Chapter Text
It was hot and dusty. Again. Even hotter and dustier than usual, if that was possible, and Dany was tired. She had been up late the night before, anxiously tossing and sighing while Daario slept like the dead at her side. Today she was irritated—at Daario, at the dry, choking heat, at Hizdahr for being late that morning, at the whole of Meereen for craving such juvenile sport. She sighed in exasperation as she stepped delicately along the path toward the grand arena, holding up her dress as she went. It was purest white—perhaps a foolish choice in retrospect—but she had to admit that it was striking. A statement of her position: unblemished, regal, untouchable by her enemies and the very earth itself. Even so, it was a headache to keep clean.
Hearing her sigh, Tyrion glanced up as he walked along beside her. He looked smart in a new doublet bearing the Targaryen sigil across his chest. He was in high spirits and had already been at his wine cup despite the early hour. “You’re doing the right thing, you know,” he offered.
Dany scoffed. “Has Daario been skulking off to your bedchamber to seduce you into praise of the fighting pits as well? I thought it was only me he harassed so.”
Tyrion snorted with amusement. “No, Your Grace. I’ve quite the reputation back home as a rapacious lecher, but my appetites don’t extend that far.”
The dwarf’s sense of humor was a welcome diversion on this tiresome errand. Dany smiled at him faintly as she mounted the steps to her place of honor in a prime section of the fighting pits. Missandei sat to her left, gracefully curtseying to Dany. Tyrion took a seat to her right, leaving an empty chair between them for Hizdahr.
The former master was meant to join Dany outside her quarters, to escort her to the arena, but he had not arrived at his appointed time. It didn’t sit well with her. The man was meticulous and discerning. It wasn’t like him to miss an appointment. She didn’t necessarily suspect treachery, not after the fright she’d given him with Viserion and Rhaegal before. Still, no one here seemed entirely trustworthy.
Dany was so weary of trying to judge friend from foe. How long had it been since she had felt secure, since she had felt trust in the people closest to her? Unwillingly, her mind wandered to Jorah, thoughts that had once filled her heart with warmth and security. Now her mind was clouded with anger and shame. How had his true character slipped by her notice for so long?
“Your gallant future king has decided to grace us with his presence.” Daario’s voice, sharp with resentment, yanked her from her reverie. Dany did not turn to look at him over her shoulder but she could feel Daario bristling behind her as Hizdahr arrived in a sweep of robes, the scent of perfumed oils following him.
He bowed slightly before taking his seat at her right hand. He was resplendent in cloth-of-gold, looking every bit the part of the queen’s betrothed. It made Dany’s stomach turn to think of their engagement, but she knew that his alliance would help to quell the unrest in the city. Even so, she glared daggers at him as he sat, apprehensive at the reason for his absence.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice level.
“Just making sure everything is in order,” Hizdahr replied, smiling out at the crowd as four horseman cantered into the pit for the opening ceremony. They threw up even more dust as they circled in the center of the arena and the crowd roared out their approval. The blow of horns heralded their arrival, and enormous drums beat out a frantic beat. Dany saw for the first time how invested the Meereenese people were in this tradition, barbaric as it may be. To rule well she needed to know her subjects, even if she didn’t always like what she learned. She took a deep, calming breath as the din of the music thumped in her belly.
When the cloud that had been stirred up by the horses’ hooves settled, she saw a grinning announcer robed all in blue and gold standing in the pit. He raised an arm and, gradually, the crowd quieted. “Free citizens of Meereen!” he called, his voice clear and commanding even in the large, open space.
“By the blessings of the Graces, and her majesty the Queen,” he nodded deferentially to Dany. “Welcome to the Great Games!”
