“More than two hundred people, but fewer than a hundred are fit to fight.
The elite screamers only number the sixty from your khas.
They…” Jorah paused, a look of pity crossing his face.
He sighed, “It is foreseeable that during the long trek ahead, nearly half of the old, weak, sick, and young will die.” “What about supplies?” Dany asked, frowning.
“We can ensure everyone has a horse, but there are only a little over two hundred cows and sheep combined.
As for water…
after the khalasar left, that small stream is barely enough for us, but it’s a bit far, about five kilometers away.” Dany asked in confusion, “There isn’t even a single blade of grass nearby.
What have the horses and sheep been eating these past few days?” “There is reddish-brown devil’s grass growing in the crevices of the rocks.
Although it is tough and hard, it is enough to satisfy the horses’ hunger, but this situation cannot last long.
The resources here are exhausted; we must get moving,” Rakharo warned her.
“Where to?” Dany’s heart stirred.
She tested the horsemen, “What are your plans next?
If I reorganize this small khas into a khalasar and make you four my bloodriders, would you accept?” Dany’s words seemed to greatly trouble the horsemen warriors.
After wrinkling his face in thought for a moment, Kovarro was the first to refuse.
“That cannot be done.
To be a woman’s bloodrider would bring me shame, and there can only be three bloodriders.” Dany looked at the next person.
Aggo lowered his eyes.
“I cannot swear the oath either.
Only a man can lead a khalasar.” “You are Khaleesi, and only Khaleesi,” Rakharo continued.
“I will ride by your side to Vaes Dothrak beneath the Mother of Mountains, protecting you from danger until you join the crones of the dosh khaleen.
Beyond that, I can make no further promises.” “I—” “Enough, I understand,” Dany snapped, cutting off Jhogo before he could speak.
“Let’s put this matter aside for now.
Our first priority right now is to send the great Khal Drogo back to the Night Lands.” Ser Jorah suddenly stood up from his cross-legged position.
With a sharp metallic ring, he drew the sword from his waist, the gleaming blade dazzling Dany’s eyes.
Then, Jorah Mormont knelt on one knee and placed the sword at Dany’s feet.
“My princess, I swear to serve you, to obey your every command, and to lay down my life if need be.” He turned his head to glance at the four horsemen beside him and declared forcefully, “I swear by the sharp sword in my hand and the bear sigil of my house: unless you go willingly, no one will take you back to Vaes Dothrak.
You do not have to join the dosh khaleen.” The four horsemen looked at each other, confusion and unease flickering in their almond-shaped dark eyes.
*It seems that even in the morally decayed Westeros, there are still highly noble and loyal subjects!* Although Ser Jorah’s motives were not entirely pure—his loyalty stemming more from unrequited love—Dany was still very happy.
“According to Dothraki tradition, a Khal must return to the embrace of the Horse God riding a steed through the flames.
Therefore, I order you to lead the riders to scout the surroundings and gather all combustible firewood, dry grass, and vines…” This was a bitter, cold wasteland unfit for long-term habitation; Dany had to leave as soon as possible.
Hearing that Dany intended to cremate Drogo, the two bloodriders who had been depressed also left Drogo’s bedside once again to prepare their own belongings.
“Leave us for now.
I must end his pain and humiliation,” Dany told her handmaids.
Drogo had not woken up for four days.
Half of his chest was black and rotting, yet he still drew faint breaths.
This was both a painful torment and a great humiliation for him—a great mounted warrior should not lie endlessly on a sickbed.
Dany took three minutes to help him find release using a feather pillow.
She then cut open his rotting flesh, cleared out the pus and blood, and filled his chest cavity with thick, fragrant ointments.
Irri and Jhiqui helped clean Drogo’s hair and body.
Then, Dany washed his long hair, re-braided it, and wove in a series of small bells.
Many bells—gold, silver, and bronze.
These bells would announce his arrival to his enemies, striking fear into their hearts…
even in the realm of the dead.
Next, Doreah dressed him in horsehair leggings and high boots, fastening a heavy leather belt adorned with gold and silver medallions around his waist.
Working together, Irri and Jhiqui lifted Drogo’s broad but emaciated body and helped him into a painted vest to cover the scars on his chest.
Though old and faded, this vest was his favorite.
Dany had originally planned to hold the cremation that evening, but even as the sun dipped toward the west, they hadn’t gathered enough wood.
Jhogo had gone the furthest, riding twenty kilometers north, almost reaching the territory of the Lamb Men.
“They shot arrows at me.
The Lamb Men do not welcome horse people,” Jhogo said angrily.
*Isn’t that obvious?
You harvest them like leeks.
Every year, when you ride south from Vaes Dothrak to the great grass sea, you go to the Lhazar River basin to plunder, treating the Lamb Men as your ‘New Year’s luck.’* *Ugh, this year seems particularly cursed.
Two Khals in a row have fallen in the ‘starter village.’* Jhogo quickly grew excited again and said, “But I ran into Odo’s khalasar.
When they heard I was gathering firewood for the Khal’s funeral pyre, they offered to raid a village to provide sacrifices for us.” Odo was once one of Drogo’s kos.
The khalasar he splintered off wasn’t large; the bulk had been swallowed by Pono and Jhaqo.
Out of over forty thousand screamers, Pono took twenty thousand, Jhaqo took ten thousand, and the remaining ten thousand were divided among a dozen kos, leaving each khalasar with only one or two thousand warriors.
