Daenerys first saw the Dothraki column suddenly grow restless, then watched as her husband galloped away with a group of riders.
The sound of hooves was like thunder, receding into the distance and kicking up a trail of dust.
She had a rough idea of what had happened, but she asked anyway, as if seeking confirmation.
“What happened?” Jorah Mormont stepped forward, his tone flat.
“It’s an enemy attack.
This is normal; the Dothraki sustain their tribes by raiding surrounding nations.
For survival, they also attack each other.” Daenerys gazed in the direction Drogo had disappeared, saying nothing, her face clouded with worry.
When Drogo reached the battlefield, the riders on the two flanks were already locked in combat with the enemy.
His horsemanship was instinctively masterful.
With his legs clamped tight, he drew his longbow and loosed an arrow, which precisely pierced the throats of two enemies.
The first man fell from his horse clutching his neck; before the second could even react, the arrowhead had already burst through the back of his neck.
He turned and waved a hand at the thousands of warriors following behind him.
The gesture was simple, understood by everyone on the plains: “Spread out, flank them.” The warriors immediately split into two groups, circling around from both sides.
The enemy was surrounded.
Then, he leaped onto his horse’s back and charged into the crowd with his Arakh.
The Arakh traced an arc in the sunlight.
An enemy was split open from shoulder to chest, drenching him in blood.
He leaned aside to dodge a thrusting spear, taking off half the man’s face with a casual stroke.
His horse never stopped, and his blade never ceased swinging; with every strike, a corpse tumbled from its mount.
He drew his bow faster than his opponents could draw their blades.
Someone in front had just raised an Arakh when an arrow pinned itself into his eye socket; someone on the left tried a sneak attack, only for an arrow to fly through his mouth and out the back of his skull as Drogo turned.
Someone slipped from their horse, foot still caught in the stirrup, and was dragged for several yards.
Seeing their Khal so valiant, the tribesmen charged forward with howling cries, hacking even more fiercely.
After these few days, he had completely adapted to this body and fully accepted this identity.
His soul and this body had become one.
Back in the world of his original plane, riding a horse for just a few hundred meters would have made his inner thighs unbearably sore.
Now it was different.
He could sit or stand on horseback, bend or turn as he pleased; his movements were as smooth as if he had practiced for half a lifetime.
He quickly located Ogo Khao on the battlefield.
The fellow was riding a black horse, standing out conspicuously among the crowd.
Drogo turned his horse and charged toward him.
Ogo saw him too and spurred his mount to meet him.
The two horses drew closer and closer.
Drogo raised his hand, and his Arakh flew from his grip, heading straight for the legs of Ogo’s horse.
Simultaneously, he leaned down and scooped up another Arakh from the ground.
In that split second of leaning, he saw from the corner of his eye that the front legs of Ogo’s horse had been severed.
The horse’s head buckled, and Ogo was flung from the saddle, crashing heavily onto the ground.
By the time Drogo retrieved the blade and his horse reached Ogo, the man had just scrambled up, his legs shaking so much he could barely stand.
Drogo swung his blade down— *Clang!* A blade swept across, parrying his strike.
It was one of Ogo’s Bloodriders.
The blades clashed right next to Ogo’s ear, sending sparks flying.
The piercing metallic ring made Ogo cover his ears and stumble, nearly falling again.
Drogo yanked the reins, his horse’s front hooves pawing the air as it spun in place.
Before the Bloodrider could pull back his blade, Drogo’s edge had already swept across his throat from the side.
Blood sprayed onto the horse’s mane, steaming hot.
Two other Bloodriders pounced simultaneously.
Drogo leaned back, lying flat against his horse’s spine.
Two blades whistled over his face, without clipping a single hair.
He used his core strength to spring up, biting the back of his blade.
While the horse was still charging, he twisted his waist to the side and back, drawing his bow with both hands.
An arrow buried itself in the ribs of the man on the left, the tip emerging from the other side.
