“Oh God, how did an unmarried maiden like me become a heavily pregnant woman, the Mother of Dragons with a huge belly?” A 26-year-old surgical medical school graduate woke up to find herself transmigrated into the body of a 14-year-old pregnant girl, Daenerys Targaryen.
Whatever her previous identity or name was, it held little meaning now.
She had become the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen, Princess of Dragonstone, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Mhysa, the Silver Queen…
Well, at this moment, she had at most two titles: Stormborn and the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo.
Becoming the “Mother of Dragons” was still a long way off.
The most critical issue right now was how to survive after Khal Drogo died.
Drogo’s illness had already seeped into his bones, and he was cursed by black magic.
Let alone a rookie surgeon, even a miracle-working physician wouldn’t be able to save him.
Daenerys, now harboring a different soul, patted her heavy, pregnant belly.
Pushing aside all distracting thoughts, she began to observe her new environment.
The golden sun scorched the earth like a furnace.
Before her lay a patch of uneven, poorly planned fields.
There was rye with half-green, half-yellow stalks and thick ears just beginning to fill, low-lying lodged soybeans, and occasional vegetable and fruit patches.
As her silver-maned filly walked along, the crisp crackle of trampled soybean pods could be heard from time to time.
Daenerys tilted her head to avoid the blinding sun and muttered softly, “What a sin.
It’s harvest season, yet they had to run into this horde of Dothraki.” Khal Drogo’s khalasar boasted nearly fifty thousand screaming warriors, and the entire horde numbered over a hundred thousand.
The Dothraki were a quintessential horseback people.
Every member had at least one fine steed, which meant that a horde of a hundred thousand brought over a hundred thousand horses trampling across this land.
The low, rumbling thunder of hooves seemed to loudly declare that the Lhazareen’s lands would yield absolutely no harvest this year.
In truth, the Lhazareen—derisively called ‘Lamb Men’—weren’t even thinking about their crops.
In the presence of the strongest khal’s khalasar on the grasslands, their minds were already firmly gripped by the fear of death.
Turning her head, Daenerys saw a dilapidated farmhouse for the umpteenth time.
The residents stood uneasily behind their mud-brick walls, watching them.
In their almond-shaped eyes—much like those of the Dothraki—flashed immense terror and deeply hidden hatred.
South of the Dothraki Sea and south of the Lhazar River lived this frail, small nation.
They shared some similarities with Daenerys’s current people: copper skin and almond-shaped eyes.
However, compared to the tall, savage Dothraki, the agrarian Lhazareen were shorter, with flatter faces, and had a much milder…
and more cowardly temperament.
*Clop, clop, clop.* The sound of hooves approached from behind.
Daenerys tucked her wind-blown silver hair behind her ear and saw seven or eight riders break away from the rear of the column.
The horsemen warriors wore their hair in thick, black braids.
However, the Dothraki didn’t shave their foreheads; instead, their braids were adorned with bells representing their victories, which jingled crisply with the movement of their horses.
Quickly sifting through her memories, Daenerys recognized them as Khal Drogo’s bloodriders: Cohollo, Haggo, and Qotho.
The others were likely kos under Drogo’s command, such as Jhaqo and Pono.
They rode past Daenerys as if she were invisible and approached Drogo at the front.
Jhaqo pointed to a mud-and-stone estate and was the first to speak.
“Khal, there is a cluster of Lamb Men settlements nearby.
Should we ride up and take them?” They had come to ask Drogo to join the hunt.
The Dothraki were nomads with no industry, crafts, or manufacturing.
Everything they needed was plundered, and countless generations of evolution had bred the most savage and tyrannical predatory genes within them.
Drogo’s head was heavy, his consciousness slipping into chaos.
He raised his head, struggling to recognize the men before him.
His cracked lips parted, and his voice was barely audible.
“Yes, I…” Daenerys felt a wave of bitterness.
According to the plot, this convenient husband of hers was on his last legs.
She was going to be a widow right after transmigrating.
