And last of all, Khal Drogo brought forth his own bride gift to her. An expectant hush rippled out from the center of the camp as he left her
side, growing until it had swallowed the whole khalasar. When he returned, the dense press of Dothraki gift-givers parted before him, and he
led the horse to her.
She was a young filly, spirited and splendid. Dany knew just enough about horses to know that this was no ordinary animal. There was
something about her that took the breath away. She was grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke.
Hesitantly she reached out and stroked the horse’s neck, ran her fingers through the silver of her mane. Khal Drogo said something in
Dothraki and Magister Illyrio translated. “Silver for the silver of your hair, the khal says.”
“She’s beautiful,” Dany murmured.
“She is the pride of the khalasar,” Illyrio said. “Custom decrees that the khaleesi must ride a mount worthy of her place by the side of the
khal.”
Drogo stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. He lifted her up as easily as if she were a child and set her on the thin Dothraki
saddle, so much smaller than the ones she was used to. Dany sat there uncertain for a moment. No one had told her about this part. “What
should I do?” she asked Illyrio.
It was Ser Jorah Mormont who answered. “Take the reins and ride. You need not go far.”
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