Drogo's grass palace had walls made from thick layers of woven reeds, but its roof and front facade were crafted from multiple layers of silk and coarse cotton. When dismantled and folded, they could fill ten wagons.
In the modern world, such materials might seem trivial—or incredibly valuable—considering they were adorned with dozens of animal pelts: golden mink, thick bison hides, and the rare white lion fur of this fantastical world, which might have bought several luxury apartments in the heart of a modern metropolis.
But back in the world of Ice and Fire, the greatest Khal naturally resided in the grandest palace, and Drogo's tent was undeniably the most magnificent across the Dothraki Sea.
"Khal, night has fallen. We'll have to camp here tonight," Mago said to Jhaqo.
Jhaqo considered this, then barked out an order. "Leave! The palace stays with me. Tonight, I will host a feast for the warriors of my khalasar.
"And I know Drogo had ten chests of gold medallions and fifty chests of silver awards. Hand them over—they're mine now."
The Dothraki had no currency, no monetary trade, but they weren't the only people in this world.
The horsemen weren't even the strongest race.
When they reached the towering walls and fortified gates of the Nine Free Cities, they still needed to barter for essential supplies.
Gold and silver were universal currencies in the world of Ice and Fire, and even the Dothraki needed them.
Gold, silver, and copper were melted into medallions and awards—often linked together to form belts. A Khal would sometimes untie one from his waist and gift it to a warrior who had earned honor.
The mighty Drogo possessed the most powerful khalasar and the greatest wealth.
His luxurious grass palace, over two hundred square meters, had entire sections filled with heavy wooden chests. While some contained clothing and daily necessities, most were brimming with gold and silver.
"You're too late. You're not the only one who craved Drogo's treasures," Daenerys said.
Jhaqo sneered and interrupted her. "Not 'crave.' I am Khal Jhaqo."
Daenerys's eyes narrowed with disdain. "To prevent looting, I had those treasures thrown out long ago. The Dosh Khaleen are supported by the entire city of Vaes Dothrak. I have no need for gold or silver."
"Is that true?" Jhaqo's voice carried doubt, mixed with anger.
"We carried them out together—sixty chests. Everyone knows that," Ser Jorah said firmly.
"Everyone knows that," Aggo echoed.
"Everyone knows that," Daenerys's remaining camp muttered in scattered agreement.
"Damn you all! Get out of my sight!" Jhaqo roared, his whip cracking through the air.
A Khaleesi's dowry, a Khal's weapons, and horses—these were things no one dared to steal. That was Dothraki tradition.
A modest tent, barely twenty square meters, stood nearby. In one corner, ten or so wooden chests were haphazardly piled, likely wedding gifts given to Daenerys.
When they had been removed from Drogo's palace, Mago had even dismounted to inspect them.
The newly erected tent was too small for a fire pit. Instead, the entrance flaps were tied open, and a roaring fire blazed just outside.
In the flickering firelight, Qotho's face was cast in sharp shadows. He remained at Drogo's bedside, waiting for the moment when his blood of his blood would cross into the Night Lands.
Haggo lay nearby, drunk and sprawled on the ground, his dull eyes staring blankly at the tent's ceiling.
"The child should have stayed by his blood of his blood until the end. Qotho shouldn't have listened to her," he slurred.
The tent was cramped. Daenerys sat near the entrance, her pale face illuminated by the fire. She didn't respond to Haggo's drunken ramblings, instead focusing on stuffing cotton into a cloth doll.
The doll was hastily sewn from pale yellow silk—it had no head.
Jhaqo had said the child's body was thrown to the wild dogs.
The atmosphere of the camp was suffocating. The hundred or so remaining members of Daenerys's khalasar were silent, the crackling of the firewood the only sound in the oppressive night.
Ser Jorah stood fully armored, his visor lowered. He gazed at his queen with a heavy heart. He opened his mouth to speak several times, only to stop himself, unable to find words of comfort.
Perhaps no words could ease her pain. The knight thought sadly.
A memory surfaced in his mind—a scene from King's Landing, fifteen years ago.
It was the night the Targaryen dynasty fell.
As the heir to Bear Island and a formidable warrior, he had been chosen as one of the personal guards of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.
When they stormed the Red Keep alongside Stark's forces, he had witnessed a similar sight: a princess of three years old lay headless, and an infant prince had been smashed against a wall.
Clop, clop, clop.
The sound of distant hoofbeats broke the oppressive silence.
Quaro rode out to investigate and soon returned. "Khaleesi, it's Khal Jhaqo's Khaleesi—Lady Lilith. She says she wishes to thank you in person."
Daenerys remained seated, her knees drawn to her chest. A woolen bundle lay in front of her, holding the remains of her child. She stared at it for a long while before rasping, "Let her come."
"I'm here," a woman's voice called from the darkness.
A line of torch-bearing riders emerged, their flickering flames casting long shadows.
Before Daenerys could issue a command, Lilith and her people entered the camp circle.
"You—" Daenerys started, but her words caught in her throat.
The firelight illuminated Lilith's face—a face twisted with a mixture of smug satisfaction and cruel mockery.
