A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 34 – A Dragon is No Slave

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POV: Daenerys Targaryen – The Great Grass Sea

Daenerys had become a true Khaleesi.

She no longer rode timidly behind the Khalasar but at Drogo's side, her silver mare galloping alongside his black stallion.

She learned to hunt with a bow, to fight with a curved arakh under Jorah's tutelage, and to command respect from the bloodriders, who once dismissed her as a weak foreign bride.

"You are stronger than your brother ever was," Jorah once told her. "Viserys was a boy pretending to be a king. You? You are learning to be a ruler."

She still wore her Targaryen silks, but now she also donned Dothraki leathers. Her skin bronzed beneath the sun, her silver hair unbound, her eyes sharp with newfound confidence.

"A khaleesi does not weep," she reminded herself.

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The Assassin's Wine

One evening, as the Khalasar rested, a merchant approached with casks of fine wine.

"A gift for the Moon of my Life," he said with an eager smile.

Daenerys reached for the goblet—but Jorah's hand shot out, gripping her wrist.

"Stop!" he barked.

The merchant paled as Jorah snatched the cup and forced him to drink.

The man struggled—but when his lips touched the wine, his body convulsed, froth spilling from his mouth.

He was dead within moments.

The Khalasar fell silent.

Drogo rose from his seat, his dark eyes burning as he kicked the corpse aside like a dog.

"Who sent him?" Daenerys whispered, her heart pounding.

Jorah's jaw clenched. "Robert Baratheon."

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The Price of Life

Months later, the Khalasar came upon the ruins of an ancient Rhoynish village.

The Dothraki pillaged without mercy.

But when Daenerys saw one of Drogo's bloodriders holding down a screaming woman, she acted without thinking.

"Stop!" she commanded.

The bloodrider laughed, until she drew her arakh and placed it against his throat.

"She is mine," Daenerys declared, her violet eyes burning.

The bloodrider spat, but he backed away.

The woman, trembling and bruised, looked up.

"Who are you?" Daenerys asked.

"I am Mirri Maz Duur," the woman said. "A healer… and a witch, if the Dothraki are to be believed."

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That night, Drogo fought a duel against the disgraced bloodrider he had exiled.

He won—but not before taking a deep gash across his chest.

"It is nothing," he grunted.

But Daenerys saw the wound fester.

Drogo weakened. The infection spread.

Desperate, Daenerys turned to Mirri Maz Duur.

"Save him," she begged.

The healer's dark eyes studied her carefully.

"There is a price," Mirri whispered.

"Whatever it is, I will pay it."

That night, the tent filled with screams—the chanting of spells, the scent of burning herbs.

When it was over, Drogo still breathed… but Daenerys felt hollow.

Her son was dead.

"Rhaego…" she whispered.

Her womb ached.

"I cannot have more children."

And Drogo lived—but he was not the same man.

He awoke from his coma, looked at her without emotion, and killed the healer with his own hands.

Then he sat in silence.

For weeks, he barely spoke a word to her.

At Rhaego's funeral, Daenerys stood alone, her arms wrapped around herself.

"You are a dragon," she whispered to herself. "Dragons do not weep."

But she had never felt more alone.

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Betrayal in the Dark

One evening, her handmaiden Doreah came to her with a troubled expression.

"The bloodriders whisper, my queen," Doreah said.

"What do they whisper?"

"They say that Khal Drogo will cast you aside. That they will perform the Ritual of the Sun Eclipse, and you will be taken to Vaes Dothrak, never to leave."

A cold chill ran down Daenerys's spine.

She went to Drogo's tent.

He did not rise when she entered.

"Is it true?" she demanded.

Drogo finally looked at her.

"You cannot bear a son."

"And for that, you would throw me away?"

"It is not me," he said. "It is them. My men. They hunger for war, for women. They want to raid Braavos. To take what Aerion Targaryen has stolen from Lys."

"Aerion is my kin."

"Your kin is a usurper."

"You only know him from Viserys's lies."

Drogo's face hardened.

"I have made too many compromises for you, Moon of my Life." His voice was low, almost cold. "Perhaps my bloodriders are right. Perhaps you have made me weak."

Daenerys felt her heart shatter.

"I will not spend the rest of my life in a temple, waiting to die," she spat.

"You have no choice."

"I am a dragon, Drogo." Her violet eyes blazed. "And a dragon is no slave."

She stormed out before he could say another word.

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Escape into the Red Waste

That night, Daenerys packed her things.

She took only what she could carry.

Ser Jorah Mormont was already waiting at the edge of the camp.

"You knew," she said.

He nodded. "I will follow you, wherever you go."

Doreah came as well, loyal to her queen.

They took horses, food, and water.

Under cover of darkness, they rode east—away from Drogo, away from the Khalasar, away from everything she had known.

The Red Waste loomed before them.

A barren wasteland.

A graveyard of the weak.

But Daenerys did not falter.