The crowd erupted with cheers and the gates lifted to allow two fighters to file in alongside the announcer. “My queen, our first contest. Who will triumph? The strong?” the announcer boomed, indicating an enormous, heavily-muscled man. He had close-cropped hair and scant armor, and wielded an enormous greatsword. “Or the quick?” the announcer asked, pointing to a smaller man. His curly hair and pleasant smile made him seem unthreatening to Dany’s eyes. He held a broadsword in one hand and a shield barely larger than a dinner plate in the other, but he looked confident as he stepped forward.
“I fight and die for your glory, my Queen,” he announced.
His burly opponent stepped up and made the same declaration. Dany swallowed a lump that formed unbidden in her throat. It was difficult to keep her composure in the face of what was about to transpire. Her path to the throne was already blood-sodden. Why must even more men die so needlessly? Were the fighting pits truly necessary to establish peace in Meereen?
“They’re waiting for you,” Hizdahr murmured. She looked up to see both men standing in silence, their eyes on her as the crowd shifted anxiously. “Clap your hands,” he urged.
She hesitated. Should anyone wield such power? The power to merely put one’s palms together and watch a man die for sport? The eyes of thousands of onlookers were focused on her and she felt their gazes acutely. Hardening her resolve, Dany sat up a little straighter, and clapped.
“I told you,” Hizdahr said gleefully, casting a glance at Daario behind him. “The larger man always prevails.”
“A lifetime of winning fights has taught me otherwise,” Daario replied darkly, his eyes on the headless corpse of the smaller, allegedly quicker man as it was dragged from the arena, blood darkening the dirt in its wake.
Dany turned away, digusted. She took no delight in this. The fight had been short and brutal, the smaller man clearly outmatched and easily bested by his adversary.
“Well,” Hizdahr went on, turning to Daario again, “I’ve spent as much of my life betting in these pits and—”
“But have you ever fought?” Dany interjected suddenly. “You, yourself. Have you ever tried to kill a man who was trying to kill you?” Hizdahr narrowed his eyes at her but gave no answer. I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ Dany thought, satisfied. She’d had enough of Hizdahr’s smugness for one day.
Tyrion sighed audibly to her right and Hizdahr raised his eyebrows at him. “You don’t approve?”
“There’s always been more than enough death in the world for my taste. I can do without it in my leisure time,” Tyrion replied grimly.
“Fair enough. But you must ask yourself this question: What great thing has ever been accomplished without killing or cruelty?”
“It’s easy to confuse what is with what ought to be, especially when what is has worked out in your favor,” Tyrion quipped. Dany felt her lips turning upward in spite of herself. Again, the little man surprised and pleased her. She sensed a kindred spirit in Tyrion. Yet she was still cautious about letting anyone get too close. She would not repeat her mistakes.
“I’m not talking about myself,” Hizdahr insisted. “I’m talking about the necessary conditions for greatness.”
Dany grimaced. “That,” she pointed to the arena, where a young boy, presumably employed by the fighting pits, carried the dead man’s head away, making ready for the next bout. “Is greatness?”
“That is a vital part of the great city of Meereen. It existed long before you arrived, and will remain standing long after we’ve returned to the dirt,” Hizdahr snapped, indignant.
“My father would have liked you.” Coming from Tyrion’s lips, it didn’t sound like a compliment. The little man appeared to Dany as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“One day,” she said, turning to Hizdahr, “Your great city will return to the dirt.”
“At your command?”
“If need be,” Dany replied tersely as the announcer returned below them.
“A Meereenese champion!” he exclaimed, and the crowd went into a frenzy at the sight of their favorite. The man was covered head to foot in armor, his helmet obscuring his face and neck.
“How many have to die to make this happen?” Hizdahr inquired bitterly, drawing her attention away from the fighters below. Dany clenched her fists at her sides. She was losing her patience for his contrary manner.
“If it comes to that, then they will have died for a good reason.”
“Those men think they’re dying for a good reason,” he offered, nodding at the fighters.
“Someone else’s reason,” she countered.
“So your reasons are true and theirs are false? They don’t know their own minds, but you do?”
