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THE TREK TOTHE DOTHRAKI CAMP WAS ONE OF DISCOMFORT AND AWKWARDNESS.All around were people of different backgrounds who couldn't speak a word of the common tongue, and many of the Dothraki attempted conversation with Alia, who was feeling particularly aloof.
The truth was, her recent encounter with Viserys had still unnerved her significantly. She could see his haunting lilac eyes as though they were burned into her memory, and she could still feel the intense drumming of his heartbeat against her chest. Even now, when she was perched uncomfortably upon a jittery stallion, she could feel his breath on her neck.
What didn't help matters either was Viserys making his presence very clear. He seemed to take great pleasure in fixing her with a stare that seemed to breed mockery. There was always a sly smirk curling at the corners of lips. Not only that, but no matter what Alia tried, she couldn't get a word out of Daenerys, who would become a bride in just a few hours. It wasn't because the younger girl didn't want to talk to Alia – it was because Khal Drogo, her soon-to-be husband, demanded she ride up front with him (in his own primitive way, of course).
The Khal would grunt at her, and with a toss of his head, would usher Daenerys forward. Alia had been forced to walk alone in silence, following the Dothraki horde and trying not to cry. Truth be told, Illyrio was the root of her sadness since he had carelessly sold her to the Khal. Illyrio was a man she had known and trusted for as long as she could remember, and it broke her heart and shattered her trust, and there was nothing she could do about it.
But when they did reach the Dothraki camp, and Alia realised her sadness was pathetic and selfish, she did begin to feel a bit disappointed. The camp was filled with tents made of horse hide and had a great big fire pit in the centre. Two grand chairs were sat on levelled platforms in front of the makeshift hearth, and several Dothraki were already cooking hearts over smaller burning fires. It stank of rotting meat and horse hair, and was a cacophony of loud drum beats and yelling.
Alia's nose wrinkled involuntarily as she slid off her horse, grasping the reins and tying them to a nearby post, patting the stallion's flank as she walked by. The stench seemed to cling to everything: clothing, hair, skin. But that seemed to be the least of Alia's worries; she was desperately trying to find Daenerys, who proved to be remarkably difficult to spot amongst a crowd of black and copper. But it wasn't a long head of platinum-white hair that Alia caught sight of first.
Instead, it was Viserys, who stood off to the side, brooding and scowling viciously at anything and everything, holding his hands out in front of him and muttering something in a tongue the younger girl couldn't quite recognise. It wasn't until a Dothraki bloodrider knocked into him that Alia noticed he was holding his hands out in pain. She was still afraid of him, that much was certain, but she had practically pledged her service to the Targaryens, and he was the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Alia supported his claim to the throne. He was her king.
