She dreamed she was a block of ice, floating toward the shores of Meereen. As the giant pyramids came closer, her body began to melt in the salty sea. Despite what felt like death, she felt strange calm, as if solitude and dissolution was all she wished for. Just before the last crystals dissolved completely into the waters, she saw a final glimpse of the freed slaves of the city. They looked happy.
It was only after she woke did Daenerys Targaryen realize she was interrupted from her soundest sleep in days. As her eyes slowly forced themselves open, her nose reminded her of the stale vomit she had brought up hours before going to sleep. The march from Barrowton had been awful, but the rides on Drogon may also have been a reason for an upset stomach.
The image in front of her, calling out her name, was a blur. Daenerys supposed it would be Missandei – she was the only one who slept with her in their tent – but when the vision cleared, she saw instead, to her great surprise, Qhono.
The strange sight startled her awake. Qhono had never previously entered her quarters. “What is it?” she said in Dothraki, ears now straining for clues. “Are we under attack?”
“Worse,” came his reply.
When he told her the news, it only took a second of hesitation before Daenerys sat upright. Hurriedly grabbing whichever sheet she could, she covered herself and stepped into the cold dawn. Bar silver mist and a weak, rising sun, the horizon was forbidding and empty. “It is of no use now, Khaleesi,” Qhono said beside her. “They are long gone.”
“How many?” she said, eyes still darting as far as they could.
“A good number,” Qhono replied evasively. “Where they go, I do not know. They may have gone to hunt for castles or cottages to pillage or-”
“How many?”
“Thousand-and-fifteen.” Qhono’s face was grim, yet his tone seemed to Daenerys almost mocking.
She wished dearly to mount Drogon, hunt down the fleeing khalasars and bring them to justice, but something about Qhono’s tone stopped her. It was a tone she noticed had increased slowly in Dragon Councils, as news of the deaths of Tyrion Lannister, Lady Olenna and Theon Greyjoy kept coming to light. They had reason to undermine her, but Daenerys had thought aside from snide comments they would amount to nothing more.
But that was before you flew beyond the Wall with three dragons, and returned with one.
Between sending her men to Jon Snow and losing them tonight, in no time, her army had dwindled from ninety-eight to sixty-three thousand. It was time Daenerys Targaryen stopped wondering what a queen ought to do and, instead, followed the heart of the dragon.
“Awake all the men,” she commanded Qhono. “We march early today.”
If the Dothraki wanted their khaleesi to show strength, Daenerys Targaryen thought, as she mounted her steed, the wind not feeling nearly as chilly against her skin as it did an hour ago, she was glad to surpass their expectations.
*
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