The wedding took place as scheduled.
On the outskirts of Pentos, a high platform was built on the sloping ground by the coast.
Khal Drogo sat with his back to the sea, with Daenerys Targaryen placed beside him.
Viserys and Magister Illyrio sat below him to his left, and further down were Dothraki spread across the hills and fields.
Drogo sat above the sea of people and beneath the open sky.
His “people,” both men and women, were bare-chested, wearing painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and bronze medallions around their waists.
Their bronze skin was exposed under the sunlight.
In the midst of the crowd, men and women began to dance.
The women twisted their waists while the men circled them, moving faster and drawing closer.
Soon, men began to fight over dance partners—first with shoving, then fists, and finally, blades were drawn.
The arakhs, shaped like scythes, carved arcs through the sunlight.
Blood sprayed, splattering onto the ground.
The onlookers cheered, stepping back a few paces to make room for the two to continue their fight.
When the loser fell, steaming entrails spilled from the gaps in his ribs.
The victor raised his blade with a roar and cut off the loser’s hair.
Then, he casually grabbed a dance partner—not even the one he had just been fighting for—and began a wild dance with his arm around her waist.
Drogo had never seen such a scene before.
To do such things in broad daylight with so many people watching…
He turned his face away, unable to bear the sight.
His gaze fell to his left, where he saw Daenerys sitting bolt upright like a taut bowstring, one hand clutching the edge of her robe.
She didn’t know where to look.
Glancing left, she saw two bodies entangled and quickly looked away; flinching to the right, she found a similar scene.
Drogo spoke, his voice not loud, “A Dothraki wedding is not considered a success unless at least three people are killed.” Daenerys was terrified by the scene before her and, unable to understand the dothraki language, could only manage a smile as she looked at him.
That smile wasn’t genuine; it was forced out because she didn’t know how else to respond.
Drogo looked at her, gesturing as he spoke—first holding up one finger, then two.
“Twelve.
Twelve people will die today.” He wanted to show off his ability to “predict the future” in front of Daenerys.
Daenerys still didn’t understand.
She looked at his fingers, then at his face, still smiling and staring straight at him.
Forget it, he thought, feeling foolish, and stopped paying her any mind.
He turned back to the field, gradually immersing himself in the atmosphere.
Women were dancing to entertain him, their waists twisting wildly, chests swaying provocatively, and as their skirts spun, their thighs were revealed.
It was truly uninhibited, but he still felt awkward watching.
With an expressionless face, he unfastened a bronze medallion from his belt and tossed it into the field.
The women screamed and lunged for it, pulling and dragging each other.
Someone was trampled to the ground, while another refused to let go of a handful of hair.
The fighting on the field grew more intense.
The sound of clashing arakhs, screams of pain, and cheers mixed together.
More people fell, and blood soaked into the earth.
Drogo watched with a blank expression.
He cursed inwardly.
People dying at a wedding was bad luck.
This was a deep-rooted belief he had brought from his previous world, and he couldn’t change it.
But these “people” didn’t think so.
They believed that the more blood there was, the more festive it was, and the more people died, the more successful the wedding.
The losers lay on the ground twitching and screaming!
Their guts were scattered everywhere, and it took a long time for them to breathe their last.
Drogo felt goosebumps break out on his arms.
At this moment, he felt these “people” were strange and barbaric, like beasts in human skin.
He resolved to change things—slowly, one by one, he would change all these bullshit rules.
When the sun reached its zenith, people began to come forward with gifts.
The gifts were varied: furs, arakhs, silver jewelry, and wine in wooden casks.
A thin man came up holding a bundle of something; only when he drew near was it clear they were several snakes.
Drogo glanced at Koso: “Keep the snakes, kick the man out.” To test a Khal with this—no Khal would fail such a test.
Koso took the snakes and gave the thin man a kick.
The man ran off with a forced smile, not knowing what he had done wrong.
The dancing continued on the field.
The corpses of the losers had been cleared away, and the blood on the ground was being baked brown by the sun.
Out of the corner of his eye, Drogo saw Viserys glance at him, then lean over to speak with Illyrio.
The drums and the shouts of the dancers were too loud, but he could vaguely hear that they weren’t speaking the dothraki language, nor the tongue of Pentos in the Free Cities.
But the tone sounded somewhat familiar, not entirely foreign.
He knew what Viserys wanted to say—nothing more than sending troops to attack Westeros and reclaim the Iron Throne.
Viserys had said these words to Illyrio a hundred times, to Daenerys a hundred times, and soon he would say them to him.
But he had no desire to deal with this “sister-obsessed king.” A man stepped out from the crowd.
He was in his forties, with a long face and a short beard.
He held several books in his hands, a longsword was tucked at his waist, and he approached with composure.
Drogo recognized him.
Jorah Mormont.
The exiled knight who approached Daenerys to gain a royal pardon, constantly reporting her every move in secret to Varys.
But this man would later fall in love with Daenerys, do many things for her, and eventually die protecting her.
No matter how you looked at it, Jorah was better than Jon Snow.
Moreover, he knew that as long as he lived, no one would dare touch a hair on Daenerys’s head.
“Ser Jorah,” he spoke first.
Jorah bowed and replied respectfully in the dothraki language: “Khal Drogo.” Drogo nodded.
After receiving his permission, Jorah stepped forward.
He said to Daenerys, “I have prepared a small gift for the newlywed Khaleesi.” As he spoke, he handed the books to Daenerys, “Songs and histories of the Seven Kingdoms.” Daenerys took the gift.
Though these books were not expensive, they held extraordinary meaning for her.
“Thank you, Ser.” Drogo, hearing their conversation nearby, felt his heart skip a beat.
Isn’t this damn well English?
He instantly realized that the common tongue of Westeros and Essos was English.
Next, Illyrio flicked his fingers to summon two slaves to carry up a chest.
When the chest was opened, there were indeed three dragon eggs, their surfaces covered in scales: one red and black, one white, and one green.
Looking at the colors of the three dragon eggs, he could name the three corresponding dragons.
Daenerys leaned down, holding the green dragon egg in both hands and examining it closely.
“These are dragon eggs,” Illyrio said.
“From far-off Asshai.
They are said to be what the last dragons left behind.
I have treasured them for many years and present them today to the newlyweds.” While Illyrio spoke, Viserys also turned his head to stare at the dragon eggs.
Drogo, looking at the petrified dragon eggs before him, was also suddenly stumped.
How was he supposed to hatch these eggs?
He asked casually, “Magister Illyrio, where did you get these dragon eggs, and how do they hatch?” “Khal, these dragon eggs can no longer be hatched, but they remain beautiful as decorations.” Daenerys, not understanding what the two were saying, leaned over and set the dragon egg back down.