Dany faltered at that. He was wrong. Her soldiers, her loyal retinue, their deaths were a tragedy, but anyone who followed her did so willingly. Their lives paved the path back to her homeland; they didn’t line the pockets of slavers or gamblers. She freed people from bondage. She sought to preserve life, not end it. And yet . . .
“Well said,” Tyrion chimed in. “You’re an eloquent man.” Hizdahr bowed his head graciously, a triumphant smile on his lips. Dany was surprised, turning to Tyrion wonderingly. “It doesn’t mean you’re right,” he added. “In my experience, eloquent men are right just as often as imbeciles.”
Dany snorted, delighted at Tyrion’s jab, and opened her mouth to say more. But then a familiar voice from below stopped her dead, made her very breath halt in her lungs.
“I fight and die for your glory, my Queen.”
It had been months since she had heard Jorah’s voice, but she would know it anywhere. She looked down into the pit to find his steady blue eyes on hers.
Her heart was pounding, a confusing combination of different emotions vying for control as she watched him there. Her rage at his impertinence was losing to her joy at seeing him alive after all this time. But her principal feeling was fear, fear of what was going to happen to him now.
Dany knew she had Missandei’s friendship, Grey Worm’s unflinching loyalty, Daario’s passionate devotion, and Tyrion’s sage advice. But Jorah had seen her through so much. She had no family, no close friends of the usual sort, and he was the one thing that connected her to her past. She realized to her surprise that in spite of her strength she still needed—would always need—that sort of connection. Knowing he was out in the world, alive and carrying on, had been a comfort to her in spite of everything. If she lost him, truly lost him, who would she have?
Dany was vaguely aware of the waiting crowd, their bloodlust far from sated by the first bout. Hizdahr was staring at her so hard she thought his eyes might fall from his skull. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She had exiled Jorah because the alternative was too painful. She couldn’t spill his blood. Not after Ser Barristan, Viserys, Drogo, her son . . . she couldn’t watch anyone else she cared for die.
Hizdahr squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Your Grace—,”
“Shut your mouth,” Daario snapped. Dany felt indescribably grateful to him in that moment as she took a shaky breath and tore her eyes away from Jorah. She realized that her pain didn’t matter. She was in a precarious position, and she couldn’t sacrifice her safety and that of her friends for Jorah. Not after his treachery. She steadied her hands and clapped once into the silence.
Jorah nodded at her before falling into a fighting stance as the announcer hurried away.
The knight wore the same armor he’d always had, the same Westerosi mail the Dothraki had mocked. Dany felt herself thankful for it now, hoping it might provide him some protection. He carried his old and battered sword and no shield.
His opponent, the well-armored Meereenese, expertly wielded a long spear, and as they squared off even Dany’s untrained eye could see that the other man was faster than Jorah, that his longer weapon gave him reach and advantage.
Jorah fought bravely, but not defensively, and Dany struggled to keep her composure as he was knocked into the dirt—twice. Every time he gained ground on his opponent, the Meereenese spear would appear, biting into flesh. It sliced up his side, his shin, his cheek, and all the while Jorah only landed one blow to his opponent’s well-armored chest.
The Meereenese deflected the blow fiercely and knocked Jorah so dramatically that the older knight fell onto his belly in the dust, panting with exertion, blood smeared across his face.
The crowd was on its feet, cheering wildly for their favored champion. He stepped toward his prey and angled his spear toward Jorah. Before making the killing blow, he paused and grinned around at his adoring audience, and then up at Dany.
“You can end this,” Tyrion entreated, looking over at her with desperation in his eyes.
“She cannot,” Hizdahr declared simply, watching the fray without any sign of discomfort.
“You can,” Tyrion pleaded again.
Dany turned away from Tyrion, ignoring him, ignoring the screams of protest in her own mind. She couldn’t look back, couldn’t falter. She had not put Jorah in that fighting pit, and she couldn’t take him out of it.
