Daenerys's wedding to Khal Drogo

Daenerys Targaryen's wedding to Khal Drogo, held in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, is the event that binds the last scion of the dragon dynasty to the most powerful Dothraki warlord, transforming her from a frightened, powerless exile into a khaleesi and setting in motion the chain of events that will ultimately lead to the rebirth of dragons and her claim to the Iron Throne. The ceremony, conducted beneath the open sky as Dothraki custom demands, is a day-long ordeal of feasting, fighting, and terror that marks Daenerys's passage from her brother's pawn to a woman with her own nascent power and a people of her own.

The Ceremony and the Khalasar

The wedding takes place outside Pentos, where Khal Drogo's khalasar of forty thousand warriors and uncounted women, children, and slaves has camped, raising palaces of woven grass and consuming everything in sight. The ceremony begins at dawn and continues until dusk, an endless day of drinking, feasting, and fighting on a mighty earthen ramp raised amid the grass palaces. Daenerys is seated beside Khal Drogo above the seething sea of Dothraki, who have come in their thousands. The horselords, in their painted leather vests and horsehair leggings, gorge themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers, drink themselves blind on fermented mare's milk and Illyrio's fine wines, and spit jests at each other across the fires. Daenerys, dressed in wedding silks, feels utterly alone and terrified, smiling until her face aches while tears come unbidden to her eyes. She has no common language with her new husband; Dothraki is incomprehensible to her, and Khal Drogo knows only a few words of the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities and none of the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. She sits nursing a cup of honeyed wine, afraid to eat, talking silently to herself, repeating the mantra "I am blood of the dragon."

Violence and Dothraki Customs

The wedding is marked by the violence that the Dothraki consider essential to a proper celebration. Magister Illyrio had warned Daenerys that a Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is deemed a dull affair, and her wedding is especially blessed; before the day is over, a dozen men die. The first death occurs when a warrior steps into the circle, grabs a dancer, and mounts her right there. When two men seize the same woman, arakhs are drawn, and a dance of death begins. It ends as quickly as it began, with one man opened from backbone to belly button, spilling his entrails into the dust. The winner takes hold of the nearest woman and has her there and then. Slaves carry off the body, and the dancing resumes. As the hours pass, the terror grows in Daenerys until it is all she can do not to scream. She is afraid of the Dothraki, whose ways seem alien and monstrous, as if they were beasts in human skins and not true men at all. She is afraid of her brother, Viserys, and what he might do if she fails him. Most of all, she is afraid of what will happen tonight under the stars, when her brother gives her up to the hulking giant who sits drinking beside her with a face as still and cruel as a bronze mask.

The Bride Gifts and the Silver

As the sun grows low, Khal Drogo claps his hands together, and the drums and shouting and feasting come to a sudden halt. It is time for Daenerys's bride gifts. Her brother Viserys gifts her with three handmaids: Irri and Jhiqui, copper-skinned Dothraki, and Doreah, a fair-haired, blue-eyed Lysene girl. Ser Jorah Mormont apologizes for his gift, a small stack of old books—histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms written in the Common Tongue. Magister Illyrio presents four burly slaves bearing a great cedar chest bound in bronze, containing piles of the finest velvets and damasks, and resting on top, three huge dragon's eggs. Daenerys gasps; they are the most beautiful things she has ever seen, each different, patterned in rich colors, and so large it takes both of her hands to hold one. The surface of the shell is covered with tiny scales that shimmer like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. The khal's bloodriders offer her the traditional three weapons: a great leather whip with a silver handle, a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she is. Last of all, Khal Drogo brings forth his own bride gift: a young filly, grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke. He lifts Daenerys onto the thin Dothraki saddle, and she rides the silver-grey filly, which moves with a smooth and silken gait. For the first time in hours, she forgets to be afraid. The horse breaks into a trot, and she smiles. When a firepit looms ahead, a daring she has never known fills her, and she gives the filly her head; the silver horse leaps the flames as if she had wings. When she pulls up before Magister Illyrio, she says, "Tell Khal Drogo that he has given me the wind," and Dany sees her new husband smile for the first time.

The Consummation

As the last sliver of sun vanishes, Viserys slides close to Daenerys on her silver, digs his fingers into her leg, and says, "Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before." The fear comes back to her. They ride out together as the stars come out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo speaks no word to her but drives his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. Daenerys whispers, "I am the blood of the dragon," trying to keep her courage up. It is full dark when they stop at a grassy place beside a small stream. Drogo swings off his horse and lifts her down. She stands there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secures the horses, and when he turns to look at her, she begins to cry. Khal Drogo stares at her tears, his face strangely empty of expression. He says, "No," and rubs away the tears roughly with a callused thumb. Daenerys realizes with wonder that he speaks the Common Tongue, though he may only have that one word. Drogo touches her hair lightly, sliding the silver-blond strands between his fingers and murmuring softly in Dothraki. She does not understand the words, yet there is warmth in the tone, a tenderness she had never expected from this man. He lifts her head, seats her on a rounded rock beside the stream, and sits on the ground facing her. He begins to remove the bells from his hair, one by one, and Daenerys leans forward to help. She undoes his braid, which takes a long time. Then it is his turn. He begins to undress her, his fingers deft and strangely tender. He removes her silks one by one, carefully, while Dany sits unmoving, silent, looking at his eyes. He stands her up and pulls her close to remove the last of her silks. After a while, he begins to touch her, lightly at first, then harder. She can sense the fierce strength in his hands, but he never hurts her. He strokes her face, her hair, her back. It seems as if hours pass before his hands finally go to her breasts. He stops then and draws her down onto his lap. He cups her face in his huge hands and she looks into his eyes. "No?" he says, and she knows it is a question. She takes his hand and moves it down to the wetness between her thighs. "Yes," she whispers as she puts his finger inside her.