Daenerys stood in the center of the room, a wisp of a girl in a sheer, tear-stained gown of silver silk. Her hands were clasped before her, trembling barely perceptibly. She was trying not to think of her brother’s last words to her.

Viserys stood by the entrance, his silver hair gleaming in the dimness, his violet eyes bright with anxious ambition. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

And at the heart of them, on a massive, pale stallion, sat Khal Drogo.

He was enormous, a mountain of muscle and leather and dark hair. His face was a mask of brutal calm, his black eyes unreadable. One of his bloodriders, a young man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. He gestured toward Daenerys with a whip of braided hair. He spoke in the guttural Dothraki tongue.