Twenty-six-year-old graduate of a medical university, a budding surgeon, woke up to find herself transmigrated into the body of a 14-year-old pregnant girl: Daenerys Targaryen.
Whatever her previous identity or name had been, it no longer mattered in this new reality.
She was now the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm; Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; Breaker of Chains; Queen of Meereen; Princess of Dragonstone; the Unburnt; Mother of Dragons; Mhysa; the Silver Queen.
Well, at this moment, she was just "Stormborn" and Khal Drogo's Khaleesi.
Becoming the "Mother of Dragons" was still a distant future. The most pressing concern now was surviving after Khal Drogo's impending death.
Drogo was gravely ill, poisoned by black magic. Even if she were a skilled surgeon—or if an ancient medical master like Bian Que were present—he would still be beyond saving.
Daenerys, now with a new soul inside her, rubbed her heavy pregnant belly, pushed aside the chaotic thoughts in her mind, and began to observe her surroundings.
The golden sun scorched the earth like a furnace. Fields stretched out before her, haphazardly planted with rye, soybeans, and occasional patches of vegetables and fruits.
Her silver-haired mare walked steadily, occasionally crushing soybean pods underfoot with crisp pops.
Daenerys tilted her head to avoid the blinding sunlight, muttering softly, "What a tragedy. It's harvest season, yet these Dothraki are trampling everything."
Khal Drogo's khalasar—his nomadic horde—boasted nearly 50,000 mounted warriors, with the entire group numbering over 100,000.
(Note: "Khal" is a title akin to "Khan" among the Mongols or Turks, denoting the leader of a Dothraki horde.
"Khalasar" refers to the entire tribe that follows a Khal.
"Khaleesi" is the title for the wife of a Khal, which is now Daenerys' role.)
The Dothraki were a quintessential nomadic people, with every member owning at least one horse. Over 100,000 horses accompanied them, trampling through these lands.
The muffled thunder of hoofbeats proclaimed loudly: this year, the fields of the Lhazareen would yield nothing.
The Lhazareen, derisively called "sheep people" by the Dothraki, were not worried about their crops. Faced with the strongest Khalasar on the grasslands, they were consumed with the fear of death.
Turning her head, Daenerys saw yet another crumbling farmhouse. The terrified inhabitants peeked over mud-brick walls, their almond-shaped eyes mirroring the fear and hidden hatred of the Dothraki.
The Lhazareen, a small and weak farming people, lived south of the Dothraki Sea, near the Lhazar River.
They bore some resemblance to the Dothraki: bronze skin and almond-shaped eyes. But unlike the tall, savage nomads, the Lhazareen were shorter, with flat features, and were far more timid and peaceful.
A sudden clatter of hoofbeats from behind snapped her out of her thoughts.
Daenerys pushed her silver hair behind her ear and saw seven or eight riders breaking away from the horde.
The Dothraki riders, with their long black braids, reminded her of warriors from ancient China. However, their braids were adorned with bells, each representing a victory. The bells jingled sharply as their horses moved.
Sifting through her inherited memories, Daenerys recognized them as Khal Drogo's bloodriders—his sworn bodyguards and brothers-in-arms: Cohollo, Haggo, and Qotho. The others were Khal Drogo's kos, like Jhaqo and Pono.
(Note: Bloodriders are both bodyguards and brothers to a Khal, bound by oath. They share everything with him—including his wife, though thankfully Khal Drogo had no such intentions toward Daenerys.)
Without even glancing her way, they rode past Daenerys and approached Khal Drogo, who was slumped in his saddle. Jhaqo pointed at a distant cluster of mud-brick houses and spoke first.
"Khal, there's a Lhazareen village nearby. Shall we attack and take it down?"
They were here to invite Khal Drogo on a "hunt."
The Dothraki were a nomadic people with no industry, crafts, or manufacturing. Everything they needed came from plunder, their way of life honed by generations of relentless raids.