It wasn’t that she was attached to this husband she had just met; the problem was that the Dothraki system was utterly screwed up.
The position of khal was not inherited by blood; the strongest warrior in the tribe claimed the title, and the struggle for it was always incredibly bloody.
After a khal died, his khaleesi was expected to go to the city of the horselords to become a crone.
As for the khaleesi’s unborn child, surviving under a new khal would be nearly impossible.
“Can’t you see the khal is ill?” Daenerys lightly kicked her horse’s belly, urging it forward a few paces.
Ignoring the cold glares of the bloodriders and kos, she called out, “These are just small villages around here.
There’s no wealth to be had, no value in attacking them…
At the very least, it doesn’t require the khal to act personally.” The towering Haggo looked at Daenerys with cruelty in his eyes.
“Khaleesi, you have no voice here—” *Crack!* Daenerys raised her hand and lashed out with her whip.
The tip tore through the air with a sharp, crisp crack.
But her body was swollen and her movements too slow; Haggo simply leaned back in his saddle and easily dodged it.
“You dare strike me?” With a sharp *shing*, Haggo drew the arakh from his waist, staring at Daenerys with bloodshot eyes.
Daenerys merely sneered, meeting his gaze without a hint of fear.
Speaking in the Dothraki tongue she had inherited from her predecessor, she said, “I am the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo, born of the noble royal house Targaryen.
You dare draw your blade on me?” She wasn’t just being recklessly bold.
From a brief review of her predecessor’s memories, Daenerys realized that the Dothraki respected strength and despised weakness.
The more unyielding and ruthless you were, the more they treated you as a person.
Yes, cowards and weak nations were not even considered human in the eyes of the horselords.
Take Daenerys’s brother, Viserys, for example.
Or the Lhazareen, who were plundered at will and dubbed ‘Lamb Men’.
Of course, being forceful didn’t mean being reckless.
As Drogo’s bloodrider, Haggo would never harm the khaleesi carrying Drogo’s child right in front of the khal himself.
Moreover, Daenerys was not alone.
Sure enough, in the time it took to exchange a few words, her guards rode up to her side.
Jorah Mormont deftly maneuvered his horse, trotting up to stand in front of Daenerys.
He drew his sword and sternly surveyed Haggo and the others.
Behind Daenerys, the men of her khas also nocked arrows to their bows, aiming them expressionlessly at Haggo.
Drogo commanded the entire khalasar, which was made up of numerous khas.
Fortunately, a khaleesi also had her own personal khas, making Daenerys a ko in her own right.
Granted, her khas was tiny, consisting of only a hundred or two hundred people, primarily tasked with protecting her and attending to her daily needs.
Drogo was thirty years old this year.
Haggo and Qotho were around the same age, while Cohollo was the oldest.
Even though Cohollo’s physique was as robust as a young man’s, he was actually in his fifties.
When Drogo was young, his father’s enemies had stolen the little khal away, and Cohollo had risked his life to rescue the young horselord.
It could be said that Cohollo was almost like a second father to Drogo.
Drogo’s own khas was managed with Cohollo’s help, meaning Cohollo was also a ko.
Therefore, he held the highest status and prestige among the bloodriders.
Hearing Cohollo’s words, Haggo flushed red.
He spat resentfully on the ground, turned his horse around, and trotted away.
Qotho and the other kos cast wolf-like glares at Daenerys before galloping off after him.
As the neighing of their warhorses faded into the distance, Cohollo spoke flatly.
“As the leader of the khalasar, a khal must lead the charge against his enemies and be the first to scale the walls of the Lamb Men.
This is his duty, and his glory.” Daenerys felt a surge of gratitude, understanding that old Cohollo was explaining things to her.
Among Drogo’s three bloodriders, he was the only one who treated Daenerys with any kindness…
or rather, he was the only one who saw her as Drogo’s wife.
The other Dothraki merely viewed her as a noble breeding mare Drogo had purchased from Illyrio.
Titles like Princess of Dragonstone or Stormborn Targaryen meant absolutely nothing to the horselords.
