By the bay on the outskirts of Pentos, there was a magnificent palace where nine high towers rose from the ground, and pale ivy climbed the tall brick walls.
This was a gift jointly presented to Khal Drogo by the Magisters of Pentos.
Drogo stood at the palace gates, glanced up at the elaborately carved stone pillars, and stepped inside.
The servants stood in two rows, warmly welcoming the master of this palace.
“Welcome, Khal.
May your horse’s hooves trample all enemies.” A young maid stared directly at Drogo; an older maid beside her scolded in a low voice: “Lower your head!
Don’t stare at him!” Drogo did not stop, walking through their midst.
The steward remained three paces from Drogo, speaking fluent dothraki language, “Khal, for dinner we have prepared whole roasted lamb, honey-roasted meat, the sweet wine specialty of Pentos, and…” “Prepare hot water first.
I want to bathe.” Drogo had no patience to hear more.
His bedchamber was on the third floor, with woven carpets on the floor that felt soft to step on.
Four bronze pillars supported the gauze canopy of the bed, which was large enough to fit seven or eight people with room to spare.
From the window, a beautiful bay could be seen.
The bath was next door, a marble pool large enough for three or four people, and the hot water was already prepared.
He undressed and stepped inside.
The hot water rose to his chest, and his bones felt half-melted.
Servants bustled around him; one maid even entered the pool, pressing against his back to help him scrub.
He leaned against that soft flesh, letting them wash his hair and beard.
As the hot water poured over him, he closed his eyes.
His mind was filled with the beauty of life after marrying Daenerys: He would take her riding across the grasslands; they would deepen their bond in the open fields; he would fly into a rage for his beauty and announce his intent to seize the Iron Throne; he would be wounded in battle; The more he thought, the more things felt wrong.
Then he would be poisoned by a witch and fall gravely ill.
Daenerys would sacrifice their son’s life with Blood Magic to save him, only for him to end up in a vegetative state and be smothered to death by her with a pillow.
In other words, I have less than a year left to live.
“…Fuck.” He cursed subconsciously.
None of the servants could understand him, as what he blurted out was his true mother tongue.
The servant thought she had hurt him and knelt down in fear.
Drogo waved his hand to indicate it was fine and signaled her to continue.
“Since I’ve been soul-transmigrated into the Horse Lord, I certainly won’t let these things happen.” His fist tightened briefly, and his gaze grew sharp.
“But destiny is a fickle thing.
Even if I avoid the witch, there might be other crises waiting for me.
I must be careful, very careful.” After dressing, the servants helped him style his hair, tying the last bronze bell into his beard.
His hair was slicked with scented oil, shiny and bright; the servants were like people grooming a racehorse about to be exhibited.
The maid who had just scrubbed him in the bath spoke boldly: “The steward said that since you returned this time, you seem a bit different from before.” He searched his memories and said, “I only come here two or three times a year, staying for a few days each time.
How well could he know me?” “He said your eyes aren’t filled with bloodlust like they used to be.” “Because I live in a peaceful and happy era.” The maid sounded surprised: “What?
I heard the Dothraki Sea is not peaceful at all.” Drogo did not answer.
His lips twitched; it was hard to tell if it was a smile.
The maid added, “It really is different.
In the past, you wouldn’t have spoken so much to us.” He walked toward the window.
The bells tied to his beard chimed as he moved.
The Dothraki found this sound majestic, capable of intimidating enemies.
Drogo only found it noisy.
Outside the window was the suburban bay of Pentos.
At the distant docks, merchant ships were unloading cargo, and slaves moved like ants carrying sacks.
Further away, the Dothraki camp had been set up, with wisps of cooking smoke rising.
He remembered that Daenerys had tried to hatch dragon eggs with a hearth fire, but failed.
Was it really necessary to sacrifice himself to hatch the dragons?
No!
I want the dragons, but I don’t want to die!
Just then, the steward outside the door bowed and reported: “Khal, Magister Illyrio has sent word that the princess of House Targaryen will be delivered tomorrow.” Drogo did not turn around.
“Understood.” He would see Daenerys tomorrow.
He was both expectant and nervous.
Soon, it was time for the banquet.
Drogo had also invited many dignitaries of Pentos, as well as some Khals from other tribes.
The courtyard was brightly lit.
The long tables were filled with golden-roasted suckling pigs, whole fish stuffed with nuts, and figs soaked in honey.
The air was thick with the pungency of fire peppers, the sweetness of cinnamon, and the fragrance of sweet lemons.
The courtyard was packed with people, with the dignitaries of Pentos huddled together.
Several Khals were on the other side, their Bloodriders standing behind them.
Drogo was waiting for Illyrio to bring the woman he wanted to see.
Suddenly, a eunuch loudly announced a string of titles: “Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms…” The eunuch continued shouting a long list of titles.
Drogo heard Khal Moro beside him sneer and nudge his Bloodrider behind him with an elbow.
“King,” Molo said, “all by himself?” The Dothraki all laughed.
Drogo spotted Daenerys in the crowd at a glance; after all, she was the only woman present.
After seeing Daenerys, he felt a bit of a letdown, and his excitement from yesterday vanished.
The princess before him was but a thirteen-year-old woman with pale silver hair and a flat chest.
She wore deep purple silk robes that accentuated her violet eyes; she was indeed a budding beauty.
She stood at her brother’s side.
Viserys held his chin high, with an expression that said, “All you savages should be on your knees.” The three of them entered and conversed among themselves as Illyrio introduced Daenerys to the guests present.
This is Khal Moro, that is his son Rogolo, and that is Ser Jorah Mormont…
He patted Daenerys’s bare shoulder with a moist hand and introduced her solemnly, “And this is Khal Drogo himself.” Drogo also looked at Daenerys.
To be friendly, he gave her a smile, but he didn’t expect it to scare her into hiding behind Illyrio’s obese frame.
But she quickly noticed the fury in Viserys’s eyes and had no choice but to look timidly at Drogo.
Then, after saying a few words to Viserys, Illyrio walked toward Drogo.
Despite his bloated obesity, his steps were surprisingly light and elegant.
He came before Drogo, his mouth of yellow teeth showing through his golden beard: “Khal.” He pointed to Daenerys not far away, “This is the princess of House Targaryen.” Drogo looked over; Viserys was pinching Daenerys’s hand forcefully.
“She is a beauty, but she’s too young.” “She has had her flowering; she is a woman grown.” Drogo nodded and walked with Illyrio toward Daenerys.
Daenerys quickly wiped away a tear that hadn’t yet fallen with the back of her hand.
Under Viserys’s whispered threats, she straightened her chest and forced a smile.
Drogo had no interest in such a weeping girl; he only gave her a glance before quickly walking away.
Viserys’s face froze, and he grabbed Illyrio: “He didn’t like her?” “If he didn’t like her, he would have lashed out already.” Koso, who was by Drogo’s side, spoke up: “She’s like an unripened lamb.
Does the Khal really want to marry such a woman?” Drogo glared at Koso.
“My mind is made up.
From now on, even you Bloodriders are not permitted to say a single word against her.” Koso lowered his head.