The air inside Hela's tent was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, cured leather, and something wilder, a tang of the open plains that clung to everything the woman owned. Sunlight filtered through the rough-hewn canvas, casting dancing patterns on the intricately woven rugs that cushioned the earthen floor. Daenerys, her silver-gold hair a stark contrast to the darker hues of the tent, sat cross-legged, her nimble fingers working with practiced grace. She was braiding a section of Hela's long, blonde hair, weaving the thick strands into a pattern that was both intricate and unyielding. The rhythmic tug and pull of the braid against Hela's scalp was a familiar, comforting sensation.
Hela, perched on a low stool, her frame relaxed, allowed herself to be fussed over. Her eyes, the vibrant blue of a winter sky, were fixed on the far edge of the tent, where the canvas flapped gently in the breeze. Next to her, Astrid sat on a heap of furs, sharpening a wickedly curved blade with the rhythmic rasp of metal on stone, her gaze occasionally flickering to Daenerys and the almost comical seriousness that settled on her face whenever she attempted a new braid.
The silence was comfortable, punctuated only by the soft sounds of their movements, until Hela spoke, her voice a low rumble. "ᛗᚤ ᚲᚺᛁᛚᛞ ᛞᛟᛖᛋ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚾᛖᛖᛞ ᚨᚾ ᛁᚱᛟᚾ ᚲᚺᚨᛁᚱ ᛏᛟ ᛒᛖ ᚨ ᚴᛁᚾᚷ ᛟᚱ ᛩᚢᛖᛖᚾ," she said, the Old Norse words rolling off her tongue with the natural ease of a native speaker.
Daenerys paused in her braiding, her brow furrowing slightly as she recalled the meaning. "My child does not need an iron chair to be a King or Queen," she finally translated, a hint of uncertainty coloring her tone. She continued with the braid, her long fingers moving automatically. Then, her eyes, the startling violet hue that was her Targaryen birthright, lifted to Hela's. "ᚨᚲᚲᛟᚱᛞᛁᚾᚷ ᛏᛟ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛈᚱᛟᛈᚺᛖᚲᚤ, ᛏᚺᛖ ᛋᛏᚨᛚᛚᛁᛟᚾ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᚱᛁᛞᛖ ᛏᛟ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛖᚾᛞᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛖᚨᚱᛏᚺ," she countered, her voice laced with the conviction that came from years of being told she was destined for greatness. (According to the prophecy, the Stallion will ride to the ends of the earth,) A brief smile touched her lips, a flicker of pride at her growing mastery of their ancient tongue, despite its challenging sounds.
Hela exchanged a knowing glance with Astrid, a silent communication of amusement and affection. Astrid chuckled, the sound a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the tent. "Your pronunciation is improving, my little dragon," Astrid said, switching to the Common Tongue, her voice warm. "But we've told you before, Love, we are not Dothraki. Prophecies, especially those ones, don't hold much sway with us."
Hela nodded her agreement, the braided section swinging slightly with the movement. She reached out a hand to gently cup Daenerys's cheek, her touch surprisingly soft for such a powerful woman. "We are at peace here, Daenerys," she said, her thumb caressing the smooth skin beneath her eye. "We are content. This is our home, our world." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Daenerys' forehead before pulling back with a warm smile.
Daenerys's smile was strained. She looked around at the furs and roughspun tapestries, at the bones and talismans that adorned the tent. She loved it, loved that Hela was here, loved the freedom they had given her, but she also felt the ache of a different world pulling at her. "But there's so much more land out there beyond the sea," she insisted, her voice taking on an urgent tone. "The land on which I was born, where my family reigned for centuries. Don't you want the power, the recognition? Don't you want to sit on the throne as a Queen?" Her hand gestured, inadvertently pulling at Hela's braid. "There are thousands of ships in the Free Cities. Just say the word..."
Hela turned to face Daenerys fully, her blue eyes holding a depth of understanding that was both comforting and a little intimidating. She took Daenerys's hand in hers, her fingers strong and calloused, and laced them with her own. "One does not need an iron chair to be a queen, my love," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "I already am one. A wise queen does not incite war, but always stands ready if pushed. We are not being provoked. We have no reason to launch our own attack against lands we have not set foot on." She looked deep into Daenerys' eyes. "The world will come to us when it needs us. Until then I will defend the lands and people here." She rose in a fluid motion, her imposing figure casting a shadow across Daenerys. "I'm going to go stretch my wings for a bit," she announced, her eyes glinting with the anticipation of flight, and reached for her heavy cloak. "And take Fenrir for a hunt."
