Daenerys Targaryen found, to her surprise, that her memory of Westeros had grown strangely distant, like a dream half-remembered upon waking. The lands of her birthright, never seen with her own eyes, had become shrouded in fog.
Her gaze lingered on the map as the scroll unfurled before her. The familiar names emerged one by one: first the North with its ancient forests and snow-capped mountains, then the verdant Riverlands cross-crossed by blue veins of water, the towering peaks of the Vale, the storm-wracked Iron Islands, the golden Westerlands, the fertile Crownlands, the fierce Stormlands, and the bountiful Reach.
And finally, Dorne, with its red mountains and endless sands.
She expected the scroll to continue, perhaps to show the Summer Sea that separated her from her homeland, but she realized her error as the rod rolled to its end.
Upon the final section of parchment lay a gleam of silver, cold and unsettling as winter moonlight. She blinked once, and in that heartbeat, a large hand moved with such speed it left ghostly traces in the air, snatching away the silver light and removing it entirely from her sight.
In less than the span of a breath, the agonized, rage-filled cry of the man beside her jolted her back to the present moment.
She raised her head, her mind still fogged with confusion.
A dagger protruded from Khal Drogo's broad chest, its hilt adorned with silver filigree that caught the light of the braziers.
Ser Jorah Mormont was locked in desperate combat with the dying Khal, his longsword ringing against the wicked curved edge of the arakh that flashed like a sliver of moon.
The feast erupted into chaos. Tables crashed over, benches were kicked aside, and the metallic scrape of steel leaving scabbards filled the air. Curses in a dozen tongues mingled with screams of terror and frantic pleas for mercy. It sounded like the ending of the world itself.
Daenerys knelt weakly upon the platform, watching with wide violet eyes as madness unfolded around her. The quicker among the guests scrambled away from the dais that was swiftly transforming into a vision of the seven hells.
Three bloodriders and a dozen Dothraki warriors surged toward their fallen Khal with murder in their eyes.
In the confusion, Alyn snatched the sword from Viserys's belt and made straight for Magister Illyrio, who stood frozen in shock nearby, suddenly bereft of his customary guards.
"No—" was all the fat magister managed before the sharp steel pierced his throat. Aerys withdrew the blade with a savage twist.
Illyrio collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing in death's embrace. Bloody froth choked his final words, forcing a wet, gurgling cough from his lips before the tearing sound of his last breath faded into silence.
Alyn laughed with wild abandon, his eyes alight with feverish triumph.
The Dothraki turned toward the sound, their gazes fierce and hungry for blood.
Alyn hastily dropped the crimson-stained sword and dragged the hysterically screaming Beggar King toward Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo.
"Khal Bono, Khal Jhaqo," he spoke in carefully memorized Dothraki, "will you not claim countless gold, wine, and slaves? The moment is now or never! We still need the city gates!"
Bono and Jhaqo exchanged impassive glances, unmoved by his urgency.
Alyn felt true panic rising within him. At any moment, Jorah Mormont might be hewn into pieces by the arakh of a dying man with nothing to lose.
Suddenly, a frenzied, grief-stricken wail pierced the air from the direction of the fallen Khal.
Alyn struggled to contain the surge of dark joy that threatened to bloom across his face. Drogo is dead?
Bono and Jhaqo exchanged knowing glances.
Two days past, the iron-clad Andal had brought this small man before them, and he had shared a plan sweet as summer wine.
Drogo was dead.
Drogo had no sons. After him, who would claim this khalasar?
Any khal might seek to take it, but more likely the khalasar would splinter, with khals taking their khas to form new, smaller khalasars.
But what if one or two khals could avenge their fallen leader, rewarding every warrior with gold and slaves beyond counting?
More and more Dothraki were drawn to the platform's edge by the spreading chaos.
They witnessed the blood-soaked scene—the fallen bloodriders, the Andal knight still fighting, corpses strewn like autumn leaves.
Their eyes turned to their khals for direction.
Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo recognized many of their own khas among the gathered warriors.
The two exchanged another meaningful glance, each understanding the other's intent without words.
Two arakhs flashed like twin crescents of death, sweeping toward the remaining witnesses on the platform. Seven or eight lives were severed in the span of a few heartbeats.
Khal Bono raised his blood-slick arms and bellowed, "The Pentoshi magisters conspired with the bloodriders and these outlanders to murder Khal Drogo! Avenge your Khal! Slaughter these grass-eating scum!"
Khal Jhaqo's voice joined his, "Quickly, protect the iron-clad man!"
Their two khas were the strongest, and through careful arrangement, the two khals' men comprised more than half the crowd gathered at the feast.
The warriors obeyed without hesitation, howling their battle cries as they joined the slaughter, immediately gaining overwhelming advantage through numbers and surprise.
Someone tried to speak the truth of Khal Drogo's death, but the words died in their throat as more and more arakhs flashed through the air, their distinctive whistling drowning out all protests.
What followed was a bloody purge, swift and merciless as winter.
Finally, Alyn, who had been waiting with bated breath, slumped to the ground in relief. It seemed he would not join the dead this day.
The battle ended as quickly as it had begun.
Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo led their warriors away from the blood-soaked feast grounds, moving with purpose toward new prey.
The area near the platform grew eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the soft gurgling of the dying.
Jorah, his armor spattered with blood, stood before Alyn, leaning heavily on his sword. "Drogo was indeed a warrior worthy of respect," he admitted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Perhaps much stronger than me."
Alyn smiled thinly. "Then how is it you stand here while he does not?"
Jorah's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "He was injured first, and he lacked this armor that only cowards would wear," he tapped his breastplate, "and it was close-quarters infantry combat. The Dothraki are still better fighters on horseback than on foot. It would be strange indeed if I were the one lying dead."
Alyn pretended not to notice the bloody gashes that marked Jorah's exposed flesh. In truth, he understood that such wounds were mere scratches in the chaos of melee combat, badges of honor rather than signs of defeat.
He surveyed the scene around them.
The Beggar King cowered nearby, muttering incoherently to himself. Daenerys remained on her knees, still as a statue carved from pale marble.
He rose and approached the princess. "Your Highness," he said with a bow that mocked courtesy, "Alyn is honored to inform you that we will soon be returning to King's Landing. The Crown Prince awaits your arrival."
Daenerys turned her head with painful slowness, regarding with horror this servant she had never fully trusted.
Ser Jorah moved to reassure her. "Your Highness, there is no cause for fear. So long as you offer no resistance, no harm will come to you—not from us, nor from His Grace the King, nor from the Crown Prince."
Daenerys understood with sickening clarity that the "Grace" of whom he spoke was the Usurper, not her brother.
She curled into herself like a wounded animal with nowhere left to flee.
Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo, having dispersed to eliminate any remaining "outsiders," returned with two groups of mounted warriors at their backs.
The harsh sounds of Dothraki filled the air.
Jorah translated for Aerys. "They demand you fulfill your promise—open the gates of Pentos and allow them to avenge their Khal."
Alyn sighed with feigned sadness. "The magisters were too rash. How could they assassinate the Khal merely because they feared his power? A pity that now the beautiful Pentos must endure the Dothraki's wrath."
"Tell them they may depart now."
The sun had fully surrendered to night by then.
Pentos remained oblivious to the approaching storm. The grasslands beyond the walls were neither so near nor so far that the commotion would seem unusual—after all, would mounted barbarians truly attack a walled city under cover of darkness?
With such comforting thoughts, coupled with the fact that the city gates had long been undermanned, the guards who were paid to protect Pentos enjoyed their evening meal, unaware of the sharp blades waiting in the shadows.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats grew louder.
A lone figure rode slowly toward the city gate. The waiting mercenaries recognized the signal.
The guards who sat together breaking bread were utterly unprepared. Nearly half were killed or wounded in the first clash of steel. The remaining guards and scattered civilians in the distance could offer no timely aid.
Yet before the mercenaries could secure the gate—
Rumble...
The ground trembled violently beneath their feet, and a low, oppressive thunder rolled from beyond the walls, punctuated by faint cheers and savage howls.
The charge of forty thousand Dothraki screamers.
Jorah led the Dragon siblings through the city gate first. After joining with Alyn, they spurred their mounts faster and faster, galloping wildly toward the western harbor.
Mere heartbeats later, countless Dothraki horsemen poured through the breached gate like a tide of death.
The mercenaries who had harbored illusions of control and the few guards still resisting were trampled into bloody mud beneath countless hooves.
The Dothraki swept into Pentos like a storm of steel and flesh.
Amidst the crimson tableau stood Khal Jhaqo—no, Khal Jhaqo now in truth.
He proclaimed in a voice like thunder, "The Pentoshi people used gifts to purchase the great khalasar's mercy, but now they have shattered the sacred oath and murdered Khal Drogo through treachery! Unforgivable!"
He raised his bloodied arakh high above his head, the curved blade catching the light of the first fires. "As punishment, take your fill of blood and plunder! Warriors!"
The answering roar of the Dothraki horde shook the very stones of Pentos. Their bloodlust and greed were fully awakened. They would avenge their Khal!
No blade would taste its scabbard this night.
Everything that lived was prey to be hunted.
Fortunately, Alyn and his companions had already reached the ship waiting in the harbor. A moment later, and Alyn would not have known whether the Dothraki arakhs would recognize friend from foe in their frenzy.
The ship had already weighed anchor.
Alyn and Jorah stood upon the deck, watching as Pentos grew brighter and brighter with spreading flames.
That was the firelight of death, painting the night sky red as a Targaryen banner.
Alyn felt both exhilaration and unease mingling in his breast. The mission was complete, but would Her Highness forgive him for the blood night of Pentos?
Disordered footsteps approached from behind.
The captain and a dozen sailors appeared, clutching drawn swords. "Alyn," the captain said, his voice flat, "you know I am Pentoshi born."
Aerys positioned himself behind Jorah's armored bulk. "Your family is not in the city, are they? What do you intend?"
The burly captain spoke slowly, each word deliberate as a knife thrust.
"More coin."
How much coin? Aerys did not know, but he would soon discover the price of betrayal.
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