Sacrifice | Daenerys Targaryen

-3-

The Dothraki trek continues onward, their nomadic existence unfurling like a vast tapestry across the sprawling landscape. As the first rays of sunlight pierce through the morning mist, the camp awakens from its slumber, a bustling hive of activity. Tents are dismantled and folded with practiced efficiency, supplies are gathered and secured, and horses are saddled and prepared for the day's journey. The Great Khal, a towering figure of strength and authority, takes his place at the head of the procession, his gaze fixed upon the horizon as he guides his people with unwavering determination.

The Khaleesi rides her stallion with Ser Jorah riding dutifully by her side, his eyes scanning the surroundings with an ever-watchful gaze. And there, nestled in the front of Lyla's saddle, lies Aera, her small form cocooned in warmth and protection, the embodiment of innocence amidst a world rife with uncertainty.

As the horses set forth, their hooves creating a rhythmic symphony against the earth, a sense of camaraderie and purpose permeates the air. The dirt road stretches ahead, flanked on either side by towering trees swaying in unison with the wind. The lush foliage embraces the travelers, their vibrant shades of green providing a soothing contrast to the arid lands they have traversed.

Lyla, her grip on the reins steady, finds solace in the gentle sway of her mount beneath her. She casts a sideways glance towards Daenerys, her heart filled with a mixture of admiration and gratitude.

"Do the Dothraki buy their slaves?" Daenerys inquires, her voice laced with genuine interest.

"The Dothraki don't believe in money," Jorah explains. "Most of their slaves were given to them as gifts."

Daenerys furrows her brow, intrigued.

"From whom?" She presses, her thirst for understanding burning bright.

Jorah's gaze meets hers, his eyes reflecting a solemn truth.

"If you rule a city and you see the horde approaching, you have two choices: pay tribute or fight," He begins, "An easy choice for most. Of course, sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes a Khal feels insulted by the number of slaves he's given. He might think the men too weak or the women too ugly. Sometimes a Khal decides his riders haven't had a good fight in months and need the practice."

The weight of this information settles upon Daenerys' shoulders, her heart heavy with the weight of the suffering she witnesses. Her gaze remains steady as Lyla and her child sit in a puddle of exhaustion.

"Tell them all to stop," She declares.

Jorah's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"You want the entire horde to stop?" He questions, a hint of disbelief coloring his tone, "For how long?"

Daenerys stands tall, her resolve unwavering.

"Until I command them otherwise," She asserts, her eyes ablaze with conviction.

A moment of silence hangs in the air as Jorah regards the transformation unfolding before him.

"You're learning to talk like a Queen."

"Not a Queen. A Khaleesi."

The entire horde does indeed come to a halt for their Khaleesi. The outsider is now one of their rulers, whether like like it or not.

From her horse to the ground she goes, eyes meeting with Lyla's, where she extends her hands to help the child down from the saddle. Aera is still dreary, and nearly fall's into her aunt's shoulders as Lyla climbs down from atop the horse.

" Follow me," Daenerys offers with a gentle smile.

The Khaleesi holds the child's hand, guiding both the child and her mother into a clearing so that they both may rest.