Even a fool could see that she had not come in peace.
Daenerys quietly murmured as she placed the cleaned infant's head into the neck of a cloth doll, "I saved you."
"Look, I'm riding too," Lilith said awkwardly, pulling on her reins to make her horse circle in place. "A silver-maned mare, just like yours."
In truth, they were not the same. Daenerys's silver mare had hair that shimmered like pure silver silk, while Lilith's horse was simply white.
Unlike her last appearance in a Myrish gown, Lilith had now adopted Dothraki customs, wearing a painted leather vest typical of the horse lords.
Daenerys wrapped up the bundle and looked Lilith straight in the eye. "I saved your life."
Lilith pressed her lips together and gestured behind her. Two agile Dothraki women dismounted and helped her off her horse.
Though she could sit astride a horse, Lilith was still weak from childbirth. Her limbs lacked strength, and every step required the support of her attendants.
She was nothing like Daenerys, who clutched her dragon eggs every day, lost in her dragon dreams.
Stumbling over to Daenerys's side, Lilith sat cross-legged on the embroidered carpet spread over the ground, mimicking Daenerys. Leaning closer, she covered her mouth with one hand and whispered with a sly smile: "I hate you."
"Obviously," Daenerys replied seriously.
Lilith leaned back on her arms, gazing up at the gem-like stars scattered across the night sky. With a light sigh, she said cheerfully, "Ah, but I'm a Khaleesi now too. I have my own little silver mare, my own Khalasar—these people here. And most importantly, I have a son strong as a dragon."
With that, she leaned forward abruptly, pushing open the cloth bundle in front of Daenerys.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk… What a pitiful little thing. He's not even half the size of my Jango. And below the head—it's all stitched cloth? Oh, right. His original body was eaten by dogs."
Strangely, Daenerys felt a heavy weight lift from her chest. The guilt that had been suffocating her lightened.
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
"Thank… what?" Lilith froze. "Are you mad?"
Daenerys smirked, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a vile, disgusting creature, but at least you came to see me. That's far more than I ever expected from you."
Just how low were your expectations of me? Lilith stood frozen for a moment before fully grasping Daenerys's meaning. Her face twisted in anger.
"I—"
Before she could erupt, Daenerys cut her off sharply: "The Dothraki cannot harm a khaleesi. Otherwise, they will suffer the curse of the Great Stallion. Everyone knows that."
Her gaze shifted to Lilith's attendants. One of the Dothraki women immediately echoed, "Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," Irri and Jhiqui repeated.
Lilith glared at Daenerys, her anger simmering. After a long silence, she suddenly laughed. "No matter. I was always a wretched thing, and you're no better than me."
"I saved your life!" Daenerys reminded her for the third time.
"I'm grateful to you, but that's all." Lilith's eyes scanned the camp until she spotted Mirri Maz Duur, the maegi peering at them from a distance. Pointing at her, Lilith sneered, "You saved her too. But she still killed your Khal and your son."
"I didn't!" Mirri shook her head vigorously, raising her voice. "Silver Lady, have you forgotten? I sang the song of the moon to help you give birth!"
Lilith wasn't interested in arguing with Mirri. She turned back to Daenerys with a mocking smile. "Drogo was your man. You knew every scar on his body better than anyone. Many of those wounds were far worse than the cut on his chest, yet he remained the most powerful Khal in the Dothraki Sea. Even the pleasure houses of Lys speak of his blood-soaked name."
"I believe her," Daenerys said calmly.
She then asked, "Why do you hate me so much? Is it just jealousy? Being a Khaleesi isn't exactly enviable."
Lilith ran her fingers through her silver hair, her violet eyes narrowing with barely contained rage. "Because I hate being someone's replacement!"
"What do you mean?" Daenerys asked, puzzled.
There were countless women across Essos with silver hair and violet eyes. Even among Drogo's Khalasar, there were slaves with similar features.
"I was Illyrio's possession. He wanted you, but he couldn't break the precious maidenhead meant for Khal Drogo. So he bought me from a Lyseni pleasure house instead." Lilith leaned closer, her voice dripping with malice. "That fat pig called out your name every time he took me."
"That's it?" Daenerys raised an eyebrow, looking completely unfazed.
In the modern world, what beautiful woman hadn't been fantasized about? Did men stare into mirrors when indulging their desires?
The Targaryen carried beauty in their bloodline. Every member was blessed with striking looks—like Daenerys's late brother Viserys. His personality had been repugnant, but his face was undeniably handsome.
Daenerys and Lilith were both striking in appearance, but Daenerys also carried the weight of her royal lineage—the last princess of ancient Valyria. That alone was enough to make men tremble with excitement.
Lilith seemed disappointed that Daenerys wasn't rattled. Grinding her teeth, she pressed on. "I was nothing to Illyrio. He passed me around to his guests like wine at a feast. The night before you were married to Drogo, your 'Beggar King' brother, Viserys, tried to sneak into your room. It was Illyrio who stopped him, warning that if Drogo was angered, not even the roar of his Khalasar could save your lives."
Lilith sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "So instead, your brother took me. And he called out your name the entire time."
(End of Chapter)
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