Qotho returned to the campfire, where the wine had already been poured.
Haggo sat cross-legged, a large roasted leg of lamb set before him, cutting meat with his knife as he ate.
Cohollo leaned against a saddle, a bowl in his hand, not drinking, staring blankly at the fire.
Dozens of warriors sat scattered around, with a few slave women waiting nearby, ready to dance.
Normally by this hour, someone would have stepped into the circle to spar — blade-gleam flashing against firelight, blood and wine mingling, shouting loud enough to overturn half the camp.
Tonight, no one moved.
Qotho dropped down heavily, grabbed a wine bowl, and downed a large mouthful.
Cohollo glanced at him.
“Where is the khal?”
“Full.” Qotho slammed the bowl onto the ground.
“He told us to eat on our own.”
Haggo’s knife-hand paused, and he lifted his eyes to look at him.
Several warriors around them exchanged glances.
One of the younger ones couldn’t hold back and muttered, “The khal isn’t coming?”
No one answered.
Haggo cut a piece of meat and chewed it slowly.
Cohollo stared at the fire, his face expressionless.
After a stretch of silence, Qotho suddenly spoke.
“He eats with two sticks.”
Everyone nearby looked over.
“What sticks?”
“Just two little wooden sticks,” Qotho gestured, “pinching meat and carrying it to his mouth, like a bird picking up bugs.”
Someone laughed, but halfway through, swallowed it back.
“That foreign woman must have taught him,” Qotho said, his voice hard.
Haggo lowered his head and kept cutting meat, as if the matter wasn’t worth lifting his head for.
Cohollo swallowed his meat and spoke.
“She is a khaleesi, not a foreign woman.”
Qotho stared at him.
Cohollo set down his cutting knife.
“The khal has eaten.
If he doesn’t come, he doesn’t come.
It’s just one meal.”
“But the khal never used to be like this.”
Never used to be like this.
Once those words were spoken, no one made another sound.
In the past at this hour, the khal would sit in the very center, with the largest wine bowl and the most meat.
When the mood took him, he’d step into the circle and spar a few rounds with his brothers — no blades, just fists and feet, wrestling until he was covered in dust, then roaring with laughter.
When the women danced, he’d casually toss a copper medallion and let them scramble for it.
They’d fight until heads were bloodied, and he’d just watch and laugh.
Now he was in that tent, eating meat with two sticks.
Haggo suddenly stood up.
Qotho looked at him.
“Where are you going?”
“To sleep,” Haggo said.
Qotho opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He raised his wine bowl, took a drink, and said nothing more.
Cohollo hoisted a skin of mare’s milk wine, tilted his head back and gulped, then passed it to the person beside him.
That man took it, gulped as well, and passed it on.
But still no one stepped into the circle to spar, no one shouted, no one laughed.
The campfire crackled and popped, sparks shooting upward, vanishing into the black night.
Cohollo gazed toward Dany’s tent.
The door flap was shut tight, only a sliver of oil-lamp light seeping through the gap.
He watched for a moment, then withdrew his gaze and picked up a piece of cheese.
After the wine and food had been amply consumed, the atmosphere inside the tent gradually grew intimate.
Drogo pushed the remaining food on the silver platter toward Lale.
“Yours.”
Lale lowered her eyes.
“Khal, it is my honor.”
Dany asked, “You’re…
staying tonight?”
“Staying.”
Her eyes flicked toward the tent flap.
“Then the bloodriders won’t blame me, will they?
I don’t want to cause a rift between you because of me.”
Drogo smiled.
He thought of those emperors who had lost their kingdoms through indulgence in women.
He couldn’t be like that, but then he reconsidered: once or twice wouldn’t matter much.
He changed the subject.
“You are a khaleesi now.
In the future you’ll need to speak with bloodriders, with the people of the tribe, with the children to come.
How much Dothraki have you learned?”
Dany thought for a moment, then spoke a few everyday phrases in Dothraki.
Her pronunciation was somewhat off, but understandable.
Drogo opened his mouth and replied with a sentence in the Common Tongue.