Drogo, his head heavy and vision blurred, struggled to lift it. Recognizing the voices, he rasped faintly, "Do it. I…"
Daenerys felt a pang of bitterness. According to the storyline, this husband she barely knew was nearing death, and she would soon become a widow.
It wasn't that she was attached to him—he was practically a stranger. The problem was the cruel Dothraki customs.
A Khal wasn't succeeded by bloodline but by the strongest warrior of the horde, and the fight for leadership was always bloody. When a Khal died, his Khaleesi was sent to the Dosh Khaleen, the temple of widowed Khaleesis. As for her unborn child? Survival under a new Khal would be nearly impossible.
"Khal is unwell; can't you see?"
Daenerys urged her horse forward, ignoring the cold glares of the bloodriders and kos. "These villages are small and hold no wealth. There's no need for Khal to personally intervene."
The towering Haggo sneered at her. "Khaleesi, this is not your place to speak—"
Crack!
Daenerys lashed her whip, the sharp snap cutting through the air. Her movements were sluggish due to her swollen body, and Haggo easily leaned back on his horse to avoid it.
"You dare strike me?"
With a flash of steel, Haggo drew his curved arakh, his bloodshot eyes locking onto her.
Dany only smirked coldly, showing no fear as she locked eyes with him. In fluent Dothraki inherited from her predecessor, she said, "I am the Khaleesi of Drogo Khal, from the noble Targaryen lineage. Do you dare draw your blade against me?"
She wasn't acting recklessly. From the brief glimpses into her predecessor's memories, Dany understood that the Dothraki respected strength, not submission. The harder and fiercer you acted, the more they regarded you as an equal—or even as human.
To the Dothraki, the weak and the meek weren't people. For example, her brother Viserys and the plundered Lhazareen, derogatorily called "sheep people," were seen as less than human.
Of course, being tough didn't mean being stupid. As one of Drogo's bloodriders, Haggo would never harm the Khaleesi carrying Drogo's child in his presence.
Moreover, Dany wasn't entirely alone.
Sure enough, before long, her guard arrived on horseback. Ser Jorah Mormont, known as the Bear, skillfully maneuvered his steed, stepping in front of Dany while unsheathing his sword and casting a stern gaze over Haggo and the others.
Behind her, Dany's personal khalasar also sprang into action, bows drawn and aimed at Haggo with expressionless faces.
Drogo ruled an entire khalasar, made up of numerous smaller clans, or khas. Fortunately for Dany, as Khaleesi, she had her own small khas, albeit modest in size—about 200 people—primarily tasked with ensuring her safety and attending to her needs.
Kohollo, an older man with graying hair and a face crisscrossed with scars, cast a cold glance at Dany. "Put away your weapons," he ordered. Turning to Haggo, he added, "You, represent the blood of my blood in battle. Make sure to claim the most heads."
Drogo was thirty years old. Haggo and Qotho were around the same age, but Kohollo was the oldest of the bloodriders. Despite his youthful physique, he was over fifty.
Years ago, when Drogo was a child, enemies of Drogo's father kidnapped him. Kohollo risked his life to rescue the young Khal. He was as much a father figure to Drogo as a bloodrider. He also managed Drogo's khas and held the title of a Ko.
Among the bloodriders, his status and authority were the highest.
Haggo, his face flushed with anger, spat on the ground and reluctantly turned his horse to leave.
Qotho and the other Kos shot wolfish glances at Dany before galloping after him.
Once the horses' hoofbeats faded into the distance, Kohollo spoke with a faint chill in his voice. "As the leader of the khalasar, the Khal must personally charge into the fray against the enemy and be the first to breach the walls of the sheep people's villages. It is both his duty and his glory."
Dany felt a flicker of gratitude. She understood that Kohollo was explaining their culture to her.
Of Drogo's three bloodriders, only Kohollo treated her with any semblance of respect. To him, she was Drogo's wife. To the rest of the Dothraki, she was merely a highborn breeding tool purchased from Illyrio. Titles like "Princess of Dragonstone" or "Stormborn of House Targaryen" meant nothing to them.
