A groan slipped from her lips before she was even fully awake, a sound of profound, physical discomfort. The world swam into focus slowly, filtered through a haze of oppressive heat and a blinding, golden light. A thought, sharp and panicked, pierced the fog. Oh my god. Why am I—
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the effort making her grunt. Her gaze fell, and the thought sputtered into horrified silence. A belly, swollen and round, rose from her frame like a massive hill. She was pregnant. Heavily, undeniably pregnant.
Why did I, a twenty-six-year-old surgeon who's never even been with a man, wake up as a pregnant teenager? A pregnant… dragon mother?
The memories flooded in, not her own, but settling into her mind as if they had always been there. She was no longer a medical school graduate from the 21st century. She was Daenerys Targaryen, fourteen years old, fugitive princess, and wife—Khaleesi—to a barbarian horselord.
Her old identity, her old life, felt like a dream receding in the morning sun. It didn't matter now.
She was now the heir to a fallen dynasty, destined to be Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Protector of the Seven Kingdoms; the Unburnt; the Breaker of Chains; the Mother of Dragons.
Well, not yet, a wry, terrified voice whispered in her mind. Right now, she held only two titles: "Stormborn," for the tempest that had raged the night of her birth, and "Khaleesi," for being the property of the great Khal Drogo. The "Mother of Dragons" was a distant dream. The most pressing, immediate problem was far more primal: how to survive after Drogo died.
And he was dying. She could feel it with a certainty that went beyond memory and into the cold, diagnostic knowledge of her past life. His wound was festering, the flesh corrupted by blood magic. Not even Hippocrates himself could save him now.
Pushing aside the rising tide of panic, the new Daenerys pressed a hand to her heavy belly, the skin stretched taut over the life kicking within. She had to focus. She had to understand this new world.
The sun was a furnace, scorching the cracked earth. Before her, a patchwork of poorly planned fields stretched toward the horizon. Rye, its stalks half-green and half-yellow, drooped with the weight of its filling ears. Low-lying soybean plants withered in the heat, interspersed with vegetable plots where melons and gourds were being crushed under the relentless advance of the khalasar.
Her silver filly shifted beneath her, and with every step, there was the faint popping sound of seed pods bursting under its hooves. Dany turned her face away from the glaring sun, the heat pressing on her skin. A soft, bitter murmur escaped her lips. "What a cruel joke. A perfect harvest, and the Dothraki arrive."
Khal Drogo's khalasar was a force of nature. Nearly forty thousand screaming warriors, and when you counted the slaves, women, and children, the entire horde numbered over one hundred thousand souls. A nation on horseback, every one of them mounted. One hundred thousand horses, their iron-shod hooves a rumbling drumbeat against the earth, a sound that promised nothing but destruction for the land of the Lhazareen.
The Lhazareen, the gentle farmers contemptuously called "sheep-people" by the Dothraki, were not thinking of their harvest. Before the might of the greatest khalasar on the continent, their minds were gripped by a single, paralyzing fear of death and violation.
Dany glanced over her shoulder at a dilapidated farmhouse they had just passed. The residents huddled behind a plastered courtyard wall, their faces pale with terror. In their dark, almond-shaped eyes—so similar to those of her new clansmen—she saw a raw fear and a deep, hidden hatred that burned like embers. They were a people of bronze skin and gentle disposition, short and stout from a life of farming, a stark contrast to the tall, savage Dothraki who now tore through their home.
Tap-tap-tap.
The sound of approaching hooves made her turn. Seven or eight riders were breaking away from the main column. Their skin was the color of burnished copper, their long, black hair woven into thick braids, each adorned with a string of small bells that jingled with the rhythm of their canter. They were warriors, their posture radiating a casual brutality.
Flicking through her borrowed memories, Dany recognized them instantly. Khal Drogo's bloodriders. Qotho, Cohollo, and Haggo. The others were his kos, captains of his personal guard: Jhogo, Pono…
They rode past her without a glance, their focus entirely on the massive figure of Drogo, who slumped in his saddle just ahead. Jhogo pointed toward a mud-brick manor on a low rise. "Khal," he called out, his voice rough. "There is a flock of goat-men gathered there. Shall we ride them down?" They were here for the hunt, the plunder. It was the only way they knew.
The Dothraki were nomads. They produced nothing, built nothing. Everything they had, they took. The gene for brutal, violent plunder had been honed in their blood for countless generations.
Drogo's head was swimming in a feverish haze, his consciousness fading in and out. He lifted his head with visible effort, his eyes struggling to focus on his men. His lips, dry and cracked, parted. "Yes… I…" The words were a barely audible rasp.
