"How can I, a young girl, be a pregnant woman who's been pregnant for ten months and a mother of dragons?"
A 26-year-old graduate of the School of Surgery woke up to find herself in the body of a pregnant 14-year-old girl named Daenerys Targaryen.
Whatever her previous name or identity no longer mattered.
Now, she was the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; the Protector of the Realm; the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; the Breaker of Chains; the Queen of Meereen; the Princess of Dragonstone; the Unburnt; the Mother of Dragons; Mysha; and the Silver Queen.
For now, she had two titles: "Stormborn" and "Khaleesi of Khal Drogo."
It was far too early to call her the "Mother of Dragons." The real concern now was how she would survive after Khal Drogo died.
Drogo was already ill, afflicted with black witchcraft.
With a changed heart and mind, Daenerys touched her heavy belly, shook off her distracting thoughts, and began to assess the new world around her.
The golden sun scorched the earth like a furnace. Before her lay a patchy, poorly maintained field. Half-green, half-yellow rye with thick, long ears ripened, and low-lying soybeans leaned over. Scattered vegetable plots filled with crops and fruits lay about.
A small, silver-maned mare trotted along the path. Occasionally, the crisp crack of crushed bean pods could be heard beneath its hooves.
Dany tilted her head to avoid the blinding sun and whispered, "It's a sin. Harvest time has come, and yet it had to coincide with the Dothraki."
Khal Drogo's khalasar had nearly 50,000 warriors, screaming as they rode. Including their families and slaves, the entire group exceeded 100,000.
The Dothraki were quintessential horse riders. Each member of the tribe owned at least one horse. One hundred thousand people meant over one hundred thousand horses had passed through these lands.
The deep, rumbling sound of hooves seemed to declare with finality that the Lhazareen harvest was over before it began.
Truthfully, the so-called "lamb people"—a term of disdain the Dothraki used for the Lhazareen—were too terrified to consider their own harvest. Faced with the most feared horse lord of the grasslands, thoughts of survival outweighed thoughts of grain.
Turning her head, Dany once again spotted a dilapidated farmhouse. Anxious residents peeked out from behind plastered walls. Their almond-shaped eyes, similar to those of the Dothraki, brimmed with terror and suppressed hatred.
South of the Dothraki Sea, along the southern banks of the Lhazareen River, lived a small, weak people.
They had bronze skin and almond eyes, which bore some resemblance to the Dothraki. Compared to the tall, fierce horse-lords, however, the farming Lhazareen were shorter, flatter-faced, and gentler—almost timid.
Tap, tap, tap—
Hoofbeats echoed from behind. Dany brushed her long, silver hair behind her ear and turned to see seven or eight riders emerging from behind her.
They had thick, long black braids. The Dothraki didn't wear tattoos on their foreheads, but their braids were adorned with jingling victory bells that chimed with every movement.
Flipping through her inherited memories, Dany recognized them: Drogo's bloodriders—Cohlro, Haggo, and Qotho. The others must be Drogo's ko: Jhaqo and Bonzo.
They ignored her as they passed and rode up to Drogo at the front. Jhaqo pointed to a stone-walled manor and asked, "Khal, there's a gathering of lamb people up ahead. Should we go and slaughter them?"
They had come to invite Drogo to the "hunt."
The Dothraki were nomads. They had no industry, craftsmanship, or manufacturing. They stole everything they needed. Generations of plundering had bred the most savage and violent instincts.
Drogo's head swam and his thoughts were muddled. He looked up, barely recognizing Jhaqo, and mumbled hoarsely, "Fine. I—"
Dany felt a pang of bitterness. According to the story, her worthless husband was about to die—and she had just transmigrated into this world.
She didn't feel sentimental about this man she barely knew. The real problem was the barbaric customs of the Dothraki people.
The title of khal wasn't passed down by blood; it was earned through strength. Fights for succession were always bloody. Once a khal died, his khaleesi was sent to live in Dosh Khaleen as a crone. What about her unborn child? It was likely to be killed by the next khal.
"Can't you see the khal is sick?"
Dany urged her mare forward a few paces, ignoring the cold looks from the bloodriders and ko. "There are only small villages nearby. It's not worth attacking. At the very least, the khal shouldn't have to take action himself."
Haggo, tall and grim-faced, glared at her. "Khaleesi, you have no right to speak here—"
Snap!
Dany lashed her whip through the air. It cracked loudly, but her movements were slow, and her belly was heavy. Haggo leaned back in his saddle and easily avoided it.
"You dare strike me?"
With a flash, he drew his arakh and glared at her with bloodshot eyes.
