Drogo stood by the large cauldron, continuously adding firewood.
The sun moved from the east to directly overhead, then tilted toward the west; he just sat there, staring at the boiling water in the pot.
Hago had been sent away by him to continue collecting cloth.
Koso and Cohollo remained by his side, with dozens of Dothraki Riders scattered not far away.
The procession continued eastward until the rear guard was no longer in sight; only then did Drogo fish out the dragon eggs and put them back into the chest.
“Boiling them still doesn’t work.
I need to think of another way.
Unless absolutely necessary, I must not take that final step.” He closed the chest and handed it to Koso, “Help me return the dragon eggs to the Khaleesi.” Koso took it, vaulted onto his horse, and galloped toward the front of the procession.
Then Drogo mounted his horse as well.
He and Cohollo rode ahead, putting some distance between themselves and the Dothraki Riders behind them.
Cohollo glanced back to ensure no one could overhear before speaking: “The prophecy of the Horse God—what does it have to do with the dragon eggs?” “My fate is bound to the dragon eggs.” He paused, his tone solemn.
“I saw it in the prophecy.
I will be wounded in battle and poisoned by a witch.
I will be turned into a living corpse by Blood Magic.” In modern times, such words would be dismissed as charlatanry, but to the Dothraki, they were called an ‘oracle’.
He looked at Drogo, trying to discern something from that face—a joke, a test, anything at all.
But that face remained deep and stern.
Cohollo laughed a few times, trying to lighten the mood.
“The Horse God also prophesied that one person would unite all the Dothraki tribes, yet no one has ever been able to do it.” “By now, it’s just idle gossip people bring up over tea.
You know, no one spends their whole life clinging to a prophecy.” Drogo said with absolute certainty: “I will be the one who unites the entire The Great Grass Sea, the one who unites all the Dothraki tribes.” “But first, I must stay alive.” Drogo continued forward.
Cohollo pulled the reins, stopping in place, staring intently at his back.
Cohollo paused for a moment before spurring his horse to catch up with Drogo again.
“Since you already know what will happen, it can surely be avoided.
We just need to kill all those witches.” He spoke lightly, as if talking about slaughtering a few sheep.
Drogo felt both amused and exasperated inwardly.
“If the dragons don’t hatch, the ensuing calamities will be truly fatal—and I don’t know where those calamities will emerge from or in what form they will find me.” He said, “The Horse God only prophesied once and won’t give me a second prophecy.
Avoiding this disaster isn’t hard, but avoiding the ones that follow won’t be easy.” “It is better to use this known future to make a few adjustments and hatch the dragon hatchlings.” Cohollo looked at Drogo with a shocked expression, yet he still tried to remain calm: “You already have a plan?” Drogo looked at him and nodded, then told him the entire plan.
After listening, Cohollo’s mouth hung open, speechless.
The Khal before his eyes could no longer be described as merely ‘unfamiliar’; it was as if he had been replaced by a different person.
Ever since the trip to Pentos, not a single thing Drogo did or said made sense to him; even his daily habits had changed.
This child he had watched grow up had, at some unknown point, turned into someone else.
Someone he recognized less and less.
Drogo squeezed his horse’s flanks and broke into a gallop.
“I need you to help me.” He didn’t look back.
“But you must keep the secret.
This matter cannot be known even by Koso and Hago.” The wind carried his words back.
Cohollo didn’t answer, merely urging his horse to keep up.
As Drogo rode, he thought to himself: When the Horse Lord died, how many women cried in front of their screens even louder than the Khaleesi.
This time, I will keep her away from Tyrion Lannister—that dwarf full of talk about righteousness—who would have her limit the use of her dragons and teach her to be soft-hearted.
If old Tywin hadn’t been shot to death in the privy, one might suspect the dwarf was an undercover agent sent by House Lannister.
She also needs to stay away from Jon Snow, that nephew who had her go to the North to deliver a dragon to the Night King.
All of them can get lost.
I will personally escort her to the Iron Throne, crown her, and make her the Empress of Westeros!
Drogo rode forward, with Cohollo following closely behind.
Halfway, they met Koso, who was returning after delivering the dragon eggs to Daenerys.
The three rode together and soon reached the front of the procession.
Daenerys was not far away, riding that silver-grey filly.
Seeing him, she smiled.
Drogo smiled back in response, but he noticed she wasn’t sitting straight, appearing unsteady.
He rode over and asked, “Are you feeling unwell?” Daenerys was a bit surprised; she didn’t expect the rugged-looking Drogo to speak such caring words.
“It’s just that after riding for so long, my legs and back are sore.” The translator this time was another handmaid, Jiji, a black-haired, brown-skinned Dothraki girl.
Drogo remembered her; she was the handmaid Viserys had gifted to Daenerys at the wedding feast, specifically tasked with teaching Daenerys the dothraki language.
Viserys had also sent another Dothraki handmaid, Eli, specifically to teach Daenerys how to ride.
There was also a Lysene handmaid, Doria, specifically to teach Daenerys the arts of the bedchamber.
Viserys certainly had many little schemes.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“It’s alright,” she said, but her feet in the stirrups were trembling.
He leaned over and squeezed her calf; the muscle was as hard as stone.
“It’s normal.
It will get better after a few more days of riding.” When they made camp to rest in the evening, Drogo saw that she needed the handmaids’ help to dismount, her legs shaking so much she could barely stand.
He immediately walked over, helped her to a stool, and knelt down to perform a careful examination.
Daenerys’s hands were blistered from the reins, and the skin on her inner thighs was chafed raw.
Most severe was her backside, scarred and bleeding from the saddle, and her ankles were red and swollen.
He knelt beside her and rested Daenerys’s calf on his leg.
He was applying ointment to her ankle—a herbal medicine he had bought in Pentos for treating bruises, reducing swelling, and relieving pain.
It was green and applied in a thick layer.
“Does it itch?” he asked.
“A little,” she said, looking down at his movements.
“Do you…
often apply medicine for people?” “First time.” She was stunned for a moment: “Then why is your technique so practiced?” His hand paused briefly.
“How should I explain?
That I practiced it in the gym in my past life?
Or from spraining my ankles playing basketball?” “Bumps and bruises are inevitable,” he said vaguely.
“One has to know a bit of this.” After speaking, he also warned Jiji and Lali to just translate and not to be nosy.
She didn’t ask further, just stared at his face.
Her gaze held a hint of scrutiny; this man before her was different from what Viserys and Illyrio had described.
Before this, she had always thought the Dothraki were savage and heartless beasts in human skin.
She wasn’t wrong in that thought; it was simply that Drogo was different from other Dothraki.