The sea near Volantis was calm, the silence broken only by the slow, steady beat of drums and the gentle sweep of wooden oars.
Morosh stood on the deck, watching Viserys ride the dragon, Sunblaze, chasing clouds through the azure sky. He felt an uncontrollable shiver in his soul.
Sunblaze was a magnificent, ferocious beast—nothing like the sickly, half-dead "Last Dragon" from the history books. This was a change unseen in centuries; since the death of the last dragon, the world hadn't seen so much as a scale or a claw.
Every attempt by the Targaryen kings to hatch dragons since then had turned into a joke or a tragedy. The Dragonbane, Aegon III, hired mages who couldn't spark a flame. Aegon the Unworthy tried to build mechanical monstrosities that exploded in the Kingswood. And then there was Summerhall—the tragedy of Aegon V, the King of the Commons, whose attempt ended in a nightmare that buried kings and princes alike.
But now, a true dragon had returned.
Viserys could feel Sunblaze roaring with excitement. They circled higher and higher, spirals of leather and fire, seemingly challenging the height of the heavens themselves. Even in the ruins of Valyria, Sunblaze had never flown this freely.
In the ecological wasteland of Valyria, the dragon had been forced to tread carefully. Beyond the magical pollution and volcanic eruptions, there were terrible monsters to contend with. Putting aside the Blood Lions and the Three-Headed Eagles, there were Firewyrms hundreds of feet long—ancient horrors that even a dragon wouldn't dare provoke.
---
Dragons prefer to attack from above; Viserys could feel that instinct kicking in.
When they climbed until they were between their opponent and the sun, the dragon would fold his wings and dive, screaming down like a thunderbolt.
Just as they reached the water, Sunblaze pulled up, his wings beating back the steaming spray. A flying fish leaped from the surface, only to be instantly engulfed in flame. Sunblaze snapped it up mid-air.
Legends said the ocean held krakens that dragons could hunt, but those deep-sea monsters were rare and greedy for blood.
Viserys had worried that the magic in the outside world—the "fire essence"—would be too thin to sustain a dragon. But it seemed manageable. While the magic here wasn't as potent as the intense heat of the Fourteen Flames in Valyria, it wasn't gone.
Viserys theorized that magic had been slowly rising since the Year of the False Spring, or perhaps even as far back as the tragedy at Summerhall. The tide of magic had hit its high-water mark with the Red Comet and the rebirth of dragons.
Dragons are hatched by blood. Their arrival is the sign of magic's return, pulling the tide to its peak.
Rhaegar probably interpreted the signs wrong, Viserys thought. Those prophecies got him killed.
His family had always been obsessed with dragon dreams. Aerion Brightflame had even drunk a jar of wildfire, thinking it would transform him into a dragon. Rhaegar, lost in ancient Valyrian scrolls and his own melancholy dreams, thought the prophecy was about restoring the dynasty. Instead, fate made a fool of him, leading to a brutal defeat.
It is about the self, not the prophecy, Viserys mused.
Feeling the wind shift, Viserys guided Sunblaze back to the ship. The dragon coiled his body on the deck, looking like a massive, resting serpent.
---
"Have you decided on your names?" Viserys asked the Unsullied.
He had told them to choose new names as a reward for the hardships they had endured together. Originally, Unsullied were given a new name every day to strip away their humanity, while those bought by rich magisters might be given a number or a nickname.
Now, as free men and heroes of this adventure, Viserys allowed them to reclaim their birth names—at least, for those who remembered them. Others chose the names of heroes, gods, weapons, gems, or even flowers. It sounded strange to Westerosi ears, but it meant something to them.
The leader of the ten Unsullied, a youth from Qarth, stepped forward. "This one calls himself Bloodworm."
Viserys asked him why.
"Because it is an honor," Bloodworm replied respectfully. "This one has long forgotten his past name. That name was cursed, which is why I was made a slave. 'Bloodworm' is the creature this one saw on the day the True Dragon liberated us."
Bloodworm had short, rust-colored hair and a clean-shaven face. He was grim, determined, and stocky, with a thick neck and powerful build. He was young, perhaps in his twenties, but his strength and courage commanded the respect of the other Unsullied.
His second-in-command was an older Unsullied from Pentos who had chosen the name Fireworm.
Viserys was satisfied. Ten Unsullied wasn't an army, but their loyalty was absolute.
---
As Viserys rested on the deck, the supply ship they had sent to Volantis returned.
It brought back cooked meats, Volantene sweet wine, oranges, and other provisions. Volantis was famous for its sweet reds; the locals couldn't live without beets, which they grew in massive quantities and added to almost every dish.
Viserys took a few sips of the wine and set it aside; it was cloyingly sweet. It was no wonder so many Volantenes had rotten teeth.
The supply captain also brought news, which he immediately relayed to Morosh.
"Khal Drogo's khalasar was spotted at the town of Selhorys," Morosh reported to Viserys. "He has thirty thousand screamers under his command. He accepted gifts from the Volantenes and moved on. It looks like Drogo intends to cross the Rhoyne."
Drogo's objective was obvious. Pentos would pay him off, which meant the new Kingdom of Andalos was about to face a massive threat.