Down below, Jorah turned onto his back, looking up at his attacker with determination in his eyes. When Dany did nothing to stop him, the Meereenese spearman made his thrust, but Jorah was faster. He caught the spear in both hands right as the point grazed his breastplate, halting its movement.
The Meereenese champion had become cocksure in his advantage and was taken aback at Jorah’s strength. He froze in shock as the older knight pushed back against the spear, rising to his knees with a grunt of effort and sending his assailant staggering backward.
Dany suppressed a gasp of relief, and before the spearman could get his bearings, Jorah lifted his sword from the dirt and rolled at his opponent, closing the distance between them in one swift movement. His blade jutted upward in a flash, impaling the Meereenese champion, the point pushing through his gut and emerging from his back, dripping with gore.
The crowd sat in stunned silence for a heartbeat. But then within seconds the arena was deafening with the sound of boos from the audience, all of them dismayed at the unexpected demise of their favorite fighter. They yelled curses, shaking their fists, bustling to leave their seats as if they could descend into the pits and put an end to Jorah themselves.
He got to his feet unsteadily and approached the stands, gazing up at Dany with quiet sort of pride as he struggled to catch his breath. She met his eyes, torn between elation at his victory and dismay at the madness of the crowd.
But then Jorah’s face changed, contorted with rage as he stooped over, his hand closing around the Meereense spear at his feet. Dany stood slowly as Jorah raised the weapon and took aim at . . . her? She shook her head in disbelief. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Even in the face of his lies she had trusted him, had believed him when he swore his love. Jorah, of all people, wouldn’t harm her. Yet there he stood.
Her instincts overtook her emotions and she backed away to take cover as Daario reached for her in alarm. At that moment, Jorah made his throw, and the spear whizzed by her and found its mark—not her, no. A Son of the Harpy, only inches behind them, a knife in hand. Missandei gasped as the Harpy fell, his tarnished golden mask clanking loudly against the wooden floor of the stands.
Screams rent the air all around the arena and Dany looked up in horror to see that countless people had donned Harpy masks. One by one they seized the helpless victims trapped beside them and began killing them all. Stabbing, slicing, strangling. It was a massacre. People trampled one another in their haste as they tried to flee, but it was no use. The Harpies outnumbered them all.
“Protect your Queen!” Daario ordered, and a handful of Unsullied guards encircled them.
Dany and Missandei were side-by-side, their backs to the arena as Hizdahr scurried about in a panic and Daario and the guards took out the first wave of Harpies charging the royal seats. Tyrion pressed in beside them, a dagger drawn. For the moment, it seemed their position was at least defensible. But Dany knew their numbers couldn’t hold out, and their elevated place in the stands wasn’t high enough to fend off attacks on all sides.
“Your Grace,” Hizdahr yelled, his voice high with terror. “This way, I know a way out!” He started to flee into the pit, but a trio of Harpies climbed onto their platform behind him. They seized Hizdahr by the arms, stabbing him mercilessly in the chest before throwing him to the ground. Well, at least he wasn’t conspiring with them, Dany thought as Daario rushed in to intercept Hizdahr’s killers.
He dispensed with two of them easily, his knives as vicious as they were efficient. The third Harpy leapt to Daario’s right and got behind him while he was distracted, wrenching his blade from a fallen Harpy’s chest. The Harpy found an opening, raising his sword to strike.
“No!” Dany screamed, reaching out to Daario helplessly. In a blur of movement another figure leapt onto the platform and stabbed the Harpy in the back just as his sword was about to fall. Daario wheeled to face his savior, his eyes widening with shock as they found Jorah’s.
For a tense moment, no one moved. But then Jorah extended his hand to Dany, a gesture of reconciliation and aid. She took it without delay and let him lead her to the edge of the stands. The feeling of his rough palms on her skin brought back a flood of memories, of other times he had helped her. Her wedding day, her miscarriage—every time she had been vulnerable and alone, he had been by her side. She owed Jorah her life as sure as she owed him her suspicion and doubt. Regardless, she needed his protection now, and worried that it wouldn’t be enough to save them. Not this time.
