Chapter 12: Across the Narrow Sea — Daenerys and the Dothraki Camp

The sun on the Dothraki plain did not so much rise as declare itself, arriving each morning with the absolute confidence of an authority that has never been questioned and does not intend to begin. There was no gradation to it, no Verentshire half-light of grey dawn softening into day; one moment the sky was the deep purple of a bruise, and the next it was white with heat, and the grass — which was not so much grass as the plain's insistence that something living might be made of this — lay flat and tawny in all directions without the courtesy of a hill.

Miss Daenerys Targarrow had, by the third week of her marriage, ceased to expect a hill. One adapted, or one did not, and she had made her determination on the matter before the narrow sea had finished disappearing behind her.

She sat now at the entrance to her tent in the hour before the camp woke fully, which was the only hour she had reliably to herself, and regarded her dragon eggs.