As Hela turned and left the tent, leaving Daenerys looking forlorn, Astrid leaned into the younger woman's space, her eyes full of a gentle mirth. "Try not to think too much about it," she advised, her hands still moving, the sharp blade whispering against the whetstone. "As much as a battle maniac Hela is, she won't start something unless she is pushed, and the only thing that will have her marching to war is if someone she loves is threatened. I can tell you that with all the certainty in the world." She glanced at the open flap of the tent, where the wind had caught Hela's cloak, sending it swirling in the breeze. "She may be a Queen here, but most often she is just Hela." She smiled. "And that's good enough for us."
~~~~
Later, in Vaes Dothrak's marketplace. Daenerys is walking with Jorah. Behind them are Irri, Doreah, and Rakharo.
"Can't you help me make them understand?" Daenerys asks Jorah.
"I think you overestimate my powers of persuasion if you think I can convince them of something you couldn't, Khaleesi." Jorah tells her.
"My brother was a fool, I know, but he was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms." Daenerys says.
Jorah laughs.
"Have I said something funny, Ser?" Daenerys asks confused.
"Forgive me, Khaleesi, but your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror didn't seize six of the kingdoms because they were his right; he had no right to them. He seized them because he could." Jorah tells her.
"And because he had dragons." Daenerys adds.
If Daenerys had said that a few weeks ago Jorah would have been skeptical that dragons even existed but after witnessing one for himself he wasn't so skeptical anymore. "Yes and he had dragons. Now if you'll pardon me, I'll seek out the merchant captain, see if he has any letters for me."
"Well, I'll come with you." Daenerys says.
"No no, don't trouble yourself. Enjoy the market. I'll rejoin you soon enough." Jorah walks off into the marketplace. As he does, a small boy - one of Varys' little birds - is seen watching him. As he sees Jorah walk close by, he calls out to him.
"Psst, Jorah the Andal." Jorah spots the boy and approaches him. "The Spider sends his greetings, and his congratulations." He hands Jorah a scroll.
The boy runs off. Jorah looks at the pardon, conflicted as if he leaves and Daenerys dies Hela and Astrid will know he had something to do with it. He did not like the idea of wrathful Dragon chasing him to the ends of Westeros that didn't sound like freedom. He overhears a merchant from elsewhere in the marketplace.
The merchant is revealed to be a wine seller, calling out to the various patrons of the marketplace.
"[in Dothraki] Sweet reds! I have sweet reds from Lys, Volantis and the Arbor! Tyrosh pear brandy! Andalish sours! I have them! I have them!"
Daenerys, now joined by Astrid, walks up to the wine seller.
"[in Dothraki] A taste for the Khaleesies? I have a sweet red from Dorne, my ladies. One taste and you'll name your first children after me."
He takes a glass of the Dornish wine and offers it to Daenerys. Jorah is watching from nearby.
"My child already has a name, but I'll try your summerwine. Just a taste."
"I'm still deciding but I'm not naming my child after a wine seller of all things," Astrid says smiling as she rubbed her belly that was starting to show like Daenerys.
The wine seller looks at Daenerys with a look of recognition. "My Lady, you are from Westeros."
"You have the honor of addressing Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven Kingdoms." Doreah introduced.
"Princess." The wine seller says bowing.
"Rise." Daenerys tells him. "I'd still like to taste that wine."
"That? Dornish swill. Not worthy of a princess." He pours the wine on the ground. Jorah continues to observe, with a look of realization.
"I have a dry red from the Arbor. Nectar of the Gods."
Daenerys grins in appreciation.
"Let me give you a cask. Uh... a gift." The wine seller says.
"You honor me, Ser." Daenerys says.
The wine seller goes to his store and grabs a cask of wine. "The honor...the honor is all mine." He hands the cask to Rakharo. Astrid eyes his suspiciously he was acting all nervous all of a sudden.