He jumped into the pit below and raised his arms to help guide Dany down. But she hesitated, looking behind her at the chaos and violence. There were bodies everywhere, and Hizdahr in his death throes under the seats. Missandei was running in their direction, pursued by an attacker.
Dany pulled away from Jorah and turned back toward her friend, but stopped when she caught sight of Tyrion. He was as quick as he was silent, appearing seemingly out of nowhere to slash at the legs of Missandei’s assaulter. He took the frightened girl by the elbow and his eyes fell on Dany. “Go,” he commanded jogging beside Missandei as they followed Dany into the pit.
Daario sprinted ahead and leapt to the ground before them, clearing a path in the growing crowd of Harpies that were clambering over the stands and gathering in the pit. Dany could see the exit Daario was fighting toward, but already it was overrun.
Behind her, more Harpies began to follow them down from where they’d been sitting before. It had all happened so quickly, but somehow they were surrounded. The few remaining Unsullied guards formed a circle with Jorah, Daario, and Tyrion. Dany stood in the middle with Missandei.
Their line held steady as Daario and the others intercepted the attacks of the few Harpies brave enough to charge at their drawn weapons. But when more than one got brave enough to run in, it was difficult to rebuff them. First one Unsullied soldier fell, then another. Daario was hit in the shoulder by a spear thrown from the crowd, and Jorah was losing his momentum, blood pooling at the foot of his leg that had been wounded in the fight before.
The gravity of the situation fell upon Dany like a dark storm cloud rolling in off the ocean. She felt the icy grip of fear around her heart as the enemy pressed in. She closed her eyes, trying not to break down. If she was going to die here, she would die bravely, with dignity. But it was difficult to resign herself to the end. I’m the Blood of the Dragon, she thought fiercely. After all I’ve suffered, I can’t fall here. Not like this.
Dany clasped Missandei’s hand and felt her friend squeeze reassuringly back. It gave her courage. She opened her eyes, resolved to step up and at the very least go down with a fight. But before she could make a move, an ear-splitting screech seemed to shatter the sky above.
Drogon!
A bright red ball of flame shot across the stands, and even from her location far below Dany could feel the intensity of its heat on her face. Another chorus of screams came down from the crowd, but this time it was the screams of her enemies. She smiled, her eyes following her precious dragon as he descended into the arena, a great black shadow.
Drogon had always been the largest of the three, but during his absence he’d grown far bigger. His form seemed to block out the sun as he hovered in the air above them. Every beat of his gigantic black wings reverberated through the air like a clap of thunder and sent a gust of wind down onto the onlookers below.
The sight of him left Dany speechless with a peculiar mixture of relief and dread. She was overjoyed to see him alive, and it warmed her heart to think that he had somehow sensed that she was in danger. But would even Drogon’s wrath be enough to save them now? It was bad enough she faced her own demise in this pit, but she couldn’t allow Drogon to be taken by these filthy murderers.
Another burst of flame laid waste to a trio of Harpies below him, making space for Drogon to land with a thud that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The Harpies immediately went on the defensive, but it hardly mattered. The great dragon effortlessly snatched one of them up in his jaws and chewed the man in half, silencing his panicked yelps in a shower of blood. He then turned to the crowd of men advancing on Dany and the others and sent forth a fireball, all black and red. The air around them shimmered with heat and Dany’s hair blew back from her face as the Harpies’ cloaks caught fire, their faces melting beneath their metal masks.
The sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh filled the air, and Dany felt hope reignite in her heart as she watched Drogon clear a path through the men who sought to harm her as easily as a hot knife went through butter. But then one of the Harpies abandoned caution, advanced to defend himself. He threw a spear through Drogon’s left wing, and the dragon responded with a roar of pain and rage that knocked the air from Dany’s lungs.