Dany met his gaze unflinchingly and spoke in fluent Dothraki, "I am Khaleesi of Khal Drogo, of the noble Targaryen bloodline. How dare you draw your sword on me?"
She wasn't being reckless. Her instincts told her that the Dothraki respected strength. The bolder and fiercer one acted, the more they were treated as equals.
Cowards and weaklings weren't considered human. Look at Viserys or the Lhazareen, for example—they were scorned and called lambs.
Of course, boldness didn't mean foolishness. Haggo wouldn't dare harm her in front of Drogo, especially since she was carrying the khal's child.
Besides, she wasn't alone.
Moments later, her guards rode up.
Ser Jorah Mormont, the old bear, rode swiftly to her side and drew his sword, glaring seriously.
Behind Dany, her small khalasar raised their bows, coldly aiming at Haggo.
Drogo's khalasar was vast and made up of many smaller khas. As Khaleesi, Dany had her own khas, though it was small at barely two hundred strong. They were tasked with protecting her and serving her daily needs.
Cohlro, gray-haired and bearing twisted scars across his face, glanced coldly at her. "Put your weapon away, Haggo. You ride in the name of my blood. Remember—bring back the most heads."
Drogo was thirty. Haggo and Qotho were about the same age. Only Cohlro was older, over fifty years old yet still as strong as a young warrior.
Years ago, when Drogo's enemies had kidnapped him as a child, Cohlro had risked his life to rescue him. He was like a second father to Drogo.
As the leader of Drogo's khas, Cohlro held the highest prestige among the bloodriders.
Hearing Cohlro's command, Haggo's face flushed. He spat angrily, turned his horse, and rode off.
Qotho and the other ko gave Daenerys wolfish stares, then followed.
Once the cries of the warhorses faded, Cohlro said quietly, "The khal must lead his warriors into battle and be the first to scale the walls of the lamb people. It's his duty. His glory."
Daenerys was deeply grateful. She understood that Cohlro was explaining the customs to her.
Of Drogo's three bloodriders, only Cohlro treated her as a true wife. The others saw her as nothing more than a noble womb that Drogo had purchased from Illyrio.
Being Princess of Dragonstone or Stormborn meant nothing to the Dothraki.
"I worry for the khal's health," she said with a stiff smile.
Cohlro raised his hand, cutting her off. "You should worry that the warriors will begin looting without his command. Though your concern changes nothing."
Dany watched him ride away, her heart heavy.
Soon, the cries of the warriors and the screams of the lamb people echoed in her ears, mingling with the smell of blood and fire.
She stood atop the hill. Wild grass brushed against her horsehair leggings, tickling her calves like a newborn's tongue.
Looking around, she saw smoke spiraling from the Lhazareen manors—columns rising like fingers into the sky.
Daenerys held her swollen belly and sadly closed her eyes. She tried not to imagine how many other pregnant women would be slaughtered today or how many children and wives would be dragged away as slaves by the khal's warriors.
"This world is cruel."
Below, her small khalasar was busy at work. Some flattened the hilltop to set up stakes and tents. Others unloaded large wooden boxes of blankets and belongings for Drogo and Dany from carts.
The khal's tent would be erected at the center of the khalasar on the hill Dany had chosen. Around it, yurts sprouted like mushrooms after rain, covering the field.
The Dothraki refused to live in earthen or stony dwellings. They preferred their tents.
Seeing over one hundred thousand people working together filled Dany with vitality. Since her arrival in this world, she had felt nothing but depression. Now, at last, a faint interest flickered inside her.
"Ser Jorah, walk with me."
Jorah Mormont, nicknamed the "Big Bear," was a Northman from Westeros. He was the son of the former Lord of Bear Island, a commander of the Night's Watch on the Wall, and the uncle of the girl from Game of Thrones who was called "the Little Bear."
He had been condemned to death by the Warden of the North, Eddard Stark, for dealing in slavery and had fled across the Narrow Sea to the continent of Essos.
When Daenerys married Drogo, Jorah swore allegiance to Viserys.
However, after Drogo gave Viserys a "golden crown" (made of molten gold), Jorah became Daenerys's sworn knight.
When he first joined Drogo's khalasar, Jorah wore the traditional armor of Westeros knights: wool garments with padded linings and leather and plate mail armor.
After living in the grasslands for nearly a year, however, he began adapting to the ways of the Dothraki—wearing leather sandals, bristle leggings, sleeveless painted leather vests, and bronze medallion belts.
"Khaleesi, aren't you going to check on Drogo's condition?"
Jorah asked as he walked beside Dany's silver mare, followed by four young Dothraki warriors.
"There are more than a dozen eunuchs and barren women surrounding him. It's too crowded. I'll check again after they leave."