A bitter wave of despair washed over Dany. According to the original story, this husband of hers, this stranger she was bound to, was on the verge of death. She had just arrived in this world, only to become a widow. It wasn't that she felt any affection for him; the problem was the barbaric Dothraki customs.
A Khal's position wasn't inherited. It was taken by the strongest, a process that was always bloody. After a Khal's death, his Khaleesi was sent to the city of Vaes Dothrak to live out her days as a crone among the dosh khaleen. As for her unborn son… he would never survive the rise of a new Khal.
"Can't you see the Khal is sick?" Dany's voice cut through the air, sharper than she intended. She urged her filly forward a few steps, placing herself between Drogo and his men, ignoring the cold, dismissive stares from the bloodriders. "They are small villages, not worth attacking. At the very least, there is no need for the Khal to lead the charge himself."
The towering Haggo shot her a cruel look. "Khaleesi, you have no voice here—"
CRACK!
Dany raised her arm and snapped the riding crop she held. The leather whip cut through the air with a sharp, explosive sound. But her body was heavy, her movements slowed by the child in her womb. Haggo leaned back in his saddle with a contemptuous smirk, dodging the blow with ease.
"You dare strike at me?" he snarled. With a rasp of steel, he drew his curved arakh from his belt, his eyes glinting with red-hot fury.
Dany felt a tremor of fear, but she forced a sneer onto her face, meeting his glare without flinching. "I am the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo," she said, her voice ringing with an authority she didn't feel, using the Dothraki words her predecessor's mind provided. "I am of the blood of House Targaryen. How dare you draw your blade on me?"
She wasn't being foolishly bold. A flicker of memory had shown her that the Dothraki respected strength. They preyed on the soft, but they yielded to the hard. The more you fought back, the more they saw you as a person. Cowards, like her brother Viserys, or weak nations, like the Lhazareen, were not considered human at all.
Besides, she knew Haggo, as Drogo's bloodrider, would never harm the Khaleesi while she carried the Khal's son, not with Drogo himself right there. And she was not alone.
As if on cue, her own guards spurred their horses forward. The big exile knight, Ser Jorah Mormont, maneuvered his mount with practiced skill, placing himself beside her. He drew his own longsword, his weathered face grim as he leveled a serious gaze at Haggo and the others. Behind them, Dany's Dothraki protectors notched arrows to their bowstrings, their expressions blank and ready. Even a Khaleesi had her own khas, her own small band of followers. Hers was tiny, only a hundred or so, meant mostly for her protection and service, but they were hers.
Cohollo, the oldest of the bloodriders, his face a roadmap of scars and his hair streaked with gray, gave Daenerys a long, cold look. Then he turned to his brother. "Put away your steel, Haggo," he commanded, his voice a low gravel. "You will ride in the Khal's place. Remember, you must claim the most heads for his glory."
Cohollo had served Drogo since he was a boy, having once rescued the young Khal from his father's enemies. He was like a second father to Drogo, his word carrying immense weight.
Haggo's face flushed with anger. He spat on the ground, sheathed his arakh with a sharp clang, and wheeled his horse around, galloping away without another word. The other kos gave Dany one last wolf-like stare before following him.
The thunder of their hooves faded. Cohollo paused, his horse shifting beside hers. "As leader of this khalasar," he said, his tone flat, "the Khal must take the lead. It is his duty. And his glory."
Dany understood he was explaining, not just chastising. A flicker of gratitude warmed her. Of Drogo's three bloodriders, only Cohollo treated her with a sliver of respect, seeing her as Drogo's wife. To the others, she was just the highborn prize Drogo had purchased. Princess of Dragonstone meant nothing to a horselord.
She forced a tight, brittle smile. "I am worried for him, Cohollo. His condition…"
"You should be worried that the kos will begin their raids without the Khal's command," he interrupted, cutting her off. "Although your worry will change nothing."
Dany watched, a bitter taste in her mouth, as he rode away to join the hunt.
Soon, the air filled with the distant shouts of warriors and the piercing screams of the dying. The stench of blood and fire drifted on the wind, a foul miasma that turned her stomach. Columns of black smoke clawed at the sky from the direction of the Lhazareen manors, grim fingers pointing toward heaven.
Holding her belly, she closed her eyes, trying not to imagine how many pregnant women like herself were being butchered, how many children were being taken as slaves. This is a cruel world, she thought, a profound and weary sadness settling over her.
Her small khas was already busy, preparing her camp on a low hill. Some flattened the earth for the stakes of her tent, while others unloaded large chests from the wagons, containing the silks, blankets, and belongings she and Drogo shared. The Khal's tent was always at the center of the khalasar, and around her chosen spot, the riders' felt yurts were already springing up like mushrooms after a rain. The Dothraki despised houses of stone and mud; they lived and died in their tents.
