In accordance with the ancient traditions of the Dothraki, the wedding of Khal Drogo and Princess Daenerys Targaryen was held beneath the open sky, upon the vast grasslands that sprawled beyond the walls of Pentos.
Daenerys felt fear coil within her like a serpent.
The Dothraki believed that all momentous events in life must be witnessed by the heavens above—including the joining of man and woman in marriage, and the consummation that would follow. Nothing hidden from the stars, nothing concealed from the sky.
How could it be like this? she thought, her heart fluttering like a caged bird.
Fear permeated her very being. Fear of this wedding arranged without once seeking her consent; fear of the bronze-skinned warrior who sat beside her, speaking a harsh tongue she could not comprehend, who had scarcely deigned to look upon her face; fear of what she would be forced to endure beneath the vast canopy of stars once darkness fell.
Confusion, terror, and uncertainty enveloped her like a shroud.
She was, after all, merely a girl of thirteen namedays.
This savage spectacle bore no resemblance to the wedding she had imagined in her girlhood dreams.
More than forty thousand barbaric "guests" reveled in drunken abandon below the dais, their alien customs bewildering to her Westerosi sensibilities. Women, children, slaves, and countless animals surrounded this temporary palace of woven grass and leather.
She gazed out upon the gathering and saw only strange, foreign faces—men and women with copper skin and almond eyes, their chests often bare beneath vests of painted horsehair and bronze medallions. They tore at roasted horseflesh with their teeth and drank fermented mare's milk from bladders and horns, spilling as much as they swallowed.
The assemblage gorged itself upon the bounty of the grasslands, quick to shove and quicker still to draw steel at the slightest provocation.
Amidst the cacophony, Daenerys had never felt more alone.
Though Khal Drogo laughed and shouted from his place of honor upon the high platform, his attention was fixed not upon his bride but upon his bloodriders carousing below. No one addressed her, as though she were a ghost at her own wedding feast.
She looked down to where Magister Illyrio and her brother sat at a lower table, close enough that she could see Viserys's face darkening with each passing moment, yet too distant for her to exchange even a whispered word.
Beside her brother sat Ser Jorah Mormont, his expression even more solemn than usual. Did he, too, find this spectacle distasteful?
The drums thundered with savage rhythm as bare-breasted women performed wild, sinuous dances before the Khal's dais. Daenerys quickly averted her gaze, willing herself to ignore the display.
A Dothraki warrior approached one of the dancers, then another, until two men seized the same woman between them. Strange, guttural challenges erupted from their throats.
In the space of a heartbeat, curved arakhs gleamed in the fading sunlight, their blades flashing like lightning as they cut through the gathering dusk.
These scythe-like weapons hung at the hip of every Dothraki warrior; Daenerys had seen hundreds since the morning sun had risen.
Now she would witness their deadly purpose.
After several breathless moments of flashing steel and harsh battle cries, one arakh described a perfect arc, slashing across a man's waist with terrible precision. Spine and abdomen parted, the body nearly severed in twain. The defeated warrior crumpled to the ground, his entrails spilling forth in a grotesque tide of crimson and green, quickly covered by the dust of the trampled earth.
Not a single voice called for the bloodshed to cease.
Magister Illyrio had warned her in his unctuous tones: "A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair."
Daenerys sensed that before the sun rose again, many more than three would have joined the night lands.
Slaves carried away the corpse with practiced efficiency, while the victor casually pulled the dancer who had been the cause of the dispute into his lap, his bloodied hands already exploring her body. The wedding festivities continued without pause, as though nothing of note had occurred.
Servants approached the high dais bearing platters of exotic delicacies. Khal Drogo and his princess were offered the first choice of each dish before the platters made their way to Magister Illyrio and Viserys below.
With each round of food that arrived, Viserys's self-regard suffered another blow. He did not consider Khal Drogo his superior in rank, let alone his sister who sat above him on the dais.
"Your Grace, I pray you be at ease," Alyn murmured, presenting a platter to the exiled prince. "This is merely a courtesy extended to the principals of the wedding feast. The Khal understands full well how exalted your station truly is."
Alyn sought to prevent the Beggar King's wounded pride from disrupting the wedding. His carefully laid plans required more time to unfold.
Viserys seized upon this explanation eagerly. "I knew as much," he declared. "Drogo is not without sense. I am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms—of course he comprehends the proper order of precedence."
His thin lips curled in a sneer. "For the sake of my sister's wedding, I shall overlook the impropriety... this once."
Alyn nodded in silent agreement, privately relieved that the prince's words had not carried to the high dais, and that Khal Drogo had no understanding of the Common Tongue.
Unlike the princess, Alyn found much to appreciate in the day's proceedings.
The chaotic arrangements sprawling across the grassland, the palace woven of grass, the simple wooden dais, the various wedding customs, the guests permitted to bear steel openly—even the casual deaths—all suited his purposes admirably.
Drogo's khalasar was vast beyond reckoning.
Forty thousand warriors and countless women, children, and slaves had gathered upon this plain. The logistical challenges of feeding and managing such a horde were immense.
Drogo could not personally oversee every aspect of his realm. He relied upon lieutenants known as kos to command the various khās that comprised his khalasār.
With the Khal at the apex and his kos as the pillars of his authority, the power wielded by his forty thousand mounted warriors was sufficient to make the city of Pentos tremble behind its walls.
The magisters had doubled the city's defenses in response to the Dothraki presence. Yet none would wager that such preparations would prove adequate should Drogo turn his horde against the city.
Pentos was widely acknowledged as the weakest of the Free Cities. The peace treaty imposed by Braavos stipulated that the Pentoshi could maintain no more than twenty warships, hire no sellswords, contract with no free companies, and field no army beyond the city watch.
What use were high walls when those within lacked the means to defend them?
Alyn silently thanked the Crown Prince for his counsel. The substantial disparities and tensions between the Dothraki and Pentos presented an opportunity he intended to exploit.
The feast had reached its zenith.
Alyn and Ser Jorah Mormont exchanged a meaningful glance before slipping away from the throng.
Jorah found himself wrestling with mounting concern.
In the span of mere days, the exiled knight had expended more energy than in the previous several years combined.
Varys the Spider had tasked him only with observing the Targaryen siblings and passing along whatever intelligence he gleaned. The eunuch had never requested that he take direct action.
It had been an arrangement of mutual benefit, but Jorah now suspected the Spider's influence at court might soon wane. The power of the Iron Throne itself seemed the wiser wager.
Alyn posed a far more complex challenge. The Crown Prince's man had demanded that Jorah act as intermediary, that he participate in killing, that he serve as protector.
The knight's gaze drifted to the kos seated across the gathering. Bono, Jhaqo—these lieutenants had not directly moved against Alyn, but did Drogo know of their whispered plots?
Jorah's hand strayed to the hilt of his longsword. Let there be less bloodshed this night, he thought grimly. And let none of it be mine.
The sun sank toward the western horizon, painting the grasslands in hues of gold and crimson.
Khal Drogo rose to his feet and clapped his massive hands together. Instantly, the drums fell silent, the shouts died away, and the raucous feasting noises ceased as though cut by a knife.
Drogo extended his hand to Daenerys, helping her to her feet. The ceremony of presenting the bride price was about to commence.
Viserys approached the dais, leading three young women by leather cords bound around their wrists.
Two were Dothraki with copper skin, almond eyes, and hair as black as midnight. The third was a Lyseni girl with hair like spun gold and eyes as blue as a summer sea.
"Good sister," Viserys began, his voice carrying a note of triumph, "these are no ordinary slaves."
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