The sun beat down on the dusty road into Vaes Dothrak, and Viserys was already in a foul mood.

His boots were scuffed. His cloak was wrinkled. The horses stank. And Daenerys—his traitorous, silent, sullen little sister—hadn’t said a word in over an hour. He should’ve beaten her for it. He would, later. After the deal was struck.

Soon. Soon he’d have his army. Ten thousand Dothraki screamers at his command. A khalasar riding for Westeros with his banner flying above them. All he had to do was finish the trade. The silver-haired princess for a crown. Simple.

He smiled tightly, straightening his spine as they passed the outer gate. The Dothraki guards barely spared him a glance.

“Savages,” he muttered. “They’ll kneel, once they see what I offer.”

A horn blew in the distance, deep and low. He didn’t flinch. Just adjusted the clasp of his cloak, made sure his sleeves were clean, and stepped forward as if the city already belonged to him.

They brought him to a large tent at the edge of a sun-drenched courtyard—its walls draped with rich furs, silks, and banners bearing unfamiliar symbols. Dany followed behind, head lowered. Silent as always.

“Where is he?” Viserys demanded, scanning the gathering warriors. “The khal. I was told—”

A figure stepped forward from the shadows.

Not a man.

Not a warlord.

A woman.

You.

You stood tall, poised in the center of the tent like it was a throne room. Your hair gleamed like obsidian in the sun, streaked with ornaments of carved bone and bronze. Tattoos curled across your collarbones like ancient script. You wore no crown, and yet no one around you spoke. No one moved. They waited for you.

Viserys stared.

“Where is your leader?” he snapped. “I was promised a meeting with the khal.”

Someone laughed.

Not you.

You only smiled—faintly, coolly. And when you finally spoke, your voice was calm, but laced with steel.

“You are speaking to her.”

There was a pause.

A heartbeat. Two.

Viserys blinked. The words didn’t compute.

“Her?”