The other Harpies took note, and before long, it was raining spears from the stands. Their aim was compromised by the smoke in the air, but several of the spears found their mark and embedded themselves cruelly in Drogon’s shimmering, black scales.
Daario and the others were occupied, fighting off the handful of Harpies remaining in the pit, but Dany could see that Drogon could only last so long under such a vicious assault. She knew what she had to do, not only to protect Drogon, but to save her friends as well. If she left the ring, the Harpies’ target would leave with her.
Dropping Missandei’s hand, Dany started toward her dragon, heedless of the torrent of arrows and spears flying chaotically about. She pushed through her protectors, ignoring Jorah’s protests and Tyrion’s inquiring, “Your Grace?” as she went. When she stepped up to Drogon, his head whipped around to face her and he let out a roar so deafening that every occupant of the stadium froze for just a moment.
Dany could see herself reflected in his fearsome scarlet eyes, looking small and frightened. I must show him no fear, she thought determinedly. So Dany didn’t flinch. She stared him down, ignoring the flesh and bone she could see clinging to his long black teeth, defying every instinct in her body that commanded her to turn and run away from such a beast. She stood tall and didn’t blink, willing Drogon to calm, to recognize her authority as well as her love.
She reached out to him, standing her ground even in the face of all his fury. Her fingers grazed his nose and Drogon leaned his head forward gently to meet her touch. Dany sighed at the feel of his smooth scales beneath her fingers, stepping closer to the heat that came off of him in waves. But then the spell was broken as another spear sailed down at them and landed deep in Drogon’s side.
He turned on his attacker with a savage growl, burning a whole section of Harpies in the stands with a devastating breath of flame. While he was distracted, Dany reached up with both hands and pried the spear from Drogon’s side. He screeched in pain but made no move to stop her as the spear finally tugged free. Dany threw it down into the dirt. The end of the spear was half-melted, the wound in Drogon’s side steaming in the air.
He is fire made flesh, Dany thought. And so am I. She gathered her skirts and prepared for what she knew must come next.
She’d never ridden her dragons before. She had hardly touched or seen Drogon in months. But just as Drogon had seemed to come to her aid by instinct, she somehow knew she could do this. She trusted him to obey her commands and carry them both to their salvation.
Drogon seemed to feel her grasping at his hide and lowered himself slightly for Dany to clamber onto him. It wasn’t exactly graceful, not in her dress, but she managed well enough. She settled herself onto his back, finding a spot where the dragon’s spikes were conveniently shorter and duller, as if his crest was made to accommodate a rider.
Sitting astride him, Dany could feel the astonished eyes of everyone upon her as she leaned forward and whispered, “Sōvēs.” The Valyrian word for “fly” felt natural on her lips, powerful. Drogon bounded forward on cue, his muscles quivering beneath her as he stirred up a cloud of red sand. The dragon felt hot and strong between her thighs as he leapt forward, scattering Harpies in his wake and taking to the air with a flap of his great wings. Yes, Dany thought. Yes. Fly. Fly!
They ascended quickly, the Harpies and friendly faces alike flashing by in a blur of color, and Dany’s heart pounded with euphoric wonder as she clung to Drogon with all her might. Looking down into the pit below, she saw that it was just as she had hoped—the few remaining Harpies had completely forgotten her friends, awestruck and outraged by her surprise escape. There she was: the Mother of Dragons, riding her dragon as her ancestors in Old Valyria had done.
They were about to clear the highest point of the stadium at last, the clear, blue sky beckoning them forth. The heat that had oppressed her below was chased away by the wind as Drogon rose to the heavens.
But then there was pain, pain sharper and more excruciating than anything she’d ever felt. Lights danced before her eyes and Dany gasped, struggling to hold her seat as her right thigh exploded with agony. She looked down to see the blooming crimson of her own blood spreading rapidly over the formerly white fabric covering her leg. The speed of Drogon’s flight should have sent it flapping in the breeze, but the dress was held fast by an arrow sunk deep within her thigh.
