As a time traveler, Kerse knew perfectly well what that year meant.
298 of Aegon's Calendar.
The year in which the wheel of destiny began to turn.
The year in which the plot the world would come to know as Game of Thrones was set in motion.
He also knew that, in that same year, he would marry his other golden finger: Daenerys Targaryen, the last princess of the blood of the dragon.
That marriage would not be merely a union between two people, but a key.
An open door to the intricate and bloody game of power on the continent of Westeros.
Kerse turned around and stepped out of the tent.
The fire inside cast his shadow over the nocturnal grass, stretching it until it became almost monstrous. He stopped at the entrance and exhaled slowly, as if trying to expel the invisible weight resting on his shoulders.
Governing the Dothraki was no simple task.
Not even being the Chosen.
Not even being invincible.
Changing customs rooted in blood took time. They were savage, undisciplined, proud to the point of foolishness. They had improved since they began venerating Thor Horse Head, but they still despised armor, trusting only in their bodies and the simple weapons they wielded.
Kerse raised his gaze toward the infinite sea of grass.
He had to guide them.
He had to lead them toward the conquest of the Seven Kingdoms.
But a doubt, silent and dangerous, seeped into his mind:
Can I really lead these barbarians to victory?
At that moment, a firm presence approached from behind.
It was Molegro, his bloodrider.
A huge man, covered in muscles and war paint, with a gaze as hard as it was loyal. He stopped before Kerse, struck his fist against his chest, and inclined his head in the ancestral gesture of respect.
"Blood of my blood," he said.
Kerse answered without hesitation:
"Blood of my blood."
Molegro raised his head and spoke in a deep voice:
"A messenger from Pentos requests an audience with the king of the horses most powerful on the steppes. He claims to bring gifts."
Kerse tensed slightly.
Pentos.
Illyrio Mopatis.
Varys, the Spider.
A flash of understanding crossed his face. He nodded.
"Bring him here."
Molegro obeyed without a word and walked away.
Khal Kerse once again took the main seat of the tent, surrounded by his bloodriders and the Dothraki leaders.
Shortly after, Molegro returned accompanied by a group dressed in Pentoshi robes. Among them were Illyrio Mopatis and the Targaryen siblings.
Two servants advanced at the front, carrying oil lamps with delicate blue glass covers. Another helped Daenerys enter the tent. Behind her came Viserys, gripping a borrowed sword. Illyrio entered last, sweaty and panting.
The messenger bowed deeply before Kerse and spoke in surprisingly fluent Dothraki:
"King of the Stallions over the Great Sea of Grass, chosen by the god Thor Horse Head, I present you my highest respects."
Then he announced:
"Viserys III of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. Their patron, Illyrio Mopatis, magister of Pentos."
Daenerys stepped forward with unsteady steps.
She knew what this meeting was.
A transaction.
Her brother… and Illyrio… were handing her over.
She observed Kerse cautiously. He did not wear the braid of the khals, nor long hair. The stories were true: tall, imposing, with nails like claws and visible fangs. However, his movements were light, almost feline, and his youthful face contrasted with his overwhelming presence.
Kerse also observed her.
She is worthy, he thought.
Daenerys was small, of an almost unreal beauty. Silver-golden hair, purple eyes. Blood of the true dragon.
Illyrio stepped forward, smiling with excessive sweetness.
Kerse spoke, his deep voice imposing silence:
"What is the purpose of your gift?"
"Nothing escapes the great stallion king!" Illyrio exclaimed. "Daenerys Targaryen is a noble princess… and her brother hopes that the Khal will send ten thousand warriors to restore the dynasty."
A murmur ran through the tent.
Kerse advanced toward Daenerys.
She looked at him, confused by the warmth in his eyes.
"Viserys… please… let us go home."
Viserys exploded:
"Our home no longer exists!"
Illyrio ignored the altercation and snapped his fingers. Four slaves entered with a cedar chest.
When it was opened, Daenerys held her breath.
A black bow rested upon velvet.
"Dragonbone," Illyrio explained. "A gift worthy of a princess."
Kerse finally spoke:
"The sending of warriors will depend on the divination of Dosh Khaleen."
Viserys clenched his teeth.
"I cannot wait!"
Then a voice thundered like a storm.
"Wait!"
The tent fell silent.
Drogo stepped forward, his enormous figure standing out beneath the firelight.
His eyes locked onto Kerse.
"Kerse!" he roared. "I challenge you!"