Dany forced a stiff smile. "But the Khal is unwell. I'm worried—"
Kohollo cut her off with a raised hand. "You should worry about the Kos launching raids without the Khal's permission. Though your worries will be in vain."
With that, he spurred his horse and rode away.
Soon, the sounds of warriors shouting, the cries of sheep people, and the stench of blood and fire reached Dany's ears.
Standing on a hilltop, wild grasses tickled her legs beneath her horsehair leggings, their touch as light as a baby's kiss.
Turning to look in all directions, she saw columns of smoke rising like fingers stabbing the sky, marking the burning farms of the Lhazareen.
Cradling her heavy belly, Dany closed her eyes, struggling to suppress thoughts of how many pregnant women like her would perish today. How many children and women would be taken as slaves by Drogo's khalasar?
"This is truly a cruel world."
Dany's small khas bustled about her, some flattening the soil on the hilltop to set up tents and wooden stakes, while others climbed onto wagons to unload chests filled with blankets and valuables belonging to Drogo and herself.
At the heart of the entire khalasar's encampment lay the Khal's pavilion. Starting from the hill Dany had chosen, yurts resembling mushrooms after rain quickly spread across the surrounding fields.
The Dothraki had no interest in stone houses; they preferred the nomadic life of tents.
The sight of over 100,000 people busying themselves in unison, with its vibrant energy, lifted Dany's mood slightly in this foreign and harsh world.
"Ser Jorah, take a walk with me," she said.
Ser Jorah Mormont, nicknamed the Bear, hailed from the North of Westeros. Formerly the Lord of Bear Island, he was the son of Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and the uncle of the fierce Lady of Bear Island.
Due to trading slaves, he was sentenced to execution by Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. To escape the punishment, he fled across the Narrow Sea to the continent of Essos.
When Daenerys married Drogo, he swore allegiance to Viserys.
After Drogo crowned Viserys with molten gold, the Bear shifted his loyalty and became Daenerys's sworn knight.
When he first joined Drogo's khalasar, Ser Jorah still dressed like a typical Westerosi knight: woolen tunics, breeches, inner layers, leather armor, and steel plate.
But after nearly a year living on the vast grasslands, he adapted to the attire of the Dothraki: leather sandals, horsehair leggings, sleeveless painted leather vests, and bronze medallion belts.
"Khaleesi, aren't you going to check on Drogo's wound?"
Jorah rode alongside Daenerys's silver mare, with four young Dothraki riders trailing them.
"There are more than a dozen healers crowding around him right now. Once they leave, you and I can inspect his condition again."
In the khalasar, there were two kinds of people responsible for medical care: barren women and eunuch slaves. The herbal women used potions and charms for healing, while the eunuchs employed knives, needles, and fire. Collectively, they were referred to as the "hairless ones."
Amid the sprawling sea of tents, there was a chaotic buzz of activity. Slaves and women carried firewood; animals cried out as they were slaughtered; some people fetched water from wells and rivers with wooden buckets; others honed scimitars dulled from battle. Dothraki warriors with long hair issued commands, while barefoot children darted through the crowd, playing and laughing. The air was a stifling mix of sweat, horse manure, blood, and the aroma of roasting meat, assaulting Daenerys's senses.
Rounding a yurt, she came upon an open space where firewood was being stacked. A group of riders had formed a boisterous circle around a dozen naked women, openly engaging in lewd acts. Even at the sight of Daenerys on her silver mare, they made no attempt to cover themselves.
Drogo's khalasar was not solely composed of the bronzed-skinned Dothraki. Beyond the warriors, the majority were slaves who served them. Among them were pale-skinned people like Daenerys, milk-skinned individuals even whiter than her, red-skinned eunuchs, black-skinned men from the Summer Isles, and the shadowy-skinned people of Asshai. From her fragmented memories, Daenerys found it difficult to distinguish their ethnicities.
Even among the Dothraki themselves, there was no uniformity.
