Early the next morning, the Khalasar broke camp and set out.
According to tradition, Drogo was to lead his people across the grasslands to present his new bride to the Dos Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak.
The followers camped outside the walls of Pentos began packing their gear, dismantling tents, and bundling luggage; women lifted children onto horseback, and slaves shouldered pots and pans.
The crowd moved east like a receding tide, leaving a trail of ruins in their wake.
The grass was trampled into mud, household waste was piled everywhere, horse dung steamed under the sun, and flies buzzed about in a frenzy.
A Magister stood atop the city walls and let out a long sigh: “Thank the heavens, they’ve finally left.” The procession marched forward in a grand spectacle, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Drogo brought the translator Lali along this time, assigning her to follow Daenerys’s group; if luck was on her side, she might conceive even sooner than Daenerys.
He himself went to rendezvous with his Bloodriders and the main force.
The Khalasar was still so disorderly; with over a hundred thousand people on the move, the formation was as scattered as thrown sand, and it wasn’t impossible for several hundred to go missing along the way.
But Drogo had more pressing matters now; reforms would have to wait.
He said to Koso, “Pass on my command: bring along everything that can be burned along the way.” He added with particular emphasis, “Make sure my order is conveyed to everyone.” Koso nodded and galloped along the flank of the column, shouting, “The Khal commands: bring along everything that can be burned along the way!” Then he said to Hago, “I want you to collect ten thousand pieces of square cloth, five inches in size, and have them all gathered before sunset.” Hago also took the order and left.
Though they didn’t understand what Drogo intended to do, they didn’t question him.
It seemed that as long as he didn’t challenge Dothraki traditions, the Bloodriders would resolutely obey any of his commands.
Only Cohollo remained by his side, and he spoke first: “Prince Viserys has asked to see you several times.
Do you wish to meet with him?” “No need.
Continue to keep him away from me.” Drogo naturally knew why Viserys was looking for him; it was nothing more than wanting ten thousand riders to attack Westeros, chasing his dream of the Iron Throne.
As Khal, he certainly wouldn’t let the tribe’s elite follow this fool to their deaths.
Cohollo nodded: “Yes, Khal.” Drogo turned his face to look at him.
“Do you know why I had Koso and Hago do those two things?” Cohollo blurted out without a second thought: “You have your reasons for doing so.
We don’t need to know why; we just do it.” Drogo then changed his line of questioning, “Do you think they can complete the tasks I assigned before dark?” Cohollo replied after a brief thought: “I think not.
Our Khalasar stretches for over ten kilometers; even if Koso shouts until his throat breaks, he won’t be able to convey your orders to everyone.” He paused and added, “As for Hago, I think collecting 5,000 pieces would already be quite good.
If he gathered whole bolts of cloth and then had people cut them, he might finish.” “But that would take too much time, and he might not be able to process ten thousand five-inch pieces of cloth before sunset.” After hearing this, the corners of Drogo’s mouth twitched into a faint, inscrutable smile.
He pulled a small, exquisite hourglass from his robe, shook it before his eyes, and watched the fine sand trickling down.
“If a Bloodrider system were implemented, both tasks could be completed within three turns of this hourglass.” Cohollo looked at the hourglass in his hand, then at him, still completely bewildered.
Drogo explained patiently: “Forty thousand warriors, pick forty Bloodriders.
When I issue an order, summoning those forty people is enough.” “The Bloodrider tells his ten Centurions, and the Centurion tells the leaders of ten.
Passing it down layer by layer, wouldn’t that be fast?” He added: “Under a Centurion, as long as more than ten per…” He immediately cut himself off, fearing that saying “ten percent” would leave Cohollo even more confused.
He phrased it differently, “Under a Centurion, if more than ten people haven’t received the order, I’ll hold him accountable.” Cohollo fell silent, digesting these words.
Looking at his expression, Drogo didn’t know if he didn’t understand the words or couldn’t figure out the numbers.
After a long while, Cohollo’s brow relaxed, and his eyes lit up.
He nodded repeatedly, a string of flattery spilling from his mouth: “Khal, you are truly a born God of War.
No one on the grasslands has ever thought of such a method…” Drogo was almost embarrassed by his praise.
Cohollo suddenly understood: “So you deliberately sent them to do these two things so they would understand this principle themselves?” “That’s one reason.” Drogo looked at him, his voice deepening.
“Second, I wanted to get them out of the way.” Cohollo’s smile froze on his face.
Bloodriders are the people closest to the Khal.
There are no secrets between them; they are guards, but even more so, brothers and companions.
When the Khal discusses affairs during the day, the Bloodriders are by his side.
When a Khal dies, his Bloodriders are buried with him; if a Khal falls in battle, the Bloodriders commit suicide after taking their revenge.
Some Khals even share their wives with their Bloodriders.
The only thing they do not share is their own mount.
One can imagine that Drogo’s words were as shocking as dropping a bomb into Cohollo’s heart.
Drogo spoke unhurriedly, his voice flat: “I have received a prophecy from the Horse God; I have less than a year of life remaining.” Cohollo hadn’t even recovered from his previous shock when Drogo’s words caused what little color remained in his face to drain away.
He opened his mouth and stammered, “How…
how can that be?
Prophecies aren’t…
necessarily accurate…” Drogo looked at him, “At the wedding feast, didn’t I also correctly predict the number of deaths?
Twelve people, not one more, not one less.” Cohollo’s face was ashen, as if a dark cloud hung over his head.
He knew Drogo wouldn’t joke about such a thing.
Seeing him like this, Drogo’s tone softened.
“You once saved my life and are the person closest to me, like a father.
I chose not to tell them for fear of causing unnecessary panic.
The fewer people who know about this, the better.” Cohollo suppressed the turmoil in his heart: “Then what do we need to do?” “The dragon eggs are…” Before Drogo could finish, a horn suddenly sounded.
“Woo—” The sound was dull and drawn out.
It was the first time Drogo had heard this sound, but the memories deep in his mind made him realize immediately: it was an enemy attack.
What he feared most had happened.
The column stretched out for over ten kilometers like a long snake; although there were Scouts, Vanguards, Rearguards, and flank patrols, if the enemy concentrated their forces on one point, it was still easy to succeed.
He looked around; as far as he could see, the tribesmen were not panicking.
Those who needed to draw their blades did so, and those who needed to gather did so.
Those herding sheep continued to do so, and those on horseback still rode slowly.
It seemed as though attacking or being attacked happened so often that they were used to it.
A fast horse rushed over, and the Scout reined in before him, gasping for breath: “It’s Ogo’s Khalasar!
They’ve attacked our flank!” Hearing this, Drogo was furious and galloped off in the direction the Scout pointed.