Drogo rushed back to his house which he found was shrouded in darkness. The usual smell of burning logs and that of cooked food was missing. He gritted his teeth as he walked inside. He picked up the lamp from the side and burned the wick. His wife was on the bed, her face pressed into the pillow. She was still crying. He scoffed and then went to take a bath in cold water.
He didn't disturb her even though he knew that she was hoping that he would come and say sorry to her. But she didn't deserve any apology. She deserved more beating though. She had made him the clown of the village with one foolish step of hers and not only that — their son was also away from them. Nothing could be worse.
He changed into a tunic and dark trousers and pulled a thick fur over him. The meeting chamber of the potter was after a bend and round a corner. When he reached there, he was astonished to see that only three more people were gathered. "Where are the rest?" he growled.
