When Raven opened his eyes, a sea of green stretched out before him.
Grass.
Boundless grass rolling like waves in the wind.
The thunder of hooves roared in his ears, and the black horse beneath him was galloping joyfully, its mane flying as the scenery on both sides streaked backward.
The horse was running like mad, its four hooves barely touching the ground.
He could only grip the reins tightly, letting it carry him as it sprinted across the green wilderness.
He looked down at himself: a bare chest, bronze skin, eight-pack abs, and a curved blade hanging at his waist.
Looking up again, he saw a burly man on horseback to his left and right.
They wore braids and were shouting at him in a language that he could understand, yet felt incredibly foreign.
“Khal Drogo, there is a caravan ahead.
Shall we raid them?” Khal Drogo!
He tried hard to remember.
“Wasn’t I just practicing partner yoga with my Senior Sister?
Why am I here riding a horse and raiding a caravan?
What’s going on?
Did I fall asleep from exhaustion and start dreaming…” As he was thinking, a segment of foreign memories slammed into his mind.
His vision suddenly blurred, making it impossible to see the road ahead.
Dothraki, Khalasar, Khal Drogo.
I am Khal Drogo?
I’ve fucking transmigrated.
I’ve directly become that Horse Lord of the plains who had such a powerful start but died such a pathetic death.
Once his vision cleared, he realized he was currently on the road to Pentos—to marry the Mother of Dragons.
However, that hadn’t happened yet.
“Khal?” the burly man on the left called out again.
He was a Bloodrider named Cohollo.
Drogo’s memories told Raven that “raiding caravans” was a daily operation for their group.
As a law-abiding modern man, his conscience told him that robbery was wrong, but Drogo’s memories reminded him that if they encountered a caravan and didn’t take something, the Dothraki would think their Khal was weak.
Weakness was the most unacceptable word in the Dothraki dictionary.
He opened his mouth to speak and found the dothraki language flowing out automatically: “Raid them all.” The Bloodrider on the right was named Koso.
Upon hearing the command, he acted immediately, raising his curved blade and letting out a sharp, piercing howl.
That howl ignited the entire Khalasar.
The warriors drew their blades in unison, and the whistles and shouts rose one after another, joining into a wild tide of sound.
Raven—no, more accurately, Drogo—didn’t even have time to think, “Am I really going to kill people?” before his body instinctively squeezed the horse’s flanks, accelerating to chase after Koso and Cohollo.
The wind poured into his mouth, his ears, and into all those messy modern thoughts in his head.
He could only follow the crowd and charge forward.
The caravan was half a mile ahead.
Over a dozen wagons were circled into a simple defensive formation, while drivers and mercenaries frantically grabbed their weapons.
But they were too slow.
The Dothraki horses were fast as the wind; from the moment they were spotted to the moment the first arrow fell, only a few breaths had passed.
Drogo saw Cohollo stand up straight in his stirrups, his curved blade drawing a circle in the air.
Then, a mercenary trying to level a spear had half his head sliced off, red and white matter splashing onto the wagon.
Drogo’s stomach churned violently, and he almost vomited.
But he held it in.
He rode his black horse directly through a gap between two wagons.
His horse’s hooves trampled a fat man who was trying to hide; the man screamed as he rolled under the wheels, the sound of breaking bones audible even over the surrounding cacophony of battle.
Ahead, a burly man in leather armor lunged at him with a sword, his face a mix of terror and ferocity.
Drogo’s mind was still wondering, “Should I cut him?” but his hand had already moved.
The curved blade slashed upward from below.
The tip of the blade traced across the man’s chin, cheek, and eye socket.
The sensation was strange, like cutting through a piece of semi-frozen meat—a bit of resistance—and then, the moment the blade left the body, blood sprayed out, splashing hot onto his bare chest.
The man was still wide-eyed when he fell, his mouth open, making a wheezing sound in his throat.
His limbs twitched twice, and then he was still.
He looked down at his hand; the curved blade was still dripping blood, and the blood on his chest was trickling down his abdominal muscles.
The air was filled with the sounds of slaughter: the war cries of the Dothraki, the screams of the caravan guards, and the dull thuds of overturning wagons.
“Khal!” Cohollo shouted from nearby, his blade pointing at a merchant in silk robes.
“There’s a fat one who looks like he has money!” Drogo looked over.
The man was kneeling on the ground, trembling all over, holding up a coin purse and shaking it desperately while shouting pleas for mercy.
The merchant’s eyes met Drogo’s.
In those eyes, there was fear, supplication, and a hint of tears.
Drogo’s blade lowered.
He quickly recalled the Dothraki way of dealing with surrendered merchants.
They either killed them or took the survivors as slaves.
There was never a rule that said “let them go because they begged for mercy.” “Keep him alive.
Make him drive the wagon and load up all the goods.” Cohollo slapped the merchant’s back hard with the flat of his blade and roared at him, “The Khal spares your dog life!
Get up and get to work!” Drogo turned his horse and continued toward Pentos.
Behind him were overturned wagons, bodies strewn everywhere, and Dothraki looting the spoils of war.
He sat tall on his horse, a faint smile unconsciously touching the corners of his mouth.
This new body was tall, handsome, and as fierce as a lion on the plains.
He was the greatest rider the Dothraki had ever known, and a marksman who never missed; where his arrows flew, even the birds didn’t have time to flap their wings.
And beneath the reins he held tight was the most powerful Khalasar in the Dothraki Sea.
Over forty thousand roaring warriors followed his command.
Wherever they passed, the plains bowed and tribes submitted.
He was invincible and ever-victorious.
The three Bloodriders finished handling their respective spoils and spurred their horses to catch up.
Koso squeezed his horse’s flanks to ride alongside Drogo, looking at him with a dissatisfied tone of advice: “Our Khalasar has plenty of strong women with big breasts and round buttocks who can ride horses and bear children.
Why must the Khal marry an outsider?” Cohollo nodded from the other side, his grey-streaked braid swaying in the wind.
“I hear their people have skin as white as a dead fish’s belly.
They are weak and sickly, cannot stand the sun, and pant after walking just two steps.” Drogo listened; he knew these were the inherent perceptions of the Dothraki.
“You also know that the Magisters of those Free Cities treat us with great respect.
This is the woman Magister Illyrio of Pentos recommended to me.
What harm is there in taking a look?” Koso wanted to say more, but Cohollo stopped him with a look.
“The Khal is right,” Cohollo said, lowering his head slightly.
“There is no harm in looking.” Hago followed silently at the back, not saying a word.
The four continued riding.
Ahead, the sea of grass rolled in the wind, and the road to Pentos was still long.