The wind from the sea made the banners snap and flutter.
Drogo stood on the shore, gazing at the grey-black channel.
“Across the Narrow Sea lies Westeros, the home of my bride-to-be.” The Bloodriders remained silent, merely listening.
“There lie the Seven Kingdoms.
The Usurper Robert Baratheon killed her family and took the Iron Throne…” Cohollo looked at the Khal before him, feeling a sense of unfamiliarity.
He was short and stout, with greying hair and a mouth full of broken teeth.
When Drogo was young, he had been kidnapped and sold to his father’s enemies; it was Cohollo who had rescued him from those vicious mercenaries, at the cost of having his teeth smashed to pieces by their iron hammers.
He had practically watched Drogo grow up and had never known him to be so familiar with matters across the channel.
Koso’s chest heaved, and he couldn’t help but interrupt Drogo; he had no interest in Westeros across the Narrow Sea.
“The Khal is to hold his wedding in a stone house?” He tried to keep his voice down, but couldn’t.
“The Dothraki have no such rule.” Cohollo spoke up next, his tone softer than Koso’s, but his words were no less firm: “The people are talking.
It’s one thing for the Khal to marry a foreign woman, but to follow her people’s customs as well?” “I am not following her customs,” Drogo finally spoke.
“Then why hold it in a castle?” Koso pressed forward a step.
“Which Khal holds a wedding in a house?
The open sky is what matters.
Once a stone roof covers us, the sky cannot see.
Does the marriage even count then?” The usually taciturn Hago also spoke up: “The Khal should lead by example in upholding Dothraki traditions.” Silence.
A heavy silence fell over the scene.
Drogo did not wish to provoke public outrage, so he decided to concede.
“The wedding will take place on the grasslands on the outskirts of Pentos.” As soon as he said this, the previously tense atmosphere finally relaxed.
He continued, “Send out the word.
I summon the entire Khalasar to attend my wedding!” The people arrived as summoned.
First came the scouts, then the cavalry, followed by the women, children, and slaves, and finally, horses that covered the hills and fields.
Forty thousand Dothraki Warriors, plus those carrying tents, herding flocks, carrying children, and tethering captives.
Over a hundred thousand people and horses surged outside the walls of Pentos, like a tide overflowing a dam, unstoppable.
Tents were pitched in a chaotic mess.
A banner was planted on this hilltop, and a fire was lit in that hollow.
The bleating of sheep and the neighing of horses mingled together, as plumes of cooking smoke rose here and there.
Children chased each other, slaves carried sacks looking for space, and women set up pots on the spot to start boiling horsemeat.
The guards on the walls of Pentos had doubled.
Every five paces stood a man with a spear, staring down.
The city gates were tightly shut, and the drawbridges were hoisted high.
The Magisters stood on the towers, their faces tense.
“We must marry off Princess Daenerys as soon as possible,” a tall, thin Magister said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “lest the wealth of Pentos be drained away by mercenaries and scoundrels.” “It’s all Illyrio’s fault.
If he hadn’t brokered the deal for Khal Drogo, these Dothraki wouldn’t be gathered here.” “Let’s hope that after they finish the food, they won’t attack Pentos!” a third Magister worried.
Drogo stood on the slope, watching the chaos before him, his brow never unknotting.
The crowd surged in disorder.
Someone would just finish pitching a tent when those coming behind would trample the ropes.
Two groups of people began arguing over a piece of land, their shouting audible from a mile away.
A horse took fright and rampaged through the crowd.
Several women screamed and dodged, knocking over a freshly set pot.
Hot water spilled onto the ground, sending up a plume of white steam.
No one was in charge.
No one listened to anyone else.
Cohollo saw Drogo’s expression and moved closer.
“We are the most powerful Khalasar in the Dothraki Sea.
What are you worried about?” (Note: The Dothraki Sea is a vast grassland, named for its grass waves that resemble the ocean.) Drogo didn’t answer immediately.
He watched as two groups in the distance pushed and shoved over a patch of empty ground.
An old woman was knocked down and couldn’t get up for a long time; people nearby simply walked around her, and no one reached out to help.
“Look at these hundred thousand people,” Drogo said.
“Each pitches their own tent, each lights their own fire.
They camp wherever they see an empty spot, leaving not even a path for people to walk.” He paused.
“Since last night, three people have been trampled to death.” Drogo’s face remained expressionless as he spoke.
“One child, two elderly.” Koso said, “We have always been this way!
There is nothing wrong with it.” Drogo turned his face to look at him.
“Then that needs to change.” He turned back, gazing at the chaotic camp.
“I have thought about this for a long time.
I will organize the warriors into groups of ten, choosing one as a Decurion to be responsible for these ten households.
For every hundred households, I will choose a Centurion, and for every thousand, a Bloodrider.” No one responded; they were completely bewildered by what they heard.
The Dothraki do not engage in trade and do not count numbers.
Things they want are either taken by force or exchanged.
Tents, flocks, women, children—as long as they had a rough idea of how many people were in a family, it was enough.
Many of them struggled to even count from one to ten.
Cohollo asked directly, “What is the use of doing this?” Drogo looked at him, suddenly feeling a bit weary, and shook his head helplessly.
“Each Bloodrider will manage his own thousand people—where they camp, who pitches the tents, who stands watch, who hunts.
If something happens, I find forty people, instead of shouting at forty thousand.” “This has never been done on the grasslands.
It is against the rules,” Koso’s voice dropped, but he remained defiant.
Drogo’s tone grew irritable as he tried his best to suppress the anger in his heart: “There has also never been a Khalasar on the grasslands that trampled three of its own to death just by pitching camp.” “Those who can be trampled to death are merely weaklings,” Koso retorted, failing to notice the frustration in Drogo’s tone.
Cohollo, who was a generation older than the other three, saw that the two were about to start a fight and quickly stepped in to mediate: “The Khal cares for his people and wants to manage the Khalasar well; this is a good thing.” He spoke while glancing at Koso, giving him a look.
“It’s just that, as you know, we are all rough men and cannot understand your words.
I think this matter of reform should be discussed slowly.” Drogo felt that he had a point; reform needed to be approached gradually.
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Getting angry with them wouldn’t solve anything; he needed to find the right people to assist with the reorganization.
His tone softened.
“If I had these forty Bloodriders to help me manage the Khalasar, order would be much better.” Although Cohollo still didn’t understand what he meant by Bloodrider in this context, he nodded anyway.
Hago, as usual, stood at the very back without saying a word.
Drogo said no more.
For now, he would wait until the wedding was over and he had received the three dragon eggs from Illyrio before making further plans.
The wind blew from the direction of the camp, carrying the smell of horse dung and cooking smoke.
In the distance, another child began to cry, a high-pitched sound that pierced the ears.
There were even slaves attempting to escape amidst the chaos, trying to flee into Pentos, only to be scared back by the guards’ arrows.