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His legacy was hate. The laird
was consumed by hatred for his
enemy. He needed to see his son
burn with the fever for revenge, and
until he was certain the boy understood the
importance of righting the terrible wrong
done this dark day, he would continue to
fight death. And so he clung to life and
to his son's hand, so small and fragile
in his big, leathery one, his black eyes
boring into those of his only living heir,
while the old man instructed him in his sacred duty.
of fire unfurled their banners in that
blood of the dragon, and the fire was in her.
hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking,
glowing cinders rising on the smoke to
screaming and sending up long tongues of
flame to lick at the belly of the night.
As the smoke grew thicker, the Dothraki
backed away, coughing. Huge orange gouts
a firepit. The pyre roared in the deepening
and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.
dusk like some great beast, drowning out
the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s
Blood of my blood, he murmured, pushing
She could smell the odor of burning flesh,
no different than horseflesh roasting in
Wordless, the knight fell to his knees.
The men of her khas came up behind him.
Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet.
long sinuous neck coiled under her chin.
When it saw Jorah, it raised its head
The black and scarlet beast was
draped across her shoulders, its
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