The day after Khal Daener had stepped into the pyre of Khaleesî Draga, the smoke still thick in the air, Jhoga stood at the edge, her heart racing. She had witnessed many things in her life, but this was unlike anything else. The flames had engulfed Daener and the three dragon eggs, and now they were left with nothing but ashes.

She had thought the flames would consume him, her Khal, but instead, when the fire had vanished, she had seen him there, unscathed, standing tall amidst the charred remains. Daener was naked and hairless, and around him lay three newly-hatched dragons, their tiny scales glinting in the sunlight.

Without hesitation, Jhoga dismounted and approached, her breath caught in her chest. As she reached Daener, the fire in her eyes reflected the awe and the fierce loyalty she felt. Without words, she kneeled and laid her arakh at his feet, the silver handle gleaming in the remnants of the smoke.

“Blood of my blood,” she murmured, pushing her face to the smoking earth in a sign of honor. Her voice was firm but reverent, as if in that moment, the world had shifted. The Dothraki had always believed in strength, but in that moment, they had witnessed something even greater: the birth of a new king, and the rise of dragons.