracked, hollow ground.
Her tiny camp was not silent. An old man coughed weakly from a nearby shelter. A small group of children, oblivious to the heat, ran and played in the open space. A few women quietly went about their chores. On the periphery, the hundred or so remaining horses stood without their saddles, listlessly kicking at the dust, their occasional neighs sounding like complaints against a land that didn't even offer a single blade of grass.
Her maids brought her water to wash, and a small meal of fruit and dried meat. After she ate, she gave the order for her khas to move their camp to the spot where Drogo's palace had stood, to gain what little shelter the nearby hills could offer from the sun and wind.
Qotho and Haggo remained in the death-tent with the barely-breathing Khal. Dany called her core followers—Aggo, Quilo, Jhogo her guard, Rakharo, and Ser Jorah—to sit with her in the shade of a small mound. It was her first council meeting.
"Drogo's khalasar is gone," she began, her voice clear and direct.
Her guard, Jhogo, nodded. "A Khal who cannot ride is no Khal."
"The Dothraki follow strength," Ser Jorah added, his voice heavy. "I am sorry, my princess, but they could not be kept."
"How many do we have left?" Dany asked. "Troops and supplies."
"Khaleesi, none of your sworn khas has left you," Aggo said, his voice ringing with fierce pride. "We are your guard. We swore our loyalty to you, not to the Khal. We have all remained."
A warmth spread through Dany's chest. The Dothraki were barbaric, yes, but there was a simple, profound honor in them that she felt was worth more than all the fickle vows of the "civilized" lords of Westeros. These were her people now. She belonged here, in the Great Grass Sea, more than she ever had in the foreign cities of her exile.
"Who else?" she asked, her voice a little brighter. "Our khas is less than a hundred strong. I saw at least two hundred people when we moved."
It was her Jhogo who answered. "The old ones, Khaleesi. The crippled and the weak. The sick. And the cowards. The new Khals would not take them. They were left behind."
