On the night Daenerys 'gave birth' to Rhaego, Khal Drogo's khalasar was thrown into chaos—a disturbance that spread across the entire camp. However, it wasn't caused by Cohollo.
The old bloodrider had been moved by Daenerys's words. Leading five hundred of Drogo's finest riders, he quietly bypassed the camp's defensive lines and rode north through the night.
They had used the cover of last night's chaos, though they were not the cause of it.
During the chaos, the entire camp had been filled with shouting men, screaming horses, and torches that dotted the plains like countless stars spread across the land.
Ser Jorah had strictly forbidden anyone from entering or leaving. He personally led his men and cut down seventeen Dothraki warriors who had tried to force their way into Drogo's tent.
By the following morning, Aggo returned from the smoldering ruins of the camp with accurate news: Pono had left with twenty thousand Dothraki screamers.
The chaos had erupted from the clash between Pono's followers and those trying to stop them.
Over the past few days, Pono had seemed quiet and compliant, but he had secretly been rallying the smaller khalasars' leaders. While others still watched Drogo's tent like vultures circling a dying beast, Pono had already realized a simple truth: no matter when Drogo died, strength would decide the next Khal.
Drogo's khalasar was the largest and strongest on the great grass sea, boasting forty thousand screamers and over fifty thousand warriors if one counted the younger riders.
By taking twenty thousand screamers with him in one night, Pono—or rather, Khal Pono—had instantly become one of the most powerful Khals in the Dothraki Sea.
But Pono's departure was only the beginning. Over the next two days, more than ten other Khals carved up the remaining warriors, wealth, slaves, and livestock.
On the fourth day, Daenerys stood atop a hill, looking in every direction. Once, Drogo's khalasar had covered the red earth like a vast brown carpet. Now, that carpet had folded in on itself, shrinking until only Daenerys's small group remained—a dark stain on a barren red floor.
The Dothraki had no choice but to leave this place. Without water, without grass for their horses, they could not survive.
Everything had gone according to Daenerys's expectations.
No... she had miscalculated one thing.
The Dothraki held the prophecies of the Dosh Khaleen in far higher regard than she had anticipated.
The Dosh Khaleen—widowed Khaleesis, the wise women of the Dothraki, the keepers of Vaes Dothrak, the priestesses atop the Mother of Mountains, and the architects of the great khalasars' movements.
Clop-clop-clop...
On the fourth evening, with the great crimson sun sinking behind them, a thousand riders thundered towards the camp, kicking up a long tail of dust.
It was Khal Jhaqo.
Outside the palisade of sharpened wooden stakes surrounding the tent, Ser Jorah stood with over a hundred Dothraki riders, swords drawn and ready.
Ree-ree...
Khal Jhaqo's horse reared on its hind legs, and the wind from their arrival made Jorah squint slightly.
"You've already left. Why have you come back?" Jorah's muffled voice echoed from behind his helmet.
Thud!
Jhaqo said nothing. He simply hurled a dark, blood-soaked object towards Daenerys.
The severed head rolled a few times before coming to rest at her feet. It was an old, scarred face with wide, furious eyes and a mouth frozen mid-shout—as if still protesting an unjust fate.
But no. Dothraki warriors did not protest. Even in the face of death, they would let out a final battle cry.
So, in his last moment, Cohollo had roared in defiance.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
One by one, Jhaqo's riders circled in an arc and began tossing blood-soaked heads onto the ground.
Soon, a small mountain of severed heads rose before them.
Four nights earlier, Cohollo had ridden away with five hundred of Drogo's best warriors. Now, under the blood-red sunset, Khal Jhaqo had returned with five hundred heads.
"Where is my son?" Daenerys asked, her gaze lowered, her voice hoarse.
Khal Jhaqo gestured to one of his riders, who handed him a four-meter-long wooden pole.
He raised it high for all to see.
A chorus of anguished wails erupted from Irri, Doreah, and the other handmaidens.
The pole was thin, and at its tip was a small head—about the size of a melon. Its skin was Dothraki bronze, crowned with thin black hair as dark as Khal Drogo's. Its almond-shaped eyes were a faint, lifeless violet.
"Why?" Daenerys's face was deathly pale, her body trembling as she coldly stared at Jhaqo. "Didn't Cohollo tell you about my oath? I only wished for this child to live a peaceful life. The ancient crone of the Dosh Khaleen would have witnessed my vow. He posed no threat to you."
Jhaqo grinned, his smile twisted and cruel. "Killing the son of a former Khal is tradition among the horsemen. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," his men echoed in unison.
"Your oath, your promise to the crone of the Dosh Khaleen—Cohollo told us everything," Jhaqo said, laughing. "But that is not our way. The great horse people do not honor such things. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," his men repeated again.
