Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As if you were on fire from within, the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
"Do the Dothraki buy their slaves?" Daenerys Targaryen asked the man beside her, an ever-growing curiosity shining deep within her violet eyes.
"The Dothraki don't believe in money. Most of their slaves were given to them as gifts," Jorah Mormont answered her, firmly gripping the reigns of his horse.
"From whom?" She pressed as the heat of the climate scorched her skin. She didn't mind it, the heat felt like a sigh of relief.
"If you rule a city and you see the horde approaching, you have two choices: pay tribute or fight. 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." Jorah explained to the girl as naturally as possible.
Just then, Daenerys watched as a Dothraki rider whipped a slave for not moving fast enough. She felt her blood boil at the sight, the slave flinching at the whiplash and whimpering out in pain. She looked to Jorah, "tell them all to stop."
Jorah gave her a confused expression, "you want the horde to stop? For how long?"
She held his gaze, her eyes burning a brighter shade of purple. "Until I command them otherwise," she said in a strict tone.
Jorah's lips curved upward into a small smile of approval, "you're learning to talk like a Queen."
Daenerys shook her head at the statement, "Not a Queen. A Khaleesi." She jumped off of her horse and walked through the tall grass, hearing a commotion behind her and then feet stomping through the underbrush.
Suddenly, Viserys' horse galloped into the clearing, Viserys with an irritated look on his face and his sword raised in the air as a threat. "You dare! You give commands to me? To me? You do not command the dragon. I am Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. I don't take orders from savages or their sluts. Do you hear me?" He shouted at Daenerys, his sword poised at her throat.
She stood tall, unwavering as she glared at her brother. Luckily, Rakharo, a Dothraki man, came up from behind Viserys and wrapped his whip around his neck, throwing Viserys onto his back. Daenerys stood shocked at the action, her brother clutching his throat out of pain. Rakharo said something in Dothraki, which another man named Irri, translated for her.
"Rakharo ask if you want him dead, Khaleesi," Irri told her.
