"Over 200 people remain, but fewer than 100 are fit for battle. Among them, only 60 of your own bloodriders can be considered elite warriors," Jorah paused, a look of reluctance crossing his face before he sighed. "It's inevitable that during the upcoming long journey, a significant portion of the old, the weak, and the sick will perish."
"And the supplies?" Dany frowned as she asked.
"Everyone has a horse," Jorah replied. "We have around 200 cattle and sheep combined. As for water... after the khalasar left, the small stream nearby is barely enough for us, but it's about five kilometers away."
Dany looked puzzled. "The land here is barren, not even a blade of grass grows. What have the horses and sheep been eating?"
"In the crevices of the rocks, there's reddish-brown devil grass. It's tough and wiry but sufficient to stave off hunger for the horses," Rakharo explained. "However, this won't last long. The resources here are completely depleted. We must move soon."
"To where?" Dany's mind stirred as she tested her bloodriders. "What are your plans? If I reorganize this small khalasar into a proper one and make you four my bloodriders, will you accept?"
Her words seemed to put the warriors in a difficult spot. After a moment of contemplation, Qotho was the first to refuse. "It cannot be. Becoming a woman's bloodrider would bring me shame. Besides, there can only be three bloodriders."
Dany turned to the next man. Aggo averted his eyes. "I cannot swear the oath. Only a man can lead a khalasar."
"You are Khaleesi, but only a Khaleesi," Rakharo added. "I will ride with you to the Mother of Mountains at Vaes Dothrak and protect you from harm until you join the crones of the Dosh Khaleen. Beyond that, I can promise nothing more."
"I..."
"Enough, I understand," Dany cut in, annoyed, not giving Jhogo a chance to speak. "We'll set this matter aside for now. Our first and most pressing task is to send the great Khal Drogo back to the Night Lands."
Ser Jorah abruptly rose to his feet, drawing his sword with a sharp shing. The gleaming blade momentarily dazzled Dany's eyes.
Kneeling on one knee, Jorah laid the sword at her feet. "Your Grace, I swear my service to you. I will carry out your every command, even at the cost of my life."
He glanced at the four Dothraki warriors around him, then declared firmly, "By the steel of my blade and the sigil of my house, the Bear of Mormont, I swear this: unless you choose otherwise, no one shall take you to Vaes Dothrak. You need not join the Dosh Khaleen."
The four Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances, their almond-shaped black eyes flickering with confusion and unease.
It seemed that even in the decaying order of Westeros, there were still men of noble loyalty.
Though Dany knew Ser Jorah's motives were far from pure—his devotion stemming more from unrequited love than anything else—she was still pleased.
"According to Dothraki tradition, a Khal must ride into the Night Lands on a fiery steed. Gather all the firewood, dried grass, and vines you can find," she ordered.
This barren and inhospitable land could not sustain them. Dany had to leave as soon as possible.
When word spread that she intended to cremate Drogo, the two bloodriders who had been silently watching over his sickbed stirred to life. They, too, began to prepare their belongings.
"Leave me. I must end his pain and humiliation," Dany said to the handmaidens around her.
Drogo had not woken in four days. Half of his chest was blackened and rotting, yet his faint breaths lingered. For him, it was an agonizing torment and a deep humiliation—a great warrior should never remain bedridden.
It took Dany three minutes. She used a feather pillow to grant him peace, then carefully lanced the rotting flesh to drain the pus. Finally, she filled his chest cavity with a thick, fragrant balm.
Irri and Jhiqui carefully cleaned Drogo's hair and body. Once they were done, Dany washed his long hair again and tied it neatly into a braid, adorning it with a series of small bells—gold, silver, and bronze. These bells, even in the Night Lands, would proclaim his presence to his enemies and strike fear into their hearts.
Next, Doreah dressed him in leggings of horsehair and high boots. Around his waist, she fastened a heavy leather belt laden with gold and silver medallions from his victories.
Irri and Jhiqui worked together to lift Drogo's broad but now emaciated body, dressing him in his painted vest to conceal the scars on his chest. Though faded and worn, it was his favorite garment.
Dany had originally planned to hold the funeral that night, but by sunset, there still wasn't enough firewood. Jhogo had ridden farthest, traveling twenty kilometers north—almost into the territory of the Lamb Men.
"They shot arrows at me! The Lamb Men do not welcome the Horsemen," Jhogo said angrily.
That was hardly surprising. Every year, the Dothraki descended south from the Great Grass Sea to raid the Rhazash River basin, treating the Lamb Men as easy prey.
This year had been particularly cursed, though—two khals had already fallen in what could be called the "beginners' village."
Jhogo soon brightened, though. "But I encountered Drogo's khalasar. When they heard I was gathering wood for Khal Drogo's funeral, they offered to help by attacking a village for tribute."
Drogo was once an ally of Drogo but had since split off. His khalasar was small, with most of its strength consumed by Khal Pono and Khal Jhaqo. Pono had taken 20,000 of Drogo's warriors, Jhaqo 10,000, and the remaining 10,000 had been divided among a dozen smaller khals, leaving Drogo with a mere one or two thousand men.
