Killing Drogo did not automatically make Rahallo the new khal.
When a khal died, his khalasar often fractured.
The Dothraki were loyal to strength, but they would not easily bow to a man with no victories of his own.
Warriors would either follow a rising champion, break off into smaller khalasars, or become rootless exiles.
Rahallo understood this perfectly.
He and Drogo had already crossed the point of no return.
For his own survival there had been no other choice.
Fortunately, as the son of Khal Drolo, his blood gave him the strongest claim of anyone present.
Blood alone, however, was not enough.
Only overwhelming force could secure his position.
Many of Drolo’s old loyalists and even some ordinary warriors might still feel enough loyalty to the dead khal to support his son.
But those were only possibilities.
True certainty could only be bought with blood and steel.
Most of the gathered warriors stared in shock at Drogo’s headless corpse, then at Rahallo holding the severed head on his blade.
For a long moment they stood frozen, uncertain what to do.
Then the shock broke.
Curses filled the air.
Steel whispered from scabbards.
The dangerous tension in the circle thickened, ready to explode into another slaughter.
At that moment Ser Jorah Mormont seized Daenerys by the arm and pulled her behind him.
He kept his eyes on Rahallo as he began backing away.
“Your Grace, we must leave.
Now.” Jorah kept moving, shielding Daenerys as he tried to put distance between them and the center of the chaos.
On the other side of the circle Viserys had gone deathly pale.
His legs shook.
He clung to Illyrio’s arm like a drowning man.
He did not know Rahallo, but any man who could butcher a khal with such casual brutality was not someone he wanted to stand near.
The plan to trade his sister for an army suddenly felt very far away.
Right now survival was the only thing that mattered.
Illyrio tried to shake Viserys off, but the younger man refused to let go.
The two of them stumbled backward through the crowd, trying to disappear.
Their carefully crafted plan to restore House Targaryen had collapsed before it had even begun.
Meanwhile, the three bloodriders who had been closest to Drogo—Cohollo, Haggo, and Qotho—screamed curses and charged straight at Rahallo, arakhs raised.
They meant to avenge their khal or die trying.
These three were the finest warriors in the khalasar.
They had shared Drogo’s wealth, his glory, and his fate.
Now that their master was dead, they threw themselves into a suicidal attack without hesitation.
Cohollo came first.
The big, bald man with the hooked nose and jagged teeth looked even more savage in his fury.
His blade tore through the air in a devastating overhead strike meant to split Rahallo in two.
Rahallo simply shifted his weight.
Cohollo’s arakh missed by a hair, the wind of its passing tugging at Rahallo’s sleeve.
Haggo followed instantly, his blade darting like a striking snake toward Rahallo’s throat.
Rahallo’s eyes flashed cold.
His own blade moved in a blur too fast to follow.
There was a wet sound.
Haggo’s head flew into the air, blood spraying in a bright arc.
His body continued forward two more steps before it collapsed in a heap.
Qotho saw both of his blood brothers die in the space of a heartbeat.
He knew at once he stood no chance in a direct fight.
He began to back away, looking for another angle.
But Rahallo’s gaze had already locked onto him.
Qotho felt like a hrakkar had fixed him in its sights.
He spun, trying to escape.
He was too slow.
Rahallo crossed the distance in one step.
The Damascus blade flashed once.
Another head hit the ground.
Qotho’s face still wore an expression of stunned disbelief.
He had not even had time to scream.
Cohollo watched both of his sworn brothers die.
A look of final, desperate resolve filled his eyes.
He raised his arakh high and brought it down with all his strength, aiming to crush Rahallo’s skull.
Rahallo did not dodge.
He lifted his own blade to meet the strike, then reached out with his free hand and caught Cohollo’s wrist.
Cohollo felt an impossible force clamp down.
There was a sharp crack as the bones in his wrist snapped.
He grunted in pain, eyes wide with shock.
Rahallo seized Cohollo’s long braid and yanked downward hard.
The big man was forced to bend double.
With one clean motion Rahallo sliced through the braid at the base, taking a strip of scalp with it.
He did not kill Cohollo.
He chose a more humiliating punishment instead.
It was the most efficient way to break the will of everyone watching.
Cohollo let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding scalp.
Rahallo held the bloody braid high and looked around the circle.
Every warrior who had been ready to fight moments earlier now stood frozen.
They stared at him with open awe and fear.
The fight had gone out of them completely.
Rahallo swept his gaze across the silent crowd, still holding the braid aloft so that blood dripped steadily onto the ground.
“I am the son of Khal Drolo,” he said, voice carrying clearly.
“Rahallo, Son of Iron and Blood.
Is there anyone else who wishes to avenge Drogo?” No one answered.
The only sound was Cohollo’s low, pained groaning.
No one stepped forward.
They had seen enough.
Rahallo’s strength and his ruthless efficiency had crushed any thought of resistance.
“Since there is no one…” Rahallo continued, turning his head toward the direction where Daenerys and the others had fled, “then bring our guests back.
I, Khal Rahallo, will finish the wedding that was begun here today.”