The news of the Volantene allied army's crushing victory over Khal Drogo's khalasar reached Daenerys Targaryen long before she arrived at the camp.
That same evening Ser Tristifer returned to the inn where they were staying. He brought not only fresh supplies but also news that shook her to her core.
The allied army had utterly shattered the Dothraki horde on the open field. Her brother—her beloved brother of royal blood—had personally led the decisive charge.
In single combat he had slain the invincible Khal Drogo, cutting off the khal's head from the back of a galloping horse.
He had steadied the breaking line, rallied frightened soldiers, and forged every brave and loyal fighter into an unbreakable iron fist.
The Red Dragon Prince had personally slaughtered hundreds—if not thousands—of savage kos, and from the khal's captured pavilion he had freed dozens of legendary beauties who then expressed their gratitude to their savior in every way imaginable.
The rumors had, of course, been embroidered a thousand times over. Every version in Volantis was different, and every storyteller swore a close relative had fought beside the Targaryen and seen it all with his own eyes.
The true victor had not even returned to the city yet, but the stories already filled the air like wildfire.
No matter how wildly the tales grew, the core remained true.
Her brother had survived. And he had won a complete, overwhelming victory.
From the moment she heard the news, Daenerys insisted on returning to the First Daughter at full speed.
It was as if the river gods of the Rhoyne themselves were guiding them—favorable winds, calm waters, and rowers who showed unnatural endurance.
With every league they traveled, the happiness and peace in the girl's heart grew. Most importantly, she finally felt safe again.
The worry, anxiety, and fear she had carried for months were left far behind. Though she knew those shadows would eventually catch up to the exiled princess once more.
But for now she could simply rejoice in her brother's triumph.
Daenerys drank in this rare moment of freedom and calm.
When she finally reached the allied camp, her arrival caused no great stir.
That was understandable. Daenerys had never seen so many tents packed together in her life. Even though she was used to the life of marching and camping, the sheer scale still made everything she had known before seem small.
Thousands of sellswords, citizens, and slaves moved through the camp—buying, praying, arguing. Most paid no attention to yet another young lady of old blood arriving with her tutor and guards.
Only when they reached the Dragon Claw's section did things change.
The soldiers recognized her at once. They stepped forward eagerly to guide her, pointing the way to the prince's pavilion.
Finally, a knight named Ser Loren Rayne approached. He gently eased her anxiety, assuring her that Eleonora, Ser Jorah, and Allyn Wood were all safe and none had suffered serious wounds.
Ser Loren's company was surprisingly pleasant—even entertaining—though Ser Kivan called him a liar and both Ser Tristifer and Elia repeatedly warned her to beware the treachery of the "Lion's remnant."
At last, Daenerys stood before her brother's pavilion.
Unsullied flanked the entrance—another new sight.
Her brother had never kept these eunuch warriors before. He always said the same money could buy more whole men, and buying small batches of Astapor slaves made no sense.
The Unsullied clearly did not know their master had a sister. They immediately lowered their spears to block her path.
"Daenerys Targaryen!"
She had to shout her name with all her strength.
Viserys did not make her wait.
He came out himself—strong, radiant with victory, every inch the conqueror.
He wore fresh royal garments that perfectly suited his tall, commanding frame, looking every bit the true prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Without a word, he pulled her into a firm, warm embrace.
For a long moment, words were unnecessary. Daenerys clung to him tightly while her escorts stood quietly aside, waiting for their own moment.
How she wished this long-awaited happiness would never end.
"My friends, my loyal servants," Viserys finally spoke, each word landing softly in Daenerys's heart. "No amount of thanks could ever be enough… but I do not see Ser Olivar. Did he fall ill on the road?"
"Your Grace, we must report—" Ser Tristifer began, but Daenerys, tired of constant protection, cut him off.
She was no longer a child. She was ready to tell her brother everything herself.
"Ser Tristifer, Ser Kivan, Darion, Elia." The princess nodded to each of them with sincere gratitude. "I thank you all for your service. I know my brother will reward you fairly and generously. But I have been apart from him too long. I wish to tell him everything myself."
"You heard the princess," Viserys said with a gentle smile. "A true queen has spoken."
Daenerys felt her cheeks flush.
"I do need to speak with my sister alone. Return in three hours and we will discuss your well-earned rewards."
The escorts remained outside. Daenerys followed her brother into the pavilion.
The moment they stepped inside, Doreah threw herself at her feet. The Lysene slave girl had already prepared everything to care for the weary princess.
Knowing serious matters were at hand, Viserys dismissed her, then sat in a sturdy chair. Daenerys took the seat across from him.
"Tell me."
"Someone tried to kill me."
The princess spoke plainly.
They had endured too much together. She was grown now, and she had the courage to face harsh truth.
"Ser Olivar died protecting us. The rest of us were forced to flee Ten-Day Town."
The smile vanished from Viserys's face at once.
"Speak."
He asked no questions, simply letting her tell the story herself.
Daenerys hid nothing. She began with the disgusting street play and continued all the way to their hiding on the islands at the mouth of the Rhoyne.
She described the number of assassins, their foreign appearance that stood out in Volantis, and their professional fighting skill.
She explained that everyone believed the attack was the work of the Usurper Robert's vile agents.
Had her guards not fought to the death—and had a red priest not appeared to help—they would never have escaped.
"As soon as we heard of your great victory, we set out at once," Daenerys finished her long account.
"I am glad you and the others made it safely," Viserys said, kissing her again as if to drive away every fear and worry she had carried for months. They were finally together once more. "Were you afraid?"
"No!"
The answer was only half true.
Daenerys had tried hard to maintain the calm dignity of a Targaryen princess in front of her knights and tutor. But many nights she had woken drenched in cold sweat, every small sound making her think new killers had come.
"I am of the blood of the dragon. I have nothing to fear."
Daenerys looked at her brother, hoping for praise, but instead received a gentle yet profound lesson.
"Fear, Daenerys, is sometimes necessary—when it is measured. Denying danger and rushing blindly into the lion's jaws is stupidity. You did the right thing by leaving Ten-Day Town at once. You know that in your heart." Viserys gave her a warm smile. "A wise king or queen knows when to draw the sword and when to withdraw. Reckless courage has killed countless men. You should remember the lesson of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. The Pretender died because of excessive bravery. He insisted on single combat with Ser Gwayne Corbray and ignored the entire battlefield, giving Bloodraven the opening for a fatal shot."
"What about our brother Rhaegar?" Daenerys suddenly asked, remembering yesterday's lesson. Even after her brother's victory, Elia had not gone easy on her studies. "Was he also killed by his own courage?"
"He was," Viserys sighed softly. "Knowing our father was mad and our younger brother too young to take up the sword, he still chose to face Robert in single combat. That was foolish. He fought bravely, nobly, honorably… and he still died. On the Trident, Rhaegar did not lose only his own life. He lost the Targaryen dynasty's right to rule Westeros."
Hearing those words, Daenerys stared at her brother's hands.
Those were the hands that had destroyed the seemingly invincible lord of the grass sea.
According to Ser Tristifer and Elia, the Usurper Robert and Khal Drogo were no different—both were savage butchers. Only the gods' cruel joke had placed one in Storm's End instead of a Dothraki camp.
If, on that cursed day, it had been Viserys who rode out for the dragons… everything would have been different.