"We?" Daenerys paused, her mind racing. "You were nearly a day's ride behind Cohollo—at least three hundred kilometers. There's no way you could have caught up to him. Did Pono intervene?"
(Note: In A Song of Ice and Fire, the original text uses imperial units like miles and leagues. However, for clarity, this text will use kilometers without further explanation.)
"Cohollo's group never escaped Pono's pursuit. That cunning man hunted them relentlessly, and eventually, we joined the chase. But I was the lucky one. I stumbled upon the remnants of Cohollo's forces, hahaha!"
Jhaqo laughed triumphantly, shaking the pole he held like a victory banner.
"Truly, Cohollo was one of Drogo's fiercest bloodriders. With just five hundred men, they cut down nearly three thousand of us. In the end, only thirteen riders remained, and I personally claimed the heads of a bloodrider and a little Khal."
He swept his braid over his chest, showing off the bells tied into his hair. "Though they were weakened and worn, I still earned two bells for myself. After all, I am a Khal now, and a Khal must have a braid adorned with bells to mark his victories."
Like the Manchu of ancient China, the Dothraki grew their braids from childhood. A defeated warrior would cut his braid in shame, a visible mark of dishonor for all to see.
At Dothraki feasts, a warrior's seat of honor was determined by the length of his braid. Those with the longest braids sat closest to the Khal, while those with short braids were left to huddle on the floor, far from the places of honor.
A long braid symbolized a Dothraki warrior's glory, while each bell tied into it marked a victory in battle.
Khal Drogo had never lost a fight. His khalasar was the largest, and his braid was thick and long, reaching far below his waist. Bells jingled with every step he took, and when his hair ran out of space, he even braided his beard and adorned it with bells.
Now, Jhaqo considered Cohollo and the baby he protected to be two victories.
You will regret your actions today. Daenerys's fury burned within her. In her heart, she sentenced Jhaqo to death.
Jhaqo, I hope you live long enough to feel the consequences of your actions.
"So what now? Will you kill me? Or your former Khal?" she asked coldly.
"She isn't crying?" Jhaqo turned to Mago, muttering, "What a cold, wolf-hearted woman. We've all lost."
Four days earlier, during the khalasar's collapse, Mago had taken advantage of the chaos to kidnap Daenerys's Lhazareen handmaiden, Eroeh.
He had raped her a second time, then handed her over to Jhaqo's men, who took turns abusing her. In the end, they cut off her head and tossed it near Daenerys's tent.
—Because Eroeh had been taken from Mago by Daenerys herself, and he wanted revenge.
More than two weeks earlier, during Khal Drogo's raid on a Lhazareen village, the young girl Eroeh had been captured and publicly assaulted by Dothraki warriors. It was then that Daenerys Targaryen had intervened.
She stopped the Dothraki warriors from further violating Eroeh and claimed her as her own slave—an act entirely against Dothraki tradition. Even a Khal could not simply seize the spoils of his warriors. It was only Drogo's authority and strength that had silenced the dissent.
Mago was a powerful warrior and now served as Jhaqo's bloodrider. The grotesque idea of mounting the infant's head on a pole had been his suggestion.
He had even bet with Jhaqo on whether Daenerys would faint from fear.
Daenerys hadn't shed a single tear. Her violet eyes, cold and unyielding, stared at them as though they were already dead. They had all lost that bet.
"Woman, under the shadow of the Mother of Mountains, I swore never to harm my Khal," Jhaqo declared loudly, his horse stepping forward a few paces. "Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," Mago echoed.
"Everyone knows that," the men repeated.
Jhaqo continued, "A Khaleesi without her Khal will never again be touched by another Dothraki warrior. She will be sent to Vaes Dothrak to join the Dosh Khaleen. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," Mago repeated loudly.
From Daenerys's remaining camp, Aggo stepped forward and shouted, "After Khal Drogo is buried, we will escort the Khaleesi to Vaes Dothrak."
"Hmph. My khalasar will wait for you on the northern bank of the Rhazaan River. Don't even think about escaping," Jhaqo sneered.
This place marked the edge of the Red Waste. To the north lay the scattered villages of the Lhazareen, and beyond the Rhazaan River stretched the endless Dothraki Sea. To the south, over a thousand kilometers of desolate wasteland.
Jhaqo's gaze swept across the small camp, his whip cracking sharply through the air. "Now, hand over what belongs to a Khal but no longer belongs to you."
"The slaves, the warriors, and the livestock—they've already taken everything," Ser Jorah said grimly.
"Armored man, I want that palace," Jhaqo said, pointing his whip at the grand tent behind Daenerys. "Only a Khal may dwell in a Khal's palace. The Dosh Khaleen have no need for it."
Ser Jorah turned to Daenerys, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his visor lowered.
Daenerys shook her head at him and turned to Quaro. "Tell the women to dismantle the tent."
(End of Chapter)
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