She gazed at it in abject horror for a moment, unable to believe that after all that had just transpired, this was happening. She was so close to her escape, and it was snatched away from her in the flash of an arrow’s flight.
In a fit of mad panic, Dany reached down and pulled at the arrow, heedless of how it might be stopping up the wound. But the pain was too great to remove it in any case, and her yanking merely ground the arrow’s shaft against the puncture in her leg.
Drogon, ignorant of his mother’s plight, continued to ascend up and away from the stadium, and when Dany looked down she saw only the rooftops of Meereen below them, the fighting pits fading into the distance behind.
It was a victory, but Dany could hardly celebrate. Jostling the arrow seemed to have done more harm than good to her leg, and she was bleeding heavily, the blood oozing down her leg, filling up her boot, dripping off to rain on the ground below.
Dany’s head was swimming with adrenaline and a faint dizziness started to overtake her as Drogon cleared the city and flew out over the bay. Vaguely, she realized that the pain in her leg was fading. In fact, she could hardly feel her legs at all, nor the cold air as it rushed past her face.
A bone-deep tiredness hovered over her, as if she had just traversed the span of the Dothraki sea on foot. She wrapped her arms around Drogon’s neck as much as she could manage, but he was too broad for her to get a good hold. She rested her head as best she could despite the spikes of his crest against her face. Discomfort hardly seemed to matter, exhausted as she was.
She had enough sense left to hope that she wouldn’t fall off. Even so, she discovered she didn’t have the strength to stay awake for her own safety. Pretty, she mused to herself as the afternoon sun glinted off the water below. Drogon had sailed out over open ocean. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but Dany had no choice but to trust him as her eyes fluttered closed.
It was the cold that woke her. Dany wasn’t used to the cold. Her vision was blurry and she tried to sit up, but the effort made her see stars so she collapsed onto her back, wondering where she was.
“Drogon?” she called weakly, her voice barely a hoarse whisper.
When her sight cleared she looked around, at once making note of Drogon’s absence. One didn’t simply misplace a beast his size—he was gone. Dany fought to gain her bearings, staving off panic. She forced herself to sit up, pushing past the onslaught of dizziness and nausea that came with the movement. She saw then that she was sitting in a forest clearing, encircled by bare, brown trees. Such landscapes were foreign to her after years in the desserts of Essos. But most foreign of all was that she was lying on a thick blanket of snow.
Where has Drogon brought me?
The demands of her wounded body began to overtake her shock and confusion, and Dany felt the intensity of the cold. She was shivering so much that it was hard to move, hard to breathe through the shakes. There was a downed tree nearby, and Dany noticed that it was smoking. Had Drogon started some sort of fire in the night? She couldn’t be sure, but either way the smoldering tree trunk would be warmer than the open, snowy forest floor.
She stretched out on the ground with great difficulty and dragged herself painfully through the snow up to the tree, ignoring the screaming pain in her leg as she went. Dany found a spot where flames had burned away the snow and she nestled against the scorched, still-warm trunk. It was no real shelter from the cold, but it would have to do.
Dany knew that while the icy chill in the air was a concern, her wounded leg was likely the more immediate problem. She looked down to see that the blood saturating her thigh had clotted and dried, her leg stiff with it. The wound itself was so swollen that one of her thighs looked noticeably larger than the other. She hesitantly touched the arrow and was rewarded with a spasm of pain so great that she cried out.
At her cry, Dany heard a twig snap behind her. Alarmed, she turned and squinted at the tree line, struggling to find the source of the noise. She thought she could make out two red eyes glowing at her from the darkness, too small to belong to a dragon. But then Dany sucked in a startled breath as a tall figure clad in black approached, stepping into the moonlit clearing.