The sight of more than a hundred thousand people working in a chaotic, synchronized bustle was strangely vital, a spark of life that cut through the depression clouding her mind.
"Ser Jorah," she called, her voice soft. "Walk with me."
Jorah Mormont, the exiled Northern lord nicknamed 'the Bear,' nodded. He was a paradox, a knight of Westeros serving a Dothraki horde. When Daenerys had been married to Drogo, he had sworn his sword to her brother, Viserys. After Drogo had given Viserys his "golden crown" of molten gold, the Bear had quietly transferred his fealty to her. He had shed his heavy wool and leather armor over the past year, adopting the painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and bronze-medallioned belts of the Dothraki, though he still moved with the stiff bearing of a Westerosi knight.
"Khaleesi," he said, falling into place beside her filly. "Should you not check on Khal Drogo?" Four of her young Dothraki guards fell in behind them.
"A dozen healers are already surrounding him," she replied, shaking her head. "It's too crowded. We can see him after they have finished their work."
They walked through the burgeoning camp. The air was thick with a thousand smells: the sweat of men and horses, manure, dust, spilled blood, and roasting meat. It was an assault on the senses. Slaves hurried past with armloads of firewood, women wailed for their lost kin, and children with bare feet and wild hair ran screaming through the crowds. Dothraki warriors, their long hair gleaming with oil, polished their blades or shouted orders.
Rounding a large yurt, they came upon a clearing where a group of warriors were laughing as they surrounded a dozen naked, weeping Lhazareen women. The men pawed at them, their jeers and taunts echoing in the hot air. Even at the sight of their Khaleesi on her silver mare, they made no move to stop.
"Khaleesi," Jorah began, his voice hesitant. "You seem… different. Is something wrong?"
He had noticed. Since that afternoon, he'd sensed a change. The old Daenerys, the timid girl, would have tried to intervene, to plead with the warriors to show mercy, to marry the women instead of raping them. She had tried before, only to be laughed at. The Dothraki had no concept of marriage outside of their Khal; the women they captured were spoils of war, to be used, killed, or sold as they saw fit.
Dany lowered her eyes, her hand resting on her belly. "I understand what you mean, Ser. But without Drogo's strength to back my words, who would listen to me?"
He truly is her most devoted protector, she thought, a strange pang of something—pity? appreciation?—for the grizzled knight. He was perceptive. She had spent the entire afternoon speaking little and observing much, trying to mimic the original Dany's mannerisms, but the core of who she was had changed, and he had felt it.
"Khaleesi, give the word, and I will kill them for you," one of her young guards, Aggo, declared, raising his great horn bow.
The Dothraki youths Drogo had given her were fiercely loyal, some of the finest warriors in the khalasar.
Ser Jorah's eyes widened in alarm. "This is not our khas, boy," he warned sharply. "Attack them and you will start a blood feud that will see us all dead."
"I am not afraid of death!" Aggo shot back, his dark almond eyes flashing.
"We are not afraid!" the other guards roared in unison.
"An open fight will bring chaos," Jorah said, his voice low and urgent, pointing a thumb at Dany's swollen stomach. "And it might harm the Khaleesi and her child."
The tension was thick enough to taste. Needing a distraction, Dany looked around and her eyes fell on a fat, bald man carrying a large white goose that struggled and squawked in his grip. "You," she called out, pointing a finger. "Stop."
The man, a slave by his dress, froze. He was sweating profusely, his bald head gleaming in the sun. He offered a humble, nervous smile. "Khaleesi? What is your command?" The goose flapped its wings wildly, pecking at his thick arms with its yellow beak.
"I want that goose," Dany stated simply. The Dothraki ate horse meat as their staple, and the mere thought of it, dredged up from her new memories, made her feel nauseous. Changing the subject was one reason; improving her dinner was another.
The beads of sweat on the fat man's head grew larger. A pleading look entered his eyes. "Khaleesi," he stammered, "forgive me. I am Lord Jhogo's cook. His woman, Lyra, cannot stomach horse meat. I found only a few geese in the sheep-man's manor today. I… I do not have the right to give it to you!"
CRACK!
"Agh—!"
Before Dany could even process his words, Aggo, enraged, lashed out. His whip struck the chef across the face, splitting the skin on his cheek in a bloody line. "Bastard!" Aggo bellowed. "When the Khaleesi makes a request, not even Jhogo himself can refuse!"
The fat cook crumpled to the ground, whining and clutching his face. The white goose escaped his grasp, squawking as it ran off. It all happened in a flash, too fast for Dany to intervene.
Just then, an angry shout erupted from the sky-blue tent nearby. "Who dares try to steal my goose?!"