"You know there are many in your homeland that pray for your return, princess." The wine seller says.
Jorah walks over from his hiding spot. "Rakharo," he calls out. "[in Dothraki] Put down that cask."
" Is something wrong?" Daenerys asks confused.
"I have a thirst. Open it." Jorah says.
Rahkaro hands the cask back to the wine seller.
"The wine is for the Khaleesi. It's not for the likes of you." The wine seller says.
"Open it." Astrid insists. Her hand moves to her hip where she has her dagger.
The wine seller looks from Astrid to Jorah to Daenerys, who observes. He finally obeys and opens the cask.
"Pour," Jorah tells him.
"It would be a crime to drink a wine this rich without at least giving it time to breathe."
"Do as he says," Daenerys tells the man now suspicious as well.
"As the princess commands." The WINE SELLER takes a glass and pours some wine into it. Astrid exchanges a look with Jorah, who looks as though he is trying to prove something. The wine seller has finished pouring and hands the glass to Jorah, who sniffs the wine.
"Sweet, isn't it? Can you smell the fruit, Ser? Taste it, My Lord. Tell me that that is not the finest wine that has ever touched your tongue." The wine seller looks expectant.
Jorah raises the glass to his lips and appears as though he is about to drink before suddenly stopping and offering the glass back to the wine seller. "You first."
The wine seller looks at him nervously. "Me? I'm afraid I am not worthy of the vintage. Besides, it is a poor wine merchant who would drink up his own wares."
"You will drink," Daenerys orders finally catching on.
The wine seller looks from Daenrys to Jorah and takes the glass, a nervous smile on his face. He makes a toasting gesture to Daenrys and Jorah, who watch expectantly. As he lifts the glass to his lips, he suddenly throws it on the ground and runs away from his stall pushing Daenerys in the process. Astrid manages to catch her before she can fall on her stomach.
The wine seller is running as fast as he can away from them. However, Rakharo catches up to him and catches him with his whip, bringing him down. While still down, the wine seller is restrained by Rakharo and three other bloodriders.
Astrid leads Daenerys away from the marketplace, being followed by Irri and Doreah. Behind them, the other bloodriders forcibly carry the wine seller, who is struggling against them, to no avail. Rakharo brings up the rear.
~~~~
The air in the communal hut hung thick with the scent of sweat and fear. Torches cast flickering, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls, illuminating the stark scene. The wine seller, a man whose face was now a grotesque canvas of purple bruises and angry red cuts, was bound tightly to a thick wooden post. His whimpers were a pathetic counterpoint to the low hum of unease that pervaded the space.
Daenerys entered, her face pale beneath the flickering light. Astrid walked beside her, radiating a contained fury that made the very air crackle. Jorah Mormont followed them in. The weight of the day, of the assassination attempt, pressed down on them all.
"What will they do to him?" Daenerys asked, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze drawn to the pitiful figure tied to the post.
Astrid spat out the words like venom, "What he deserves."
Jorah's voice, though devoid of emotion, carried a grim weight. "When the khalasar rides, he'll be leashed to a saddle. Forced to run behind the horses for as long as he can." He paused, letting the image settle in the air.
Daenerys's face tightened. "And when he falls?"
Jorah's gaze was distant, as if he was seeing something unpleasant from his past. "I saw a man last nine miles once," he said, his voice low and devoid of any comfort. He left the rest unsaid, the implications hanging heavy in the air.
Astrid scoffed, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "I would have dropped him in a fireworm's nest. But there isn't one anywhere near."
Jorah's brow furrowed, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He had no idea what a fireworm was, but the way Astrid had said it, the casual cruelty laced in her tone, sent a shiver down his spine. He had seen much brutality in his life, yet this sounded different, more terrifying.
Daenerys's shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of her situation pressing in. "King Robert still wants me dead." The words were a statement, not a question, filled with weary resignation.
"This poisoner was the first. He won't be the last," Jorah stated matter-of-factly. His gaze met hers, a silent promise contained within their depths: he would protect her.
"I thought he'd leave me alone now that my brother is gone," Daenerys said, her voice laced with a tinge of desperate hope that had been crushed.