Of course, in the vast Dothraki Sea, a khalasar of a few thousand was the norm.
A supreme overlord of the plains like Drogo was a rarity.
“Khal Odo harbors ill intentions.
He is most likely acting on orders from Pono and the others, waiting in the north just for you.” After Jhogo left, Jorah spoke with a solemn expression.
“Princess, what exactly are your thoughts?
You tried to win over Kovarro and the others earlier, clearly unwilling to return to Vaes Dothrak to become dosh khaleen, which means we seem to be trapped.
And your khas is loyal to you, but they also have their own will—the thousand-year-old tradition of the Dothraki.” Dany gave him a reassuring look.
“You will understand in two days.” The next day, at the crack of dawn, Qotho rode north alone to the agreed meeting place with Odo.
By noon, he returned with a large caravan.
Ten riders from Odo’s khalasar escorted two hundred Lhazareen slaves.
The slaves were tied together with ropes, their faces filled with despair.
There were also a dozen slaves driving over ten carts.
The carts were piled high with bundles of chopped firewood…
and carts of castor oil.
“These slaves will accompany us on the night’s journey,” Qotho said coldly.
Dany wore loose sand-silk trousers and sandals laced up to her knees, with a Dothraki painted vest similar to Drogo’s on her upper body.
“The Khal has you, and five hundred of his most loyal warriors to accompany him.
He does not need these cowardly Lamb Men slaves.” She unhesitatingly rejected the plan for human sacrifice.
“You—” Qotho raised his whip, a vicious look on his face.
“Behave yourself.
I am in charge here now!” Dany said coldly.
Kovarro and Jorah stood beside her, and right behind her, Aggo and Rakharo had their arrows aimed at Qotho.
Hundreds of people worked busily throughout the afternoon.
Before sunset, the firewood was stacked into a square pyre five meters long and wide, and four meters high.
The hollow center was stuffed with straw, brushwood, bark shavings, and dry grass.
This was the Khal’s “master bedroom.” On the funeral pyre were placed Khal Drogo’s treasures: his blankets, painted vest, saddle, and reins, the horsewhip gifted by his father when he came of age, the arakh he had used to slay Khal Ogo and his son, and that massive dragonbone bow.
Jhogo originally intended to place the weapons Drogo’s bloodriders had given Dany as bride gifts onto the pyre as well, but she stopped him.
“Those are mine,” she told him.
“I am keeping them.” After a moment of thought, Dany took two men back to the foot of the hill.
In a rocky corner, they dug away a layer of red dirt to reveal several cowhide bags the size of cement sacks.
*Clatter.* Lifting the bottom of the bags, a dazzling river of gold poured out.
It was a brilliant expanse of gold—all gold medallions the size of a child’s palm.
Drogo had a total of ten chests of gold medallions.
Dany had secretly buried three chests of gold and filled the remaining ten chests with thirty percent brass medallions.
With thousands of people scrambling for the loot, they couldn’t even tell that several chests were missing, let alone realize Dany had mixed in fakes.
The barbaric and straightforward horsemen hadn’t yet evolved to understand such deceptive tricks.
A layer of gold medallions was spread over the Khal’s treasures, followed by several bundles of dry grass.
Qotho and Haggo, their expressions solemn, carried Drogo’s body out of the tent.
The Dothraki watched in silence.
They laid him on his own pillows and silk blankets, his head pointing toward the distant Mother of Mountains in the northeast.
Rakharo led Drogo’s red steed forward.
It was tall and fierce, its body as red as burning coals, its coat as smooth as the finest silk.
It was a beast with few equals in the world, daring enough to bite even the white lions of the plains.
The Dothraki were a harsh and ruthless people.
According to their customs, they never named animals; otherwise, Drogo’s steed would surely have had a name passed down through the ages, much like the famous horses of ancient Eastern empires.
The horse was unusually docile today, allowing itself to be led to the east side of Drogo’s pyre.
As if knowing its fate, it raised its head, barely reaching Drogo’s face, and licked him.
Two strings of crystalline tears fell from its agate-like eyes, dampening Drogo’s hair and pillow.
Then, it ate a shriveled apple Dany offered, stamped its hooves in place, and neighed at the sky for a while before quieting down.
Facing the axe blade Rakharo swung at its face, it showed no fear and did not dodge, cleanly struck down to the ground.
The horsemen used firewood to build a platform over the horse’s corpse, using the trunks of small saplings and the branches of large trees.
The wood was laid from east to west, symbolizing sunrise to sunset.
Qotho and Haggo built slightly lower platforms to the north and south of Drogo.
These were also covered with treasures and weapons.
They brought their own steeds, fed them an apple just like Drogo’s red horse, and beheaded them with a single axe strike.
Those pyres belonged to the two bloodriders.
They washed and groomed themselves, then lay down upon them, gripping their arakhs.
Extending outward from the bloodriders’ platforms, the horsemen used branches to build a long, third-tier platform.
Drogo’s was four meters high, the bloodriders’ three meters, and this one two meters.
It was covered with dry leaves and twigs, laid from north to south, symbolizing black ice to roaring fire.
On the third-tier pyre, they neatly arranged five hundred heads—the heads of the warriors who had died in battle alongside Cohollo.
Finally, soft pillows and silk blankets were piled high on top.
And Cohollo’s own head was placed right beside Drogo.