The grassland fell silent in the deep of the night.
As the voices of men faded, other sounds emerged: the chirping of insects in the grass, the rustling of animals in distant burrows, and the occasional cough from the camp.
Daenerys was still sitting there, accompanied by Lali and the Dothraki Rider named Jogo.
Behind Drogo, the three Bloodriders had not left either.
Only glowing red embers remained of the fire; sitting beside it, the heat was no longer felt.
Drogo spoke first, his eyes still fixed on the center of the fire.
“You are here; do you have something to say?” Daenerys didn’t know if he was speaking to the Bloodriders or to her; she only spoke after Lali translated.
“My brother saw you fighting Ogo’s Khalasar today.” “He said you easily defeated his Bloodriders.
He also said you could definitely defeat Robert Baratheon’s army.” She was still too young; as soon as she spoke, she exposed her intentions.
Drogo had originally thought she was going to ask about the dragon eggs, but it turned out she was just acting as a lobbyist for her brother.
He glanced sideways at her, and she looked back at him with a smile.
In the reflection of the embers, that smile seemed like an attempt to please, yet also like a plea.
Drogo looked away and spoke unhurriedly: “Robert, he is about to die!” Daenerys froze for a moment and looked at Lali, thinking the translation was wrong.
Lali nodded, indicating the translation was correct.
“He was gored to death by a boar!” he said, laughing heartily, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
Daenerys asked in disbelief, “How do you know?” Drogo did not answer her question directly.
“I also know that none of his three children are his own; his crown is greener than the Dothraki Sea.” Daenerys looked at him as if he were a madman talking nonsense.
When it came to Viserys, Drogo’s responses were completely nonsensical, making communication entirely ineffective.
She stood up and brushed the dust off her skirt.
A Khal far away in Essos claiming to know how Robert Baratheon would die and that his children weren’t his—who would believe such things?
She turned and left.
After walking about twenty paces, Drogo’s voice came from behind her: “Are you not concerned about the dragon eggs?” She stopped and turned around.
The dim light of the fire reflected on her face; she hesitated for a moment.
“No,” she said.
“Magister Illyrio said those three dragon eggs turned to stone long ago; it’s impossible for them to hatch.” After saying that, she hesitated.
She of course hoped they would hatch.
Drogo was not surprised by Daenerys’s response.
After all, the three dragons only hatched unexpectedly after the Horse Lord’s sacrifice; the current Daenerys did not know this yet.
He was still waiting; he closed his eyes, learning to pray that once the embers scattered, the dragon hatchlings would hatch.
He knew that Ice and Fire were incompatible, that the White Walkers would surely cross the Wall, and the dragons would surely be born.
Before the dragon hatchlings hatched, this body, this Horse Lord of the plains, could not escape that destiny.
The Bloodriders sat with him through the night.
Morning light broke through from the east, and a thin mist draped over the ashes, making the embers damp.
There was still no movement in the ashes; Drogo’s heart sank halfway.
He stood up and stepped into the ashes.
The bones of the four captives were not yet fully burned; he stepped on them, and they made a crisp crack.
He drew his Arakh and gently swept away the ashes, fearing he might harm the hatched dragonlings, but after clearing the ashes, what met his eyes were still the three dragon eggs.
“It was clearly a blood sacrifice as well, so why won’t they hatch!” he murmured softly.
Although his voice was low, Koso heard him and said, “We don’t need dragons!
For the Dothraki, horses are enough.” Drogo was in no mood to pay him any mind; one plan failed, so he devised another.
“Cohollo, help me prepare a large cauldron.” “Yes, Khal.” By the time the water in the cauldron was boiling, the Khalasar was already bustling with noise.
Drogo placed the dragon eggs in one by one; water splashed out, hitting the rim of the pot and vanishing with a hiss.
People came and went in the tribe, the members looking at their Khal in confusion as he did things they couldn’t understand.
But they only watched, not even daring to gossip.
Drogo stared at the iron pot; the three fossilized dragon eggs sank to the bottom as the boiling water bubbled.
Cohollo asked, “What should we do with the remaining nine captives?” “Release them!” Koso and Hago glanced at each other, and Koso spoke first: “We should cut off their hair and reduce them to slaves.” Hago also spoke; he was usually a man of few words.
“Releasing them will only make others think we are weak and easy to bully.” Drogo looked at Koso, then at Hago.
“It won’t.
They are already scared out of their wits.” “They all saw that fire last night and what became of those four people.
I want them to go back alive and tell everyone exactly how I treat attackers.” Hago nodded and turned.
He walked toward the captives with his blade in his right hand; the men were so terrified they repeatedly begged for mercy.
“I am willing to grovel at your feet and be your slave.” “I was only following Ogo’s orders, please spare me!” Hago walked up to them.
He drew his blade.
A few of the timid ones closed their eyes.
The blade fell— —and cut the ropes binding them.
The ropes snapped and fell to the ground.
The captives looked up at Hago, unable to understand what was happening.
Hago said, “Go.
Go back and tell Ogo that we will hunt him to the ends of the earth.” The captives scrambled up, supporting the wounded, and fled stumbling.
After running a long way, someone still looked back, as if fearing an arrow might fly from behind.