Only one left.
The man’s eyes turned red as he hacked frantically.
Drogo dodged and weaved on his horse like a willow branch swaying in the wind.
The moment the man’s strength failed and he pulled back his blade, Drogo slashed his neck, opening it halfway through.
Cohollo only arrived then, thrusting his blade into the man’s back, piercing him through.
He looked up at Drogo, panting for breath.
Seeing things were going south, Ogo abandoned his Bloodriders and fled.
He mounted a stolen horse and was already a hundred paces away, his silhouette growing smaller.
Drogo didn’t stop, turning his horse to give chase.
“Pursue!” At his command, his followers also took off after him.
The sounds of slaughter on the battlefield had gradually died down, leaving only the sporadic clatter of clashing weapons.
Drogo led his men in pursuit for over a hundred li, but Ogo managed to escape after all.
He reined in his horse, gazing at the empty plains, his chest heaving.
He had lost the trail.
He turned his horse around and headed back.
Daenerys was worried about her brother and asked Jorah Mormont to find him.
Jorah encountered Viserys on the edge of the battlefield.
He was on horseback, watching the Dothraki clean up the field.
Several soldiers carrying axes were walking through the piles of corpses.
If they found someone still breathing, they would deliver a finishing blow; the axe rose and fell, and the person would stop moving.
“Battles are common here, Your Grace.” Jorah reined in his horse.
“While we aren’t too far from Pentos yet, it would be more comfortable for you to return there.” Viserys snorted.
“I have no interest in staying there.
I will keep an eye on Drogo until he fulfills his promise.
He gives me an army, and I get my crown.” “As you wish, Your Grace.” “Hmph, Mormont, life here is hard, but being away from the Usurper’s eyes is better than staying in Pentos waiting to be beheaded.” Though Viserys was arrogant, he was no fool.
Jorah Mormont felt a bit guilty and hesitated to speak.
Viserys pointed toward a little girl nearby who was pulling arrows from the corpses.
The girl was about ten years old, as thin as a stick.
She was crouching beside a corpse, pulling hard at an arrow stuck in its back.
The arrow was wedged tight.
She gripped the shaft with both hands, braced a foot against the corpse’s backside, and pulled back with all her might.
“Why do these savages make little girls do this work?
Where are the men?” Jorah followed his gaze.
“The Dothraki believe that touching a corpse you did not kill yourself brings bad luck.
So these tasks can only be done by girls.” Viserys said nothing, watching as the girl finally yanked the arrow out.
By the time Drogo returned to the Khalasar, the sun was already low in the west.
He reined in his horse and scanned his surroundings.
The column had stopped in a scattered fashion; some were unloading baggage, some were tethering horses to stakes, and others were simply sitting on the ground, unmoving.
Chaos—it was still so chaotic.
“Camp here,” he said.
A subordinate ran over: “Khal, we have thirteen prisoners awaiting your judgment.” Drogo nodded.
“And our losses?” The men looked at each other; no one could answer.
Drogo’s brow furrowed.
“Cohollo.” Cohollo stepped forward.
“Go and tally all the losses.” Drogo stared at him.
“Even if it’s a single sheep or a horse, account for it clearly.” Cohollo acknowledged and turned to leave.
Drogo then looked at Koso: “Where is the firewood I told you to collect?” Koso pointed nearby.
A small pile of wood, branches, and dry grass was stacked in a pyramid shape.
Drogo walked over to inspect it, then looked back at him, his tone carrying a hint of deliberate reproach.
“You’ve been busy all day and this is all you’ve gathered?” Koso lowered his head and said nothing.
Hago stood nearby, holding a bundle of fabric.
Drogo took it and flipped through; they were all cut squares, about five inches across, their sizes reasonably uniform.
“How many?” “A little over a thousand,” Hago replied in a muffled voice.
Drogo said nothing more.
They had only completed a tenth of the task he had assigned.