As the horse lords rampaged across Essos, plundering countless peoples and enslaving them, their lack of marital customs and unrestrained desires had long blurred racial and genetic lines.
There was only one unifying feature: all Dothraki had almond-shaped eyes.
"Khaleesi, you seem... different today. Did something happen?"
Since the afternoon, Jorah had noticed that Daenerys wasn't her usual self. Now, seeing her fail to intervene as the Dothraki brutalized Lhazareen women—a sharp departure from her past behavior—his suspicions deepened.
Originally, Daenerys was a kind-hearted young girl. The first time she witnessed Dothraki warriors abusing captured women, she had compassionately intervened, even suggesting that the warriors marry their captives.
This was a direct violation of Dothraki tradition.
Dothraki warriors had full autonomy over their plundered slaves. They could abuse, kill, or sell them as they pleased, and not even a Khal could interfere arbitrarily.
Additionally, the concept of marriage didn't exist for ordinary Dothraki. The Khal marrying a wife was a unique exception.
"I understand what you mean, but even if I try to stop them, without Drogo's support, who would listen to me?" Daenerys lowered her gaze as she spoke.
Jorah Mormont truly lived up to his reputation as Daenerys's most devoted admirer—his perceptiveness was remarkable. Since her arrival in this world earlier that afternoon, she had carefully observed her surroundings, speaking little and striving to mimic the behavior of the original Daenerys.
"Khaleesi, just say the word, and I'll kill them all!" exclaimed Aggo, one of her young Dothraki warriors, holding up his longbow with fervor.
Drogo did care for his wife. Although Daenerys's khalasar was small, it comprised some of the finest young warriors. Aggo, Qhono, Jhogo, and Rakharo were so exceptional that they showed potential to become bloodriders one day.
Bloodriders were elite warriors, the finest among thousands—akin to the generals in Genghis Khan's armies.
Jorah's eyes narrowed, and he warned, "This is someone else's khalasar. If you act recklessly, you'll get yourself killed."
He was well aware of the Dothraki temperament—they were quick to resort to violence, with no hesitation or second thoughts.
"I am not afraid to die," Aggo declared, his almond-shaped eyes blazing with determination.
"We're all unafraid of death!" the other warriors echoed.
"Any chaos you cause could harm the Khaleesi," Jorah said firmly, pointing to Daenerys's pregnant belly.
The conversation took an awkward turn. Daenerys glanced around, then suddenly raised her whip and pointed at a plump black man nearby. "You, stop right there."
The man, likely in his forties, was bald and sweating profusely. He offered a humble smile and asked, "Khaleesi, how may I serve you?"
In his large hands, a white goose flapped its wings frantically, struggling to break free. Its yellow beak occasionally pecked at his rough arms in vain.
"I want that goose," Daenerys stated.
The Dothraki primarily consumed horse meat, believing it to be the finest food in the world. However, after reviewing the original Daenerys's memories, the mere thought of horse meat made her feel nauseous. While the request served as a distraction, it was also an attempt to improve her diet.
Sweat beaded more densely on the bald man's shiny head. With a pleading expression, he reluctantly responded, "Khaleesi, I am Jhaqo's cook. Lady Lyliss cannot stomach horse meat, and I only just managed to find a few geese in the Lhazareen village this afternoon. I dare not give it away without permission!"
Crack!
"Ahhh—!"
Before Daenerys could react, Aggo lashed the man across the face with his whip. The blow tore his right cheek open, leaving a gash that resembled a centipede. "Insolent fool! The Khaleesi's request cannot be denied—not even by Jhaqo himself!"
The cook fell to the ground, clutching his face and wailing in pain, while the white goose escaped, squawking as it fled. The man was too overcome to utter another word.
The entire scene unfolded so quickly that Daenerys had no time to intervene. By the time she opened her mouth, the whip had already struck.
"Who dares steal my goose?!" A furious shout erupted from the nearby sky-blue tent.
(End of Chapter)
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