By the time Koso returned to the campfire, the wine had already been poured.
Hago sat cross-legged, a large leg of roasted lamb set before him, carving meat with a knife to eat.
Cohollo leaned against a saddle, bowl in hand, not drinking, staring blankly at the fire.
Dozens of warriors sat scattered around, with several slave girls waiting nearby, ready to dance.
Normally at this time, people would have already entered the field to spar, blades reflecting the fire, blood and wine mixing together, their shouts enough to overturn half the camp.
Tonight, no one moved.
Koso plopped down and grabbed a wine bowl, taking a large gulp.
Cohollo glanced at him.
“Where is the Khal?” “Full,” Koso said, setting the bowl down on the ground with a thud.
“He told us to eat by ourselves.” Hago’s hand carving the meat paused, and he raised his eyelids to look at him.
The warriors around them exchanged looks.
A younger one couldn’t help but mutter, “The Khal isn’t coming?” No one responded.
Hago carved a piece of meat and chewed slowly.
Cohollo stared at the fire, his face expressionless.
After a moment of silence, Koso suddenly spoke, “He’s eating with two sticks.” Several people around them looked over.
“What sticks?” “Just two small wooden sticks,” Koso gestured.
“Pinching the meat and bringing it to his mouth, like a bird pecking at a worm.” Someone let out a laugh, but choked it back halfway.
“It must be that foreign woman’s doing,” Koso said, his voice stiff.
Hago lowered his head and continued carving meat, as if this matter wasn’t worth looking up for.
Cohollo swallowed the meat and spoke, “She is the Khaleesi, not a foreign woman.” Koso looked at him.
Cohollo set down his carving knife.
“The Khal has eaten; if he’s not coming, he’s not coming.
It’s just a meal.” “But the Khal wasn’t like this before.” He wasn’t like this before.
Once those words were spoken, no one said another word.
In the past, at this time, the Khal would be sitting in the very center, with the largest wine bowl and the most meat.
When he was in high spirits, he would step out to spar a bit with his brothers—not with blades, but with just fists and feet—getting covered in dust and then laughing heartily.
When the women danced, he would casually toss a copper medallion for them to fight over.
Even if they fought until they were bloodied, he would just watch and laugh.
Now he was in that tent, using two sticks to pinch meat.
Hago suddenly stood up.
Koso looked at him.
“Where are you going?” “To sleep,” Hago said.
Koso opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He picked up his wine bowl, took a sip, and said nothing more.
Cohollo picked up a skin of fermented mare’s milk, took a swig, and passed it to the person next to him.
That person took it, also drank a gulp, and passed it along.
Yet still, no one entered the field to spar, no one shouted, and no one laughed.
The campfire crackled, sparks leaping upward and vanishing into the dark night.
Cohollo gazed at Daenerys’s tent; the door flap was tightly closed, with only a flicker of lamplight leaking through the gaps.
He watched for a while, then withdrew his gaze and picked up a piece of cheese.
After the meal, the atmosphere in the tent gradually became more intimate.
Drogo pushed the remaining food on the silver platter toward Lali.
“A reward for you.” Lali lowered her eyes.
“Khal, it is my honor.” Daenerys asked, “Are you…
not leaving tonight?” “I’m not leaving.” Her eyes glanced toward the curtain.
“Then the Bloodriders won’t blame me, will they?
I don’t want a rift to form between you because of me.” Drogo smiled.
He thought of those emperors who lost their empires by being obsessed with women.
He couldn’t be like that, but then he reconsidered; once or twice wouldn’t matter much.
He changed the subject.
“You are a Khaleesi now.
In the future, you will have to speak with the Bloodriders, the tribe, and your future children.
How much of the dothraki language have you learned?” Daenerys thought for a moment and spoke a few everyday phrases in the dothraki language.
Her pronunciation was a bit off, but she could be understood.
Drogo also spoke, replying in the common tongue.