In the khalasar, the practitioners of medicine were infertile women and slave eunuchs. The women used herbs and spells to treat illness, while the eunuchs used sharp blades, needles, and fire. The Dothraki called them all "hairless people."
Within the endless sea of tents, slaves and women carried firewood; animals wailed as they were slaughtered; people fetched water from rivers and wells in wooden buckets; and others took up grindstones to sharpen the warriors' arakhs. Long-haired Dothraki gave orders while barefoot children ran and played. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, horse dung, blood, and roasting meat. These odors assaulted Dany's nose.
As they passed one yurt in an open clearing where firewood had been stacked, a large group of knights surrounded a dozen naked women and laughed and roughhoused openly. Even when they saw Daenerys atop her silver horse, they made no attempt to hide what they were doing.
Drogo's khalasar was made up of more than just bronze-skinned Dothraki. There were warriors and slaves of many kinds: there were white people like Dany; milk-skinned people even paler; red-skinned eunuchs; black men from the Summer Islands; and black-skinned people from Asshai in the Shadow Lands. With her limited memory, Dany could hardly tell them apart.
Even among the Dothraki, not all were exactly the same.
The Dothraki rampaged freely across Essos, capturing slaves from countless nations. They had no concept of marriage and followed their instincts and desires. Their bloodlines had long since mixed.
The only feature common to all Dothraki was their almond-shaped eyes.
"Khaleesi, you seem... different. What happened?"
Jorah had sensed that something was off since the afternoon. Seeing Dany refrain from stopping the Dothraki from raping Lhazareen women—something she would have once done—only deepened his suspicion.
The original Daenerys had been kind. The first time she witnessed Dothraki warriors seizing women, she intervened forcefully, moved by compassion. She even suggested that the warriors marry the women.
But that went against Dothraki traditions.
Dothraki warriors had the right to do as they pleased with the slaves they had taken. They could rape, kill, or sell them—it was their right. Not even the khal could interfere lightly.
In fact, ordinary Dothraki didn't believe in marriage. A khal taking a wife was an exception.
"I know what you're thinking, but without Drogo's support, who would listen to me if I tried to stop them?" Daenerys lowered her gaze.
Jorah was the Mother of Dragons' most foolishly loyal knight. His perception was sharp. Since her arrival that afternoon, she had been speaking less and observing more, trying to imitate the original Dany's behavior.
"Khaleesi, if you give the command, I'll kill them." The young Dothraki warrior Aggo shouted, longbow in hand.
Drogo truly loved his wife. Though the khalasar he assigned to Daenerys was small, it included many outstanding young warriors: Aggo, Qorelle, Jhogo, and Rakharo all had the potential to become bloodriders one day.
Bloodriders were chosen from among tens of thousands and were comparable to the commanders of ten thousand in Genghis Khan's army.
Ser Jorah's eyes narrowed. "That's someone else's khas. If you dare lay a hand on them, you'll die."
He knew the Dothraki's temperament. If they said they'd do something, they'd do it without hesitation.
"I'm not afraid of death!" Aggo declared, his eyes wide with resolve.
"We're not afraid of death!" the other warriors roared in unison.
"It could start a riot, and Khaleesi might get hurt," Jorah warned, pointing to Dany's swollen belly.
That line made things awkward. Dany looked around, then suddenly raised her whip and pointed at a fat black man. "You, stop."
The man appeared to be in his forties. Sweat beaded on his round, bald head. He smiled obsequiously and asked, "Khaleesi, what do you command?"
"Quack, quack—"
A large white goose flapped its wings frantically, trapped between the man's thick fingers. It pecked at his arm with its yellow beak.
"I want that goose," Dany said.
The Dothraki mainly ate horse meat, believing it to be the finest food in the world. But with her inherited memories, Daenerys now felt nauseated at the thought of it.
Part of her reason for wanting the goose was to change the subject. Part of it was to improve her meals.
Sweat dripped faster from the fat black man's scalp. He gave her a pleading look and hesitated. "Khaleesi, I am the chef of Lord Jhaqo. Lady Lilith cannot stomach horse meat. I only found a few geese at the lamb people's manor this afternoon. I truly cannot give them away without permission!"
Crack!
"Aaagh!"
Aggo struck him without hesitation; the whip cut a centipede-shaped welt across the chef's cheek. "Bastard! Not even Jhaqo himself can refuse Khaleesi's orders!"
The fat cook crouched down and cried, covering his face. The white goose in his hands broke free and ran off, quacking loudly. He was in no state to respond.
The whole thing had happened too fast. Dany had only just spoken, and the whip had already landed. She hadn't had time to stop it.
"Who dares steal my goose?!" an angry voice shouted from the nearby sky-blue tent.