The night Dany “gave birth” to Rhaego, a riot swept through Drogo’s khalasar, though it was not caused by Cohollo.
Moved by Dany’s words, the old bloodrider had led five hundred elite cavalry from Drogo’s khas, quietly bypassing the camp’s defenses and riding north through the night.
They took advantage of the chaos that night, but they were not the ones who started it.
During the unrest, the entire camp was filled with the shouts of men and the neighing of horses.
Torches blanketed the earth as far as the eye could see, like stars fallen from the sky.
Ser Jorah strictly forbade anyone from entering or leaving, and he led a group that killed seventeen Dothraki riders attempting to force their way into Drogo’s grass palace.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Aggo managed to gather concrete news from the smoke-filled ruins of the camp: Ko Pono had left Drogo’s khalasar, taking twenty thousand Dothraki screamers with him.
The riot had stemmed from clashes with those who tried to stop him.
Ko Pono had seemed obedient these past few days, but in truth, he had been secretly contacting the leaders of various small khas.
While the other great kos were still fixing their eyes on Drogo’s grass palace, he had already realized that no matter when Drogo died, the one with the strongest army would become king.
Drogo’s khalasar was the mightiest on the Great Grass Sea, boasting forty thousand screamers.
Counting the young riders, they had over fifty thousand capable fighters.
Ko Pono took twenty thousand screamers in one fell swoop, leaving the remaining twenty thousand to be divided among more than a dozen kos.
In just one night, Ko Pono—no, Khal Pono—became one of the most powerful khals on the Dothraki Sea.
Pono’s departure was merely the beginning, the prelude to the collapse of Drogo’s khalasar.
Over the next two days, more than ten other kos successively divided up the remaining people, wealth, slaves, and livestock.
On the fourth day, Dany stood on a hill and looked around.
The khalasar, which had once covered the red earth like a vast brown carpet, had folded in on itself again and again, until only Dany’s small khas remained—a mere speck on the red floor.
The Dothraki had to leave this land immediately; to stay meant death.
Without water or grass for their horses, the nomadic horse people could not survive.
Everything had gone exactly as Dany expected.
No, she had miscalculated one thing.
The Dothraki placed far more importance on the prophecies of the dosh khaleen than she had anticipated.
The dosh khaleen—the widowed khaleesis, the wise women of the Dothraki, the rulers of Vaes Dothrak, the priestesses of the Mother of Mountains, and the architects of the khalasars’ grand movements across the Great Grass Sea.
*Clip-clop, clip-clop…* At dusk on the fourth day, set against the backdrop of a massive, blood-red sunset, a thousand elite riders galloped in from the distance, kicking up a long dragon of dust.
It was Ko Jhaqo.
Outside the wooden spike barricades of the grass palace, Ser Jorah led over a hundred Dothraki riders, their blades drawn and ready for battle.
*Neigh…* Jhaqo’s warhorse reared high on its hind legs, the blowing sand making Jorah narrow his eyes.
“Since you have already left, what are you doing back here?” Jorah’s muffled shout echoed from beneath his visor.
*Thud!* Without a word, Jhaqo violently hurled a dark, bloody object toward Dany—a freshly severed head.
It rolled a few times before stopping at Dany’s feet.
She looked down at an old, scarred face: eyes glaring wide, mouth agape, as if protesting the injustice of fate.
No, a Dothraki warrior would never protest.
Even facing the most tragic fate, they would only let out a battle cry.
So, in his final moments, Cohollo had still been shouting his unyielding defiance.
*Thud, thud, thud…* One by one, the horses and riders circled in an arc, expressionlessly tossing bloody heads in front of the camp.
Soon, the heads piled up into a small mountain.
Four nights ago, Cohollo had taken five hundred elite riders; four evenings later, under the blood-red sunset, Khal Jhaqo brought back five hundred mangled heads.
“Where is my son?” Daenerys asked, her voice hoarse, her gaze lowered.
Khal Jhaqo waved to a rider behind him, who handed him a four-meter-long wooden spear.
He raised the spear high for everyone to see.
“Ah…” Irri, Doreah, and the other handmaids let out wails of despair.
Atop the slender spear was a tiny head, no bigger than a melon.
It had the bronze skin of the Dothraki, thick black hair just like Drogo’s, and almond-shaped eyes holding pale purple irises.
“Why?” Dany asked coldly, her face deathly pale, her body swaying as if she might collapse.
“Did Cohollo not tell you of my vow?
I only asked that the child live a peaceful life.
The crones of the dosh khaleen would have witnessed my oath.
He posed no threat to you.” Jhaqo grinned, his smile savage.
“Killing the son of a former khal is the tradition of the horse people.
It is known.” “It is known,” his men echoed in unison.
“Your vow, your supposed agreement with the dosh khaleen…
Cohollo told us everything.
But that is not our tradition.
The great horse-riding nation has no use for such things.
It is known,” Jhaqo said with a loud laugh.
“It is known,” his men chanted again.