He tried hard to articulate his words, but his tongue felt tied in knots.
After hearing him, Daenerys doubled over with laughter.
Drogo watched her.
When she laughed heartily, her face scrunched up, her mouth pulled wide, and her eyes narrowed into two slits.
She really wasn’t as pretty as when she wasn’t laughing.
But she was laughing happily.
The kind of happiness where one doesn’t need to pretend or hide, laughing whenever they want to.
After she finished laughing, she took a breath and said, “Teach me the dothraki language.” “Lali and Jiji are already teaching you.” “That doesn’t count.
I want you to teach me.
I want to learn a phrase that I can use myself later.” He thought for a moment.
“Then learn something fierce.
If anyone dares to bully you in the future, say this.” Daenerys straightened her posture, facing him, waiting for him to speak.
Drogo taught her a phrase.
She repeated it after him, learning quickly and pronouncing the syllables correctly.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“How are you doing today?” She was stunned.
Then, her eyes turned red.
“You’re teasing me,” she said, her voice a bit choked up.
“You said you’d teach me something fierce…” Drogo stepped forward and embraced her, pulling her into his arms.
She stopped talking, just lowering her head as tears fell one by one onto the rug.
He panicked slightly.
“What’s wrong?
Did I say something wrong?” She shook her head and looked up, her face covered in tears, yet the corners of her mouth were turned up.
“No,” she said.
“I just…
no one has ever…” She couldn’t go on.
He reached out and wiped the tears from her face.
“Daenerys,” he said.
“Mhm?” “From now on, you do.” She looked at Drogo for a long time.
Her violet eyes were moist, reflecting the firelight.
Then, she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
It was very light and cool, like the brush of a feather.
She leaned in his arms like that, listening to him talk about the grasslands.
He spoke of horses, of how stars were the souls of warriors after they died, and how to find one’s way on the plains.
She listened, occasionally giving a hum of acknowledgement.
Later, he spoke of what happens after a Khal dies.
He said, “When a Khal dies, the body must be wrapped in cloth.
From head to toe, wrapped tightly, then placed on a pyre to be burned.” Daenerys shifted and looked up at him.
“Why?” “It is the custom of the Dothraki.” Lali listened from the side, finding it strange.
She had lived among the Dothraki for so long and had never heard of such a custom.
But she had never seen a Khal’s funeral, nor did she dare to question Drogo’s words.
As Daenerys listened, she fell asleep.
Her breathing was shallow, her eyelashes fluttering occasionally.
Drogo looked down at her; moonlight leaked through the gaps in the tent, falling on her silver hair like a layer of frost.
He watched her for a while, then lightly raised his hand, signaling Lali to withdraw.
Lali stood up, silently lifting the curtain and slipping out.
Only the two of them remained in the tent.
Looking at her sleeping face, Drogo had a sudden idea.
He reached out and took the oil lamp from the side; the oil was nearly gone, and the flame was small, flickering.
He slowly brought the lamp close to the back of her hand.
The flame licked her skin—once, twice, thrice…
he counted, burning it for more than ten breaths.
Daenerys woke up with a start.
Drogo immediately kissed her lips, his left hand quickly returning the oil lamp to its place, then gently soothing her: “You were dreaming; you were having another dream.” Daenerys panted, her eyes unfocused for a moment before she slowly recovered.
Lately, she had occasionally dreamed of being consumed by a great fire.
In the dreams, she felt her muscles charring and blackening, necrotizing and peeling away, and felt her blood boiling and evaporating.
So, she naturally believed Drogo’s words.
“Go to sleep,” Drogo said, gently patting her back.
She closed her eyes and soon fell back to sleep.
Her breathing gradually leveled out.
He looked at the back of Daenerys’s hand; it was only slightly red, with no blisters or peeling skin.
As expected, a true dragon is not afraid of fire.
Drogo lowered his head and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Goodnight, ‘Mother of Dragons’.”