The Khalasar continued eastward for more than half a month.
During the day, Drogo had his own matters to attend to, as he began implementing the System of Thousands.
After being tossed around for a while, Koso and Hago no longer had the energy to object.
Hago, in particular, was busy every day collecting fabric.
After finally managing to gather ten thousand pieces, Drogo had him organize people to sew them together into the shape of bags.
Koso’s side was even more of a headache.
Drogo had him find a craftsman to weave a basket large enough for three or four people to stand in.
He asked from the front of the line to the back, from sunrise to sunset.
Whenever he saw someone, he would say the same thing: “Does your family have a slave who can weave baskets?
Lysene?
Myrish?
Tyroshi?
Any will do.” He asked for four days straight, and by the end, his voice was hoarse.
On the morning of the fifth day, someone finally nodded.
It was an elderly Dothraki Warriors who herded sheep.
He squinted and thought for a long time before saying: “My family has a Tyroshi, captured years ago, who can weave small baskets for holding things.” Koso quickly requisitioned his slave.
In fact, Drogo’s push for reform was proceeding quite smoothly.
This actually surprised him a little.
He had even thought of several ways to curb the opposition of his ‘people,’ but now they were unnecessary.
One Bloodrider was chosen for every thousand warriors, ten Centurions, and a hundred Decurions.
When these “official positions” were announced, the ordinary tribesmen felt as if it were a festival.
Those men who usually only cared about riding and killing suddenly found they had a chance to become a leader.
Who would object?
Who would dare to object?
If there were someone so blind, they would likely be chopped into mincemeat by those eagerly waiting to become officials before they could even open their mouths.
The matter instead got stuck on the selection of candidates, unable to be finalized.
Bravery in battle was merely the foundation.
The key was to choose those who could not only fight but also manage people, be obedient, and accurately execute the Khal’s orders.
The Dothraki never lacked warriors; those who could fight were everywhere.
But finding someone who could both fight and manage people was harder than finding a camel in a herd of horses.
Drogo was blocked every day.
As soon as the sun rose, there were warriors holding their horses, waiting outside his tent.
When they met, they would first show their braids, letting Drogo see how long they were, how many bells they had, and how many people they had killed.
Then they would perform swordplay, horsemanship, and mounted archery.
After the routine, they would be covered in sweat, looking at him expectantly.
“Khal, can I be a Bloodrider?” Drogo nodded.
Their physical skills were indeed good, and their riding and archery were faultless.
Then he would ask: “How will your thousand men set up camp every day?
How will the rations be divided?
Who do they go to first if something happens?” The other party would freeze.
He would ask again: “Can you count?
If a hundred people each get three pieces of meat, how many pieces do you need in total?” The other party’s face would wrinkle up like a stumped wolf.
Drogo would look at that face, wave his hand, and let the man go.
Later, he discovered that some warriors began returning to their tents to find the slaves they had looted from cities, asking them how to count and how to keep accounts.
Some even had slaves teach them to write, using a stick to scratch in the dirt.
Drogo saw this.
He stood there, watching those people clumsily scratching away.
Although his face showed no expression, he felt quite gratified in his heart.
This was something he hadn’t expected.
He had originally only wanted to find a few people who could manage things; he hadn’t expected to force this pack of wolves to learn.
What he wanted was to boil the frog in warm water, gradually changing the habits of his ‘people’ bit by bit.
Daenerys liked to ride at the very front of the Khalasar.
The large force behind was too noisy; the horses’ hooves turned the turf into mud, the river water was stirred up and murky, and the dust they kicked up could choke a person to death.
Riding in front was different.
Before her eyes were lush green fields, the tips of the grass rolling like waves in the wind, and the air smelled only of fresh grass.
After spending these days together, the two of them no longer needed a translator to speak.
Daenerys’s dothraki language was improving quickly, and she could manage daily conversation.
Drogo’s common tongue progressed even more rapidly—he had studied it back in school, so the foundation was there, but after several years as a corporate slave, he had nearly forgotten it all.
