“Ai, Khaleesi,” said Aggo.  Her riders were not long in returning. Rakharo swung down from his saddle. From his medallion belt hung the great curving arakh that Dany had bestowed¹ on him when she named him bloodrider. “This city is dead, Khaleesi. Nameless and godless we found it, the gates broken, only wind and flies moving through the streets.”  Jhiqui shuddered². “When the gods are gone, the evil ghosts feast by night. Such places are best shunned³. It is known.”  “It is known,” Irri agreed.  “Not to me.” Dany put her heels into her horse and showed them the way, trotting⁴ beneath the shattered arch of an ancient gate and down a silent street. Ser Jorah and her bloodriders followed, and then, more slowly, the rest of the Dothraki.  How long the city had been deserted⁵ she could not know, but the white walls, so beautiful from afar, were cracked and crumbling⁶ when seen up close. Inside was a maze⁷ of narrow crooked⁸ alleys⁹. The buildings pressed close, their facades¹⁰ blank, chalky, windowless. Everything was white, as if the people who lived here had known nothing of color. They rode past heaps of sun-washed rubble¹¹ where houses had fallen in, and elsewhere saw the faded scars of fire. At a place where six alleys came together, Dany passed an empty marble plinth. Dothraki had visited this place before, it would seem. Perhaps even now the missing statue stood among the other stolen gods in Vaes Dothrak. She might have ridden past it a hundred times, never knowing. On her shoulder, Viserion

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