"I used to think he was a wise Horse Lord," Morosh noted. "But it seems greed has overcome his reason."
"That is the Dothraki way. They only bow to blood and fire." Viserys looked up and tossed a piece of cooked meat into the air. Sunblaze exhaled a puff of gold-red flame, cooking it instantly before snapping it up.
"Are you afraid, Morosh?" Viserys asked.
"No, Your Grace." Morosh shook his head. "The True Dragon will lead us to victory."
"Who cares about some Khal? We just kill him and be done with it," said Agos, a rough-voiced Andal warrior. If the Andals had to kneel to Dothraki immediately after uniting, their new kingdom would be a joke.
Viserys could almost smell the blood on the wind. A brutal war was coming.
It was unavoidable—like two storms colliding on the vast continent. The Dothraki hated cities and stone towns. The fact that the Andals and Rhoynar were gathering at the White City—Viserys's stronghold—meant the Dothraki had fewer villages to raid.
Every Khal wanted to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, and Viserys would never allow the horselords to expand unchecked. He had a heavy burden; he needed to focus entirely on the military.
"It's not just Khal Drogo who wants to make a move," Viserys deduced. "Others are pushing him."
Trade and population meant profit. With the establishment of Andalos, the slave traders losing money were bound to incite the Dothraki to attack. The Tyroshi slavers were the most warlike; they were surely behind this. The Lyseni and Volantenes wouldn't have forgotten the slaves who fled to Andalos, either.
Viserys had been preparing for this war for a long time.
It would be a contest between two young kings of Essos: The Dragon King Viserys and the Horse Lord Drogo.
---
The Dothraki Sea
On the endless sea of grass, the towering Khal Drogo led his tribe westward.
His bloodriders flanked him, their horses casting long shadows across the rippling green plains. As they rode, the warriors greased their long braids with animal fat from rendering pits, making them shine black in the sun. They feasted on roast horsemeat seasoned with honey and peppers and drank deep from skins of fermented mare's milk.
Drogo had seen the Free Cities before; he had eaten their food and played their games. When he visited the mansions of the Magisters, he would wear silks and perfumes.
But under the open sky, the Horse Lords kept to their ancient traditions.
Men and women alike rode bare-chested, wearing painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and bronze medallion belts. Only the Khal wore a belt of heavy gold, laden with trophies.
The only discordant note in the column was a group of green-bearded Tyroshi merchants. Though Tyrosh was an island city and didn't strictly need to fear the Dothraki, the two groups had a profitable relationship built on the slave trade.
"Does this Kingdom of Andalos truly hold such untold wealth?" Drogo asked curiously.
"It is true," the Tyroshi said, his tone exaggerated and theatrical. "The Andals and Rhoynar were once rich peoples. Though they have fallen on hard times, they still hoard gold in that White City of theirs. Furthermore, their people are fair and skilled—they fetch high prices in the flesh markets. You could sell them directly to us, great Khal. Our gifts would leave you very satisfied."
"I have received your Archon's gifts," Drogo nodded. "Those who know my name show me respect. But this King in the Andal lands remains cold. And that White City..."
While the horselords rarely besieged fortified cities, protection money was a major source of their income. The very existence of the newly built White City was an insult to the Dothraki.
"You are right, O Khal," the Tyroshi merchant agreed fawningly.
"Does the White City hold highborn women?" Drogo asked.
The Tyroshi stroked his oiled beard, wondering how the barbarian knew. The Archon of Tyrosh had actually wanted to capture the highborn Targaryen siblings for himself, but that was impossible now.
"There are many people there, so there are surely beautiful women. The noblest are the sister and niece of the False King. They have the blood of Old Valyria. The beauty of the dragonlords is legendary," the merchant said cautiously.
The crones of the Dosh Khaleen said my son would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, Drogo thought. I need to go East, to the Mother of Mountains. But first... a bride.
Drogo didn't lack women; he lacked a wife fit to bear a god. She had to be highborn.
The old crones had prophesied: "As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining like razor grass... The Prince will be fierce as a storm. His enemies will tremble before him... He shall be the Stallion Who Mounts the World."
Drogo raised his arakh and shouted, "The earth is our mother! To cut her flesh with plows and axes is a sin! The Andals have defiled the mother! What shall we do?"
"Destroy Andalos!"
"Destroy Andalos!"
The Dothraki roar was deafening, shaking the very sky.
Drogo nodded, satisfied. He had raided and politicked across the grass sea, killing all of his father's rivals. Now, with thirty thousand screaming warriors, he was the greatest power on the steppe. The Magisters of the Free Cities showered him with gifts and slaves wherever he went.
But Drogo's appetite was growing. He would destroy Andalos, so his people could ride all the way to the sea.
Drogo waved his blade again, screaming to the heavens:
"I will take my people west, to where the world ends at the poison water! I will do what no Khal has ever done! I will kill the men in iron suits and tear down their stone houses! I will rape their women and take their children as slaves! I will drag their useless gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow beneath the Mother of Mountains! I, Drogo, son of Bharbo, swear this!"
"Destroy Andalos!"
"Destroy Andalos!"
Under the vast sky, the Horse Lords howled for war.