[The Prince Is in the West.]
Those words were like a red-hot iron spike, instantly searing through more than a decade of darkness and despair.
The west...
A king from Westeros who rode a Three-Headed Ice Dragon.
A prince who would awaken her blood with the "Kiss of Ice and Snow."
It was no fantasy, no dream.
It was an oracle from her ancestors!
A call from deep within her blood!
A strength she had never known quietly took root in her battered heart.
She was not merchandise.
She was not a lamb for anyone to slaughter.
She was Daenerys Stormborn, heir to the blood of House Targaryen!
She had to meet that Dothraki Khal. She could not defy Viserys's command.
But she could choose how she would meet him.
Daenerys slowly stood and walked over to the mirror.
The girl in the mirror had red, swollen cheeks, but her eyes no longer held nothing but fear.
Beneath that familiar timidity, a small, tenacious flame was quietly burning.
She could not openly resist. That would only invite even more frenzied torment from Viserys.
But she could... act.
She could play a weak, timid plaything, unfit to be seen in company.
Something inferior, unworthy of a Khal.
Once that thought appeared, it grew wildly.
Guests had long since filled Illyrio Mopatis's courtyard.
The air was rich with spices and the smoky aroma of roasting meat.
But the arrival of a group of uninvited guests shattered it all.
Khal Drogo and his Bloodriders were like wild bulls charging into a china shop.
They reeked of leather, sweat, and spirited horses, utterly out of place among the silk-clad nobles of Pentos in the courtyard.
Khal Drogo himself was like a moving mountain.
His chest was bare, his bronze skin covered in scars.