Daenerys forced a stiff smile and said, “With the khal in this state, I worry…” Cohollo raised a hand to cut her off.
“You should worry about the kos initiating raids without the khal’s permission…
though your worrying will do no good.” Daenerys watched bitterly as he rode away.
Soon, the battle cries of warriors and the wailing of the Lamb Men, mixed with the foul stench of blood and fire, drifted into Daenerys’s ears.
Standing on a hill, the lush wild grass brushed past the horsehair leggings on her calves, tickling her tender skin like a baby’s lick.
Looking around, she could see plumes of smoke from the fires of war rising like fingers into the sky from the nearby Lhazareen estates.
Daenerys cradled her large belly and closed her eyes in sorrow, trying hard not to think about how many pregnant women just like her would be brutally slaughtered today, or how many women and children would be taken as slaves by Drogo’s khalasar.
“This truly is a cruel world.” Daenerys’s small khas was bustling with activity.
Some were leveling the soil on the hill to drive in wooden stakes and pitch tents, while others stood on wagons, unloading large chests containing Drogo and Daenerys’s blankets and treasures.
The khal’s tent was situated at the center of the entire khalasar.
With the hill Daenerys had chosen as the focal point, yurts sprouted up like mushrooms after a rain, rapidly filling the fields in sight.
The horselords refused to live in mud-and-stone houses; they were accustomed to living in tents.
The sight of over a hundred thousand people working together was brimming with vitality, sparking a sliver of interest in Daenerys, who had been feeling depressed ever since arriving in this strange world.
“Ser Jorah, take a walk with me.” Jorah Mormont, known as ‘the Great Bear’, was a Northman from Westeros and the former Lord of Bear Island—the son of the Old Bear, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and the uncle of the little lady of Bear Island from *Game of Thrones*.
Because he sold slaves, he was sentenced to be beheaded by Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, prompting him to flee across the Narrow Sea to the continent of Essos.
When Daenerys married Drogo, he had sworn fealty to Viserys.
After Drogo gave Viserys his golden crown by pouring molten gold over his head, the Great Bear transferred his allegiance to Daenerys, becoming her sworn knight.
When he first joined Drogo’s horde, the Great Bear still wore the standard attire of a Westerosi knight: wool tunic, wool breeches, undergarments, leather armor, and plate armor.
After living on the Great Grass Sea for nearly a year, he had grown accustomed to the clothing of the horselords: leather sandals, horsehair leggings, a sleeveless painted leather Dothraki vest, and a bronze medallion belt.
“Khaleesi, shouldn’t you go check on Drogo’s condition?” Jorah rode alongside Daenerys’s filly, followed by four young Dothraki riders.
“There are over a dozen hairless men crowding around him.
It’s too cramped.
Once they leave, you can come with me to examine him again.” There were two types of people in the khalasar dedicated to healing: barren women and eunuch slaves.
The herb-women treated wounds with potions and spells, while the eunuchs used sharp knives, needles, and fire.
Among the horselords, they were collectively known as the ‘hairless men’.
Amidst the tents that nearly blanketed the earth, slaves and women carried firewood, slaughtered livestock wailed, and people drew water from wells and riverbanks with wooden buckets.
Some brought out whetstones to carefully sharpen the arakhs of warriors returning from battle, while long-haired Dothraki warriors barked orders.
Barefoot children ran and played through the crowds.
The mingled scents of sweat, horse manure, blood, and roasting meat assaulted Daenerys’s nose.
Rounding a yurt, they came upon a clearing where firewood was being piled.
A large group of riders was laughing and casually violating a dozen naked women.
Even upon seeing Daenerys on her silver horse, they made no move to hide their actions.
Drogo’s khalasar wasn’t just made up of copper-skinned Dothraki.
Aside from the warriors, there was an even larger number of slaves serving them.
There were white people like Daenerys, Milk Men who were even paler, red-skinned eunuchs, black people from the Summer Isles, and dark-skinned Asshai’i from the Shadow Lands.