“Us?” Dany thought for a moment, then asked, “You were nearly a day’s ride behind Cohollo, at least three hundred kilometers.
You could never have caught up to him…
Pono intervened?” “From the very beginning, Cohollo’s group never escaped the pursuit of that cunning bastard Pono.
Later, we all joined in.
But I was the lucky one who stumbled upon Cohollo’s remnants, hahaha!” Jhaqo threw his head back in triumphant laughter, waving the spear left and right like a proud banner of victory.
“Worthy of being Drogo’s finest guards.
Five hundred men charged left and right, killing nearly three thousand of us.
In the end, only thirteen riders were left when I found them.
I personally chopped off the heads of a bloodrider and a little ko.” He tossed his braid from his back over his chest, pointing to the bells woven into it, and frowned.
“Even though they were just the old, the weak, and the young, I still added two bells for myself.
After all, I am a khal now, and a khal must have a long string of bells to represent his many victories.” From a young age, Dothraki men bound their hair in braids.
Whenever they were defeated in battle, they would cut off their braids in disgrace.
Thus, the whole world would know of their shame.
When attending Dothraki feasts, seating arrangements were determined by the length of one’s braid: warriors with long braids earned more respect, sat closer to the khal, and had higher seats; those with short braids were relegated to the edges, sitting on tattered mats on the floor.
A long braid represented a Dothraki’s honor, and the number of bells tied to it commemorated their victories.
Khal Drogo had never lost a battle in his life.
His khalasar was the largest, and his braid was thick and long, hanging down past his thighs.
His black braid was covered in jingling little bells.
When he finally ran out of room, he even braided the beard on his chin and tied a string of small bells to it.
Now, Khal Jhaqo counted Cohollo and the infant he protected as two victories.
*You will regret what you did today,* Dany thought, her fury absolute as she silently condemned Jhaqo to death.
*Jhaqo, I hope you manage to stay alive for at least the next five years.* “What will you do now?
Kill me?
Or your former khal?” she asked coldly.
“She didn’t even cry?” Jhaqo muttered, turning to Mago.
“What a cold, wolf-like woman.
We all lost.” Four days ago, when the khalasar fell apart, Mago had taken advantage of the chaos to abduct Dany’s Lhazareen handmaid, Eroeh.
He raped her a second time, then gave her to the men of Jhaqo’s new khalasar to take turns riding her.
Finally, he cut off the poor girl’s head and tossed it near Dany’s tent.
Because Dany had forcefully taken Eroeh from Mago, he wanted revenge.
Over half a month ago, during Drogo’s raid on the Lhazareen town, the young girl Eroeh had been captured by Mago and publicly raped by Dothraki warriors.
Daenerys Targaryen had happened to pass by.
She stopped the Dothraki warriors from defiling Eroeh and claimed the girl as her own slave—an act that defied Dothraki tradition.
Not even a khal could arbitrarily seize his subordinates’ spoils of war.
It was only through Drogo’s prestige and power that Dany had been able to suppress the matter.
Mago was a formidable warrior, and now he had become a bloodrider to Khal Jhaqo.
The idea of mounting the infant’s tiny head on a spear had been his.
He had even made a bet with Jhaqo on whether Dany would faint from fright.
Dany hadn’t shed a single tear.
She merely stared at them like they were dead men with her enchanting purple eyes.
They hadn’t expected this at all; they had all lost the bet.
“Woman, I swore an oath beneath the Mother of Mountains that I would never harm my own khal.
It is known,” Jhaqo shouted to Dany’s khas, urging his horse forward a few steps.
“It is known,” Mago added.
“It is known,” Jhaqo’s men echoed together.
Jhaqo continued, “A khaleesi who has lost her khal shall never be touched by another Dothraki horseman.
She will be sent to Vaes Dothrak to join the dosh khaleen.
It is known.” “It is known,” Mago shouted from the side.
From among Dany’s khas, Aggo stepped forward and yelled, “Once the khal is laid to rest, we will escort the khaleesi back to Vaes Dothrak.” “Hmph.
My khalasar will be waiting for you on the northern banks of the Lhazar River.
Do not think of escaping,” Jhaqo said coldly.
They were currently at the edge of the red waste.
Heading north would take them back to the scattered settlements of the Lamb Men, and across the Lhazar River lay the boundless Dothraki Sea.
As for heading south…
that was over a thousand kilometers of barren wasteland.
He surveyed the small patch of camp, his riding crop cracking sharply in the air.
“Now, hand over the wealth that belongs to the khal and no longer belongs to you.” “The slaves, warriors, and livestock have already been plundered by the others,” Ser Jorah said, frowning.
“Ironman, I want this palace,” Jhaqo said, pointing his whip at the grass palace behind Dany.
“Only a khal may dwell in a khal’s palace.
The dosh khaleen have no need of it.” Jorah turned to look at Dany, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his left quietly pulling down the visor of his flat-topped iron helm.
But Dany shook her head at him, then turned to Kovarro and ordered, “Have the women dismantle the tent.”