Jorah shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with a grim certainty. "He will never leave you alone. If you ride to darkest Asshai, his assassins will follow you; if you sailed all the way to the Basilisk Isles, his spies would tell him. He will never abandon the hunt. You're a Targaryen – the last Targaryen." He stared at her, then his gaze softened slightly. "Your son will have Targaryen blood, with 70,000 riders behind him."
Daenerys's hand instinctively went to her stomach, a protective gesture for the life growing within her. "He will not have my son." Her voice was low, but the steel within it made it all the more potent.
"He will not have you either," Astrid said, her tone unwavering. "Robert has just made the biggest mistake of his life. He made an enemy out of a dragon and sounded the drums of war." Her statement resonated with the weight of prophesy, the certainty of inevitable conflict.
The entrance flap of the hut was thrown open, and Hela entered flanked by her bloodriders. Concern etched itself deeply on her face as her eyes went immediately to Daenerys and Astrid, a silent question passing between them. Satisfied that they were unharmed, her gaze became flint as it moved to the bound wine seller, her lips curling into a sneer of disgust. She strode towards Daenerys. She placed a gentle hand on Daenerys's cheek, her touch light, yet filled with fierce affection.
"My little Dragon, are you hurt?" Her voice, usually deep and commanding, was now soft, threaded with genuine concern. Daenerys shook her head, and a visible sigh of relief escaped Hela's lips. She pressed a kiss to Daenerys's forehead, the possessive tenderness clear for all to see. She does the same for Astrid. Her gaze then turned to Jorah, her expression changing into one of deep respect.
"Jorah," she said, "I owe you a great deal for what you did today. Name anything, as long as it's in my power, it is yours."
Jorah gave a curt nod. "I will think on it," he replied, his face a mask of solemnity.
Hela turned back to face the khalasar, her voice rising in volume, filling the hut with its resonance. Her eyes flashed, the gold within them like fire as she began to speak. "And for this vile act, for this cowardly betrayal, I pledge this!"
Her voice grew louder, vibrating with barely contained rage. "I will give my child what is rightfully his—the seat of power, a throne carved of iron, that once belonged to the treacherous kin of those who tried to murder his mother! I will give him not only that iron chair but also the Seven Kingdoms upon which it sits! Those lands, stained with the blood of innocents, will be remade! They will tremble before the fury of a true Dragon!"
The khalasar roared its approval, the sound like thunder, their faces lit with a mix of fervor and bloodlust. Astrid translated with passion, her voice adding a layer of fervent intensity to Hela's words.
Hela's eyes, now blazing, swept across the gathered warriors. "I pledge that my Khalasar will become a storm of steel and fire upon the salty waves. We will ride the ships as my ancestors rode the longboats–our blades hungry, our souls burning with rage!"
She paused, her hand gripping the handle of the massive axe that rested on her back. She drew it with a flourish, the polished steel gleaming menacingly in the torchlight.
"You see this axe?" she exclaimed, holding it aloft. "It is forged of the same steel that beats in my heart – strong, unforgiving, and ready to break those who dare cross me! And now, those who have dared to touch the woman I love, the woman who carries the future of our bloodline under her heart, those viperous cowards who lurk beyond the black salt sea…they will feel this steel!"
The khalasar erupted once more, the hut vibrating with their shouts of approval, their faces alight with a savage eagerness for the coming war.
Hela lowered the axe, her gaze sweeping with intensity. "This is my oath! I, Hela, daughter of Stoick, swear before the old gods of the North, before the newly learned wonders of Essos, and before the spirits of your ancestors who ride with every thunderous hoofbeat: I will take what is ours! I will avenge this treachery! I will not rest until every stone of their castles lies broken and every iron-clad cur has paid the price for their treason! This I vow! I WILL HAVE VENGEANCE!"
Her last words echoed through the hut, a declaration of war born from love and fueled by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. The air hung thick with the promise of blood and fire, the storm of war about to break upon the shores of a far-off land. The scent of fear was now laced with a dangerous anticipation, a primal hunger for the coming battles. The khalasar was ready, their loyalty to their Khaleesi and her beloved wife unwavering, their purpose now clear: destruction and conquest.
The next day, the khalasar is shown leaving Vaes Dothrak. The wine seller is tied to Daenerys' horse, naked, dirty and bloody, barely able to walk straight, but following nonetheless.