Amitesh007/got · Datasets at Hugging Face

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greasy. Dany's lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him as
Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last
time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were as one, forever.
She could smell the odor of burning flesh, no different than horseflesh roasting in a firepit. The pyre
roared in the deepening dusk like some great beast, drowning out the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur's
screaming and sending up long tongues of flame to lick at the belly of the night. As the smoke grew
thicker, the Dothraki backed away, coughing. Huge orange gouts of fire unfurled their banners in that
hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking, glowing cinders rising on the smoke to float away into the dark
like so many newborn fireflies. The heat beat at the air with great red wings, driving the Dothraki back,
driving off even Mormont, but Dany stood her ground. She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was
in her.
She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but
the brazier had not been hot
enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and
singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely,
alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she
thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and
children learn.
Another step, and Dany could feel the heat of the sand on the soles of her feet, even through her sandals.
Sweat ran down her thighs and between her breasts and in rivulets over her cheeks, where tears had
once run. Ser Jorah was shouting behind her, but he did not matter anymore, only the fire mattered. The
flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each one a sorcerer robed in yellow and
orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. She saw crimson firelions and great yellow serpents and
unicorns made of pale blue flame; she saw fish and foxes and monsters, wolves and bright birds and
flowering trees, each more beautiful than the last. She saw a horse, a great grey stallion limned in smoke,
its flowing mane a nimbus of blue flame. Yes, my love, my sun-and-stars, yes, mount now, tide now.
Her vest had begun to smolder, so Dany shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground. The painted leather
burst into sudden flame as she skipped closer to the fire, her breasts bare to the blaze, streams of milk
flowing from her red and swollen nipples. Now, she thought, now, and for an instant she glimpsed Khal
Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip
Page 569

snaked down at the pyre, hissing.
She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to
shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash
and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk
of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly
through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder.
Only death can pay for life.
And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around
her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams
of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah
calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear.for me.
The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of
dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that
reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped
forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.
The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.
When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found
her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of
man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful
hair all crisped away . . . yet she was unhurt.
The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms
cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck
coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.
Page 570

Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to
lay his arakh at her feet. "Blood of my blood," he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth.
"Blood of my blood," she heard Aggo echo. "Blood of my blood," Rakharo shouted.
And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children,
and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and
forever, hers as they had never been Drogo's.
As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and
nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings
unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the
music of dragons.
Page 571

greasy. Dany's lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him as

Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last

time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were as one, forever.

She could smell the odor of burning flesh, no different than horseflesh roasting in a firepit. The pyre

roared in the deepening dusk like some great beast, drowning out the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur's

screaming and sending up long tongues of flame to lick at the belly of the night. As the smoke grew

thicker, the Dothraki backed away, coughing. Huge orange gouts of fire unfurled their banners in that

hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking, glowing cinders rising on the smoke to float away into the dark

like so many newborn fireflies. The heat beat at the air with great red wings, driving the Dothraki back,

driving off even Mormont, but Dany stood her ground. She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was

in her.

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but

the brazier had not been hot

enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and

singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely,

alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she

thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and

children learn.

Another step, and Dany could feel the heat of the sand on the soles of her feet, even through her sandals.

Sweat ran down her thighs and between her breasts and in rivulets over her cheeks, where tears had

once run. Ser Jorah was shouting behind her, but he did not matter anymore, only the fire mattered. The

flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each one a sorcerer robed in yellow and

orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. She saw crimson firelions and great yellow serpents and

unicorns made of pale blue flame; she saw fish and foxes and monsters, wolves and bright birds and

flowering trees, each more beautiful than the last. She saw a horse, a great grey stallion limned in smoke,

its flowing mane a nimbus of blue flame. Yes, my love, my sun-and-stars, yes, mount now, tide now.

Her vest had begun to smolder, so Dany shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground. The painted leather

burst into sudden flame as she skipped closer to the fire, her breasts bare to the blaze, streams of milk

flowing from her red and swollen nipples. Now, she thought, now, and for an instant she glimpsed Khal

Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip

Page 569

snaked down at the pyre, hissing.

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to

shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash

and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk

of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly

through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder.

Only death can pay for life.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around

her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams

of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah

calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear.for me.

The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of

dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that

reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped

forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found

her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of

man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful

hair all crisped away . . . yet she was unhurt.

The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms

cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck

coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.

Page 570

Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to

lay his arakh at her feet. "Blood of my blood," he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth.

"Blood of my blood," she heard Aggo echo. "Blood of my blood," Rakharo shouted.

And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children,

and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and

forever, hers as they had never been Drogo's.

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and

nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings

unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the

music of dragons.

Page 571