Drogo went to the prisoner camp first.
Thirteen prisoners were tied to a long rope, squatting on the ground like a string of hobbled sheep.
They still wore the leather vests they’d fought in.
A few kept their heads down, eyes fixed on the dirt, not daring to look up.
The others held their chins up and their eyes steady, gazes sharp as knives, as if they wanted to flay Drogo alive.
Defiant.
Not daring to move.
Drogo stopped in front of them.
He walked a slow circle, his boots swishing through the grass.
“You’re too weak.
With that little skill, you dared to attack my khalasar?”
The ones already hanging their heads sank even lower.
One prisoner who’d been holding his neck rigid couldn’t take it anymore.
He fired back, voice hard: “Khal Ogo will take revenge on you.”
Drogo looked at him and smiled.
“That khal of yours runs faster than a startled sheep.”
“I chased him half the day and never touched his horse’s tail.
He ran so fast — I’ve never seen a khal on the grassland run that fast.”
“HAHAHAHAHA!” The Dothraki warriors behind Drogo burst out laughing.
The prisoner’s cheeks puffed with rage.
He lunged a step forward and couldn’t move.
The rope snapped taut.
The jerk pulled against a wounded prisoner’s injury, and the man let out a shriek.
Somewhere in the group, a voice muttered:
“It’s true…
I saw Ogo throw down his three bloodriders and run on his own.”
The prisoner heard it.
He turned his head and glared at the one who’d spoken.
But the hardness in his eyes had slipped.
Drogo walked up to him and stopped.
He bent down, bringing his face close.
“What’s your name?”
The man held his gaze.
Said nothing.
Drogo straightened up and didn’t ask again.
He tilted his chin toward Qotho.
“That’s one.
Pick three more.”
Qotho pointed out three men without much thought.
Soldiers cut them loose from the rope and shoved them aside.
The four chosen wore every expression imaginable, trembling lips, rapid blinking, eyes locked on Drogo and never wavering.
The remaining nine were tied back up and squatted on the ground again.
Drogo didn’t look at them anymore.
“Bring them,” he said.
The four were escorted to the pyre.
It was three men high and half a basketball court wide.
Drogo walked a slow circle around it.
“Tie the four of them inside.”
Soldiers pushed the four men into the center of the pyre, forced them to their knees, and bound their hands and feet to upright stakes.
The stakes were short, just right for a kneeling man.
Someone started shaking.
The prisoner who’d been staring at Drogo the whole time still hadn’t blinked, as if he was burning this face into his memory.
Once it was done, Drogo took his bloodriders and went to find Dany.
Daenerys already knew her husband had returned safely, but the moment she saw him, she smiled with relief anyway.
She came forward to meet him.
Drogo dismounted, wrapped his arm around her waist, and kissed her forehead.
“Give me the dragon eggs.” He spoke directly, without waiting for Lahli to translate.
Dany looked up at him, confused.
“What do you need the dragon eggs for?”
Drogo caught the gist of it.
He didn’t explain.
He just said it again:
“Give them to me.”
Dany turned and told the servants to bring out the chest.
The chest opened.
Three dragon eggs rested inside, still and silent.
Drogo glanced down at them, closed the lid, tucked the chest under his arm, and swung back onto his horse.
The horse shuffled beneath him.
He reined it in and spoke in Dothraki:
“I will attempt to hatch the dragon eggs tonight.
You may follow.”
Then he rode off.
Lahli translated for Dany.
Dany’s eyes went bright at once.
She grabbed her skirts and ran to her silver-grey filly, swung up, and gave chase.
Drogo returned to the pyre.
He set down the chest, opened it, and lifted out the three eggs one by one, handing them off.
“Place them on top.” He pointed to the peak of the pyre.
His men took the eggs, climbed the stacked wood, and carefully set the three eggs side by side at the very top.
Drogo gripped a torch and turned to face the camp.
Firelight danced across his face.
The crowd was dark and thick all around him, warriors, women, children, all pressing in.
The nine prisoners, still bound by the rope, knelt in a row before him.
He shouted with everything he had.
“On the Dothraki Sea, there is no place for Ogo anymore.”
The crowd went quiet.
“I chased him until he couldn’t run.
I found him when he couldn’t hide.
The day he dies, I will slit his throat and pull his tongue out by the root.”
He thrust the torch forward.
All nine prisoners shrank back.
“Go back and tell everyone.
Whoever dares touch my khalasar — this is what waits for them.”
The words weren’t even finished when the torch left his hand and flew into the pyre.
BOOM.
The fire erupted.
The four prisoners tied to the stakes lurched backward as the flames hit.
Fire licked up their legs.
One screamed.
One writhed, the ropes cutting into flesh.
The stench of charred skin spread in all directions.
The prisoner who’d been staring at Drogo clenched his jaw and made no sound.
His eyes had gone bloodshot, wide and burning.
Among the nine, some buried their faces in the dirt.
Some shook so hard they could barely hold themselves up.
One young man sprawled flat on the ground, wailing until his voice gave out completely.
The people around them began to roar.
One voice.
Then a dozen.
Then hundreds.
Then every fist in the camp went up and every throat opened at once.
The roar swallowed the screaming.
It swallowed the crackling of the fire.
It swallowed the wind across the grassland.
Drogo stood before the flames, motionless.
The fire burned higher.
Daenerys hadn’t expected this when she rode over.
The smell hit her first, charred flesh and smoke rolling toward her in waves.
Her stomach turned.
She pressed her hand over her mouth, spun around, and started backing away.
“Where are you going, my sweet sister?”
Viserys had materialized at her side.
One hand closed around her arm, his smile in place.
Dany’s lips drained of color.
“I…
I don’t want to watch this.”
“Don’t want to watch?” Viserys laughed once, grip not loosening.
“This is Dothraki power.
You had better learn to stomach it.
You are married to him, aren’t you?”
“But…”
“I’d only ever heard he’d never lost,” Viserys said, eyes fixed on the pyre, gleaming.
“Tonight I saw it myself.
He destroyed Ogo’s khalasar.
Scattered them like nothing.
That Ogo — he didn’t even look back when he ran.”
He squeezed her hand harder.
“Power like this, crushing Robert Baratheon would be nothing.
Crushing those traitors, those ungrateful wretches, nothing.”
“My sweet sister.” He let go of her.
“Serve him well.
Make him march soon.
I’ve waited long enough.”
“The people of the Seven Kingdoms are waiting for their true king to come home.”
Dany looked at him and said nothing.
The great fire burned lower and lower.
The crowd had already scattered.
Drogo still sat where he was, facing the embers.
Daenerys walked over and sat down beside him.
Neither of them spoke.
A few small flames still licked at the last scraps of wood, crackling weakly before dying back down.
Drogo stared at the fading light and didn’t look away.
He wanted so badly to see three dragon hatchlings once the fire went cold.
A great fire.
A blood sacrifice.
He didn’t know if it would work.
But as long as there was a chance, he had to try.
➤ Next: Fate
WEEKLY POWER GOALS: 30→1ch | 50→2ch | 80→5 ch | 100→8 ch | 150→12 ch
Happy reading, everyone!