Of course, a khalasar of that size was more typical on the Dothraki Sea. Khal Drogo's massive horde had been a rare exception, a true ruler of the plains.
"Drogo doesn't have good intentions," Ser Jorah said gravely after Jhogo left. "He's likely working on Pono's orders, lying in wait to ambush you from the north. Princess, what are your plans? It's clear from your earlier attempt to recruit Qotho and the others that you don't intend to go to Vaes Dothrak to join the Dosh Khaleen. But we seem trapped."
He added, "Your khalasar is loyal to you, but they also follow centuries of Dothraki traditions."
Dany gave him a reassuring look. "In two days, you'll understand."
The next morning, as dawn broke, Qotho rode alone to the meeting place in the north. By noon, he returned leading a long line of riders.
Ten of Drogo's bloodriders accompanied him, driving 200 Lamb Men slaves bound together with ropes. Their faces were filled with despair. A dozen more slaves drove over ten carts laden with split firewood—and jars of castor oil.
"These slaves will accompany us on the Night Journey," Qotho said coldly.
Dany was dressed in loose silk trousers and knee-high sandals, with a painted vest similar to Drogo's.
"A Khal has you, his bloodriders, and 500 of his most loyal warriors by his side. He does not need these weak Lamb Men slaves," she declared firmly, rejecting the idea of sacrificing the captives.
"You—" Qotho raised his whip, his expression dark and malicious.
"Watch yourself. I am in charge here now," Dany said icily.
Qotho and Ser Jorah Stand Vigil as Drogo's Funeral Pyre is Prepared
Qotho and Jorah stood by Dany's side, while Aggo and Rakharo had their bows trained on Qotho from behind.
Hundreds of people worked tirelessly through the afternoon. By sunset, they had built a massive square pyre, five meters wide on each side and four meters high. The structure was hollow and stuffed with straw, brushwood, bark, and hay—forming Khal Drogo's "main chamber."
On the pyre were placed Khal Drogo's treasures: his blanket, his painted vest, his saddle and reins, the whip his father had gifted him when he came of age, the arakh he had used to slay Khal Drogo and his son, and his massive dragonbone bow.
Jhogo had intended to add the weapons Khal Drogo's bloodriders had planned to present to Dany as a bridal gift, but she stopped him.
"Those belong to me," she told him firmly. "I will keep them."
After a moment of thought, Dany took two of her people and descended the hill to a corner of earth and stone. There, she dug through a layer of red clay and uncovered several large leather bags, each about the size of a sack of cement.
With a shake, the contents poured out in a glittering cascade—gold medallions, each the size of a child's palm.
Khal Drogo had ten chests of gold medallions. Dany took three and buried them again under the earth. Of the ten chests she distributed earlier, three had been filled with brass medallions instead of gold.
Thousands had scrambled to grab their share, so frantic in their greed that they failed to notice the switch. The straightforward and savage Dothraki had not yet learned such cunning deception.
On the pyre, a layer of gold medallions was added atop Drogo's treasures, followed by bundles of hay.
Qotho and Haggo, their expressions solemn, carried Drogo's body out of the tent while the Dothraki silently looked on.
They laid him on his pillow and silk blanket, with his head facing the far northeastern Mother of Mountains.
Rakharo brought Drogo's red stallion, a magnificent beast of extraordinary strength and ferocity. Its coat was a fiery red, smooth and gleaming like the finest silk. Few animals in the world could match it, not even the fabled white lions of the plains.
The Dothraki, a harsh and pragmatic people, never named their animals. But if they did, Drogo's stallion would surely have borne a name as eternal as those of the great steeds of ancient civilizations.
The horse seemed unusually calm, allowing itself to be led to the eastern side of the pyre.
It appeared to sense its fate. Lifting its head, the stallion nuzzled Drogo's face and licked him. Its onyx-like eyes glistened with tears, which fell and dampened Drogo's hair and pillow.
It then accepted the withered apple Dany offered, pawed at the ground, and neighed toward the sky before falling silent.
When Rakharo swung his axe, the stallion met its end without flinching, its body swiftly collapsing to the ground.
The Dothraki heaped wood over the horse's body, using the trunks of saplings and the branches of larger trees to construct a platform. The wood was arranged from east to west, symbolizing the journey of the sun from rise to set.
Qotho and Haggo built two slightly lower platforms to the north and south of Drogo's pyre. These were also piled with treasures and weapons. Each brought forth their own mounts, which were fed apples and then swiftly beheaded, just as Drogo's stallion had been.
These platforms were for the two bloodriders themselves. After cleansing and dressing, each lay upon his respective pyre, gripping his arakh.
Extending outward from the bloodriders' platforms, the Dothraki built a third, longer tier using branches. Drogo's platform stood at four meters, the bloodriders' at three, and this one at two. It was strewn with dry leaves and dead wood, stretching from north to south to symbolize the transition from ice to fire.
This third tier was adorned with the severed heads of 500 warriors who had fallen alongside Cohollo. At its apex, soft pillows and silk blankets were