Relying on the fragmented memories in her mind, Daenerys found it hard to distinguish all their races.
Even the Dothraki themselves didn’t all look exactly alike.
The horselords rampaged across the continent of Essos, enslaving people from countless nations.
Lacking any concept of marriage and prone to acting on their lustful whims, their bloodlines had long since become mixed.
The only unifying trait was that all Dothraki possessed almond-shaped eyes.
“Khaleesi, you seem to have become a bit…
Has something happened?” Since the afternoon, Jorah had sensed that something was off about Daenerys.
Seeing that she didn’t try to stop the horselords from raping the Lhazareen women as she normally would have, he found it increasingly strange.
The original Daenerys was a kind-hearted young girl.
The first time she saw Dothraki warriors gang-raping captive women, she had been filled with pity and forcefully intervened, even suggesting the warriors take them as wives.
This went against Dothraki tradition.
Dothraki warriors had the right to do whatever they pleased with the slaves they captured.
Raping, killing, or selling them were all within their rights, and not even a khal could interfere arbitrarily.
Furthermore, ordinary Dothraki had no institution of marriage; the horselord taking a wife was merely a special exception.
“I know what you mean, but even if I tried to stop them, who would listen to me without Drogo backing me up?” Daenerys said, lowering her eyes.
‘This Jorah truly lives up to his reputation as the number one simp pining after the Mother of Dragons.
What sharp perception,’ she thought.
Ever since she transmigrated that afternoon, she had been speaking little and observing much, trying her best to mimic the original owner’s behavior.
“Khaleesi, just give the word, and I will kill them,” the young Dothraki warrior Aggo shouted, raising his longbow.
Drogo actually doted on his wife quite a bit.
Although the khas he gave Daenerys was small, it contained a group of the most exceptional young warriors.
Aggo, Kovarro, Jhogo, and Rakharo even had the potential to become bloodriders.
Bloodriders were one-in-a-million warriors, roughly equivalent to the myriarchs in Genghis Khan’s army.
Ser Jorah’s pupils contracted as he warned, “This is another ko’s khas.
If you strike, you will die.” He knew the temperament of the Dothraki; they were men of action who never hesitated.
“I do not fear death,” Aggo declared, his dark, almond-shaped eyes wide and his momentum undiminished.
“None of us fear death,” the other warriors roared in agreement.
“Causing a riot might bring harm to the Khaleesi,” Jorah said, pointing at Daenerys’s pregnant belly.
The topic was a bit awkward.
Daenerys looked around, then suddenly raised her whip and pointed at a plump black man.
“You, halt.” The black man, who looked to be in his forties, had a round, bald head beaded with sweat.
He offered a humble smile and asked, “Khaleesi, what are your orders?” *Honk, honk!* A large white goose flapped its wings, struggling relentlessly in his thick grip, occasionally pecking at his rough arm with its yellow beak.
“I want that goose,” Daenerys said.
The Dothraki’s staple food was horse meat, which they considered the best food in the world.
But recalling the original owner’s memories of it made Daenerys nauseous.
Changing the subject was one reason, but improving her diet was another.
The beads of sweat on the fat cook’s bald head grew denser.
A pleading look crossed his face as he struggled to refuse.
“Khaleesi, this lowly one is Lord Jhaqo’s cook.
Because Lady Lilith cannot stomach horse meat, I finally managed to find a few geese in the Lamb Men’s estates this afternoon…
I truly have no authority to grant your request!” *Crack!* “Agh—” Hearing this, Aggo flew into a rage and lashed the fat man with his whip without another word.
The strike tore the flesh on his right cheek, leaving a wound like a centipede.
“Bastard!
Not even Jhaqo himself can refuse a request from the Khaleesi.” The fat cook squatted on the ground, clutching his face and whimpering.
The white goose he had been holding honked and scrambled away.
How could he even reply?
The entire sequence happened in a flash.
Before Daenerys could even finish speaking, the whip had already struck, leaving her no time to stop it.
“Who dares steal my goose?!” an angry shout rang out from a nearby sky-blue tent.