Now that he was picking it up again, his progress was lightning fast.
Today he came up from the back of the line, having just finalized the selection for a Bloodrider.
His horse ran up beside Daenerys, riding shoulder to shoulder with her.
“Your horsemanship is improving fast,” he said.
“Eli has taught you well.” Daenerys smiled and reached out to stroke the silver filly’s neck.
“Yes.
But the silver filly is my true teacher.
It seems to know my mood and shares a connection with my heart.” She thought for a moment before picking that last phrase.
She continued, “I’ve never loved anything so much.
I want to give it a name, but I know Dothraki custom never names animals.” Drogo looked at Daenerys dotingly.
“It can be done.
You can give it a name.” Daenerys smiled very happily.
“That’s wonderful.” She frowned, her face serious, thinking of one name after another.
Lightning?
No, too common.
White Cloud?
No, too plain.
Snowmane?
No, too much of a mouthful.
Every time she thought of one, she would shake her head and reject it first.
Drogo watched from the side, the corners of his mouth curling up in an unconscious smile of happiness.
“How about I give you one?” Daenerys’s eyes lit up.
“Okay!” Drogo thought for a moment, and then thought again.
“Let’s call it White Dragon Horse.” Daenerys repeated it twice, liking it more the more she said it.
She leaned down to stroke the horse’s cheek, and the horse snorted as if it were also happy.
“White Dragon Horse, you have a name!” The horse pawed the ground twice with its front hooves.
Daenerys straightened up, squeezed the horse’s belly with her legs, and bolted forward.
The grassland swept backward, and the silver mane flew in the wind, as elegant as a cloud.
She rode very fast, circled a large area, and then ran back, her face slightly flushed and her hair a bit messy, but smiling happily.
She looked at the red and black horse beneath Drogo, tall, powerful, and with a very fierce gaze.
“What is your horse called?” Drogo patted the horse’s neck.
“Red Hare.” As soon as he finished speaking, Viserys’s roar came from the ridge.
The voice was sharp, cutting through the wind on the prairie, carrying an uncontrollable rage.
He was shouting at Jorah.
What he was shouting was unclear, but everyone knew that tone—he was throwing his kingly tantrum again.
Drogo didn’t look back.
He continued riding forward, his horse walking steadily, as if he had heard nothing.
Daenerys’s expression changed.
She reined in her horse and looked toward the ridge.
Viserys was pushing Jorah aside, pushing Cohollo aside, and charging down on his nearly exhausted horse.
Before the person even arrived, his voice came through: “I’ve had enough!” He rushed in front of Drogo, the horse being reined in so hard its front hooves reared up, nearly throwing him off.
“This godforsaken place, I’m not staying!” His face was flushed red, and the veins on his neck were bulging.
“What you do in Vaes Dothrak has nothing to do with me.
Give me ten thousand soldiers and horses, I want to fight my way back to Westeros!” The surrounding Dothraki didn’t quite understand his words; they just looked at him like they were looking at a sheep screaming in a pack of wolves.
Daenerys’s face turned from white to pale green.
She gripped the reins, her knuckles turning white.
She knew it would be like this.
Every time Viserys saw her these days, he would say it once: if Drogo didn’t fulfill his promise, he would let him taste The Dragon’s Wrath.
She thought he was just talking and wouldn’t really be stupid enough to rush over and demand troops.
But he really had come.
She looked at Drogo.
He just reined in his horse and sat there, looking at Viserys like he was looking at a noisy child.
But Daenerys knew that Drogo was not like her; he would not let himself be bullied by him.
She didn’t know what Drogo would do, but she knew something was bound to happen.
She wanted to yell at Viserys to shut up, wanted him to leave quickly, but from childhood to now, she had never once disobeyed him.
No matter how unpleasant the words or how excessive the demands, she would always listen with her head bowed and then do as told.
She could only freeze there, watching Viserys roar hysterically.