Rahallo returned to the tent that had been prepared for him and Daenerys.
Colorful silks decorated the walls.
Soft Qohorik wool covered the ground.
A faint scent of spices hung in the air.
Daenerys had already changed into a silk sleeping robe so sheer it was nearly transparent.
The neckline was open, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones and a small swell of pale skin beneath.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the fabric of her robe, toes curled tightly against the carpet.
Her three handmaidens—Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah—stood nearby, whispering and giggling in anticipation.
When Rahallo entered, the three women immediately dropped to their knees in respect.
The tent fell silent except for the soft crackle of the torches.
Rahallo felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead.
This was awkward as hell.
In his last life he had been single from birth for decades.
Now, right after transmigrating, he was expected to perform on the highest difficulty setting?
No.
He was still a man who had graduated from the “E-disk” curriculum.
No one in this world had more experience than him.
He cleared his throat.
“Ahem.
How about we call it a night?
Everyone should get some rest.” Irri’s lips curved into a sly smile.
She answered in Dothraki.
“Khal, tonight we must stay and guide the khaleesi.
There are important things she needs to learn.” Jhiqui nodded.
“Yes, Khal.
It is our duty to help her adjust to life on the grass sea.” She glanced sideways at Daenerys, who was watching them with a confused expression, clearly unable to understand what was being said.
Doreah leaned in with a mysterious look.
“Khal, if you have any… difficulties, Doreah can help.” Jhiqui immediately understood and added helpfully, “That’s right.
A young Dothraki mare sometimes needs guidance before she can run properly.” Rahallo nearly choked on his own spit.
He felt insulted.
A man with three times the physical ability of an ordinary person could handle ten of them without breaking a sweat!
He looked at the eager handmaidens and at Daenerys, whose face had turned bright red, and felt like he had dug his own grave.
He had always believed in monogamy.
But since he was now on the Dothraki Sea, he would have to adapt to local customs.
Fine.
Let the storm come.
Tomorrow he would punish these little bitches by making them go gather goji berries in the mountains.
… Rahallo had temporarily stabilized the khalasar without large-scale bloodshed, but the situation remained precarious.
Many of Drogo’s former followers were proud and unruly.
Beneath the surface, dangerous undercurrents still flowed.
Some were undoubtedly eyeing his position.
To show strength and generosity, he ordered a grand funeral for Drogo.
The head and body had already been sewn back together by the dosh khaleen.
They now lay on a massive square pyre, the head facing the direction of Vaes Dothrak.
Drogo’s horse had been killed and placed beneath the wood.
When the first star appeared in the night sky, Rahallo personally lit the pyre.
Flames rose high, carrying Drogo’s soul toward the heavens.
Every star represented a fallen Dothraki warrior.
Drogo would ride his flaming horse through the night lands, fighting and feasting alongside them forever.
At dawn the next morning, golden sunlight spread across the grassland and illuminated the stone altar that had been prepared.
A large stone bowl sat on the altar, filled with fresh horse blood that had not yet clotted.
The metallic scent was strong.
This was the blood oath ceremony—the most sacred vow among the Dothraki.
Blood was sworn, and an unbreakable bond of brotherhood was formed.
Rahallo stood bare-chested, the lines of muscle clearly visible, and walked to the edge of the altar.
He looked down at the gathered warriors of his khalasar.
His gaze moved across the men standing at the front—Lazal, Rakharo, Jogo, Quaro, and old Khal Moro—before lifting to the endless grass sea beyond.
“I am Rahallo!” his voice carried across the plain.
“I carry the blood of Khal Drolo.
I will lead this khalasar!
I know some of you doubt me because I am young.
But I tell you this: not only do I have the right to lead you, I have the power to lead you in the conquest of an entire continent!” He paused, then continued with rising intensity.
“We will seize new lands!
We will take greater riches!
The name of Khal Rahallo will become the most feared name on the continent of Essos!
Our horses will trample every wall.
Our fires will burn every plain.
The whole world will kneel before this khalasar!” The crowd began to stir.
Warriors raised their arakhs and let out wild, beast-like roars.
Bloodlust spread through them like wildfire.
Rahallo lifted his blade high.
“Today I will swear the blood oath with my bloodriders—bonds that will never be broken!” He drew the edge across his wrist.
Blood welled and dripped into the stone bowl, mixing with the horse blood.
“I, Rahallo, swear by my blood that I and my bloodriders will share life and death, glory and shame!
My blood is your blood.
My life is your life!” Lazal was the first to step forward.
He had been the first warrior to submit to Rahallo’s strength.
He was a fighter capable of taking on a hundred men alone, and he commanded three thousand warriors of his own.
He strode to the altar, cut his own wrist, and let his blood fall into the bowl.
Then he clasped Rahallo’s bloody hand tightly.
“I, Lazal, swear by my blood to be loyal to Khal Rahallo forever!
My blood is your blood.
My life is your life!” Next came Rakharo, repeating the same ritual.
Then Jogo and Quaro.
Each oath was met with thunderous roars from the watching warriors.
The air itself seemed to burn with renewed fervor.
As the ceremony neared its end, an old man with a deeply lined face stepped forward.
It was Moro, who had followed Khal Drolo for many years.
He slowly knelt before Rahallo.
“Khal Rahallo, I, Moro, swear by my blood to acknowledge your rule!
My blood is your blood.
My life is your life.
May your iron hooves cover the grass sea and your name echo across the world.” For a former khal to kneel and swear was a powerful public acknowledgment of Rahallo’s authority.
Cheers shook the sky.
Warriors struck their saddles with the flats of their arakhs in the oldest expression of loyalty and excitement.
Young riders leaped onto their horses and galloped past, shouting Rahallo’s name at the top of their lungs.
But at that moment, three men—Bono, Jhaqo, and Khal Jommo—quietly slipped away from the gathering with their followers and disappeared into the vast grass sea.
When the ceremony ended, old Moro approached Rahallo and spoke in a low voice.
“My blood is your blood.
Bono and Jhaqo have left with their kos.
Khal Jommo has also taken his entire khalasar and departed.
Bono took ten thousand warriors, Jhaqo took another ten thousand, and Khal Jommo said he needs time to reconsider the terms of our alliance.” Rahallo had expected this.
His expression did not change.
He simply nodded.
“I understand.
They will come back.
Or I will go find them.” The khalasar had once held forty thousand warriors—the strongest on the Dothraki Sea.
Now half of them were gone.
In the story Rahallo remembered, Drogo’s death had left Daenerys with almost nothing.
Here, Rahallo still commanded twenty thousand warriors plus tens of thousands of women, children, and slaves.
That was already far better than the original outcome.
Dothraki khalasars had always split and reformed.
On this grassland, people gathered for profit and fought for profit.
It was the natural cycle.
The position of khal had never been won through peace.
Only overwhelming force could make these proud, unruly warriors lower their heads.
That was exactly why he had asked Illyrio for wildfire, white sugar, and wine bottles.
Expecting betrayal did not mean he would tolerate it.
Those who had left would soon learn what true overwhelming power felt like.