He worked hard at the sounds, his tongue as if tied in knots.
Dany listened, then doubled over laughing.
Drogo watched her.
When she laughed hard, her face scrunched up, her mouth stretched wide, her eyes narrowed into two slits.
Not as pretty as when she wasn’t laughing, truth be told.
But she laughed happily.
That kind of happiness where you don’t have to pretend, don’t have to hide, just laugh when you want to.
She finished laughing, caught her breath, and said, “Teach me Dothraki.”
“Lale and Jhiqui are already teaching you.”
“That doesn’t count.
I want you to teach me.
I want to learn a phrase — one I can use on my own someday.”
He thought for a moment.
“Then learn a fierce one.
If anyone ever dares bully you, you say this.”
Dany straightened up, facing him, waiting for him to speak.
Drogo taught her a phrase.
She repeated it after him, learning quickly, every syllable correct.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“How was your day today?”
She froze.
Then her eyes reddened.
“You’re teasing me,” she said, her voice catching a little.
“You said you’d teach me a fierce one…”
Drogo stepped forward and embraced her, holding her in his arms.
She fell silent, only lowering her head, tears falling drop by drop onto the blanket.
He felt a stir of panic.
“What’s wrong?
Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head, lifted her face, it was covered in tears, but the corners of her mouth were turned up.
“No,” she said.
“I just…
no one has ever…”
She couldn’t finish.
He reached out and wiped the tears from her face.
“Dany,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Now someone has.”
She looked at Drogo for a long time.
Those violet eyes were wet, reflecting a little firelight.
Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Very light, very cool, like a feather brushing past.
She simply nestled against his chest like that, listening to him talk about the grasslands.
About horses, about how stars are the spirits of dead warriors, about how to find your way on the plains.
She listened, occasionally murmuring “Mm.”
Later he spoke of what happens after a khal dies.
He said, “When a khal dies, the body must be wrapped in cloth.
From head to toe, wrapped tightly, then placed on a pyre and burned.”
Dany stirred and lifted her head to look at him.
“Why?”
“It is the custom of the Dothraki.” This custom was one he had added himself.
Lale listened nearby, finding it strange in her heart.
She had lived among the Dothraki for so long and had never heard of such a custom.
But she had never seen a khal buried, and she didn’t dare question Drogo’s words.
Dany listened and listened, then fell asleep.
Her breathing was shallow, her lashes fluttering now and then.
Drogo lowered his head to look at her.
Moonlight leaked through the gaps in the tent, falling on her silver hair like a dusting of frost.
He watched her for a while, then gently raised his hand, signaling Lale to withdraw.
Lale rose, silently lifted the tent flap, and slipped out.
Only the two of them remained in the tent.
Drogo gazed at her sleeping face, and a sudden idea struck him.
He reached over and took the oil lamp beside him.
The oil was nearly dry, the flame small, flickering unsteadily.
He slowly brought the lamp close to the back of her hand.
The flame licked her skin, once, twice, three times…
He counted, letting it burn for the span of more than ten breaths.
Dany jolted awake.
Drogo immediately kissed her lips, his left hand swiftly returning the oil lamp to its place, then gently soothed her:
“A dream.
You were dreaming again.”
Dany gasped for breath, her gaze unfocused for a moment, then slowly came back.
These days she occasionally had dreams of being consumed by a great fire, in the dream she felt her muscles charring and blackening, dying and peeling away, felt her blood boiling and evaporating.
So she quite naturally believed Drogo’s words.
“Sleep,” Drogo said, his hand patting her back gently.
She closed her eyes and soon fell asleep again.
Her breathing gradually steadied.
He looked at the back of Dany’s hand, only a little red, no blisters, no peeling skin.
As expected: a true dragon does not fear fire.
Drogo lowered his head and kissed her on the forehead.
“Goodnight, ‘Mother of Dragons.'”
➤ Next: Military Reform — Face to Face
WEEKLY POWER GOALS: 30→1ch | 50→2ch | 80→5 ch | 100→8 ch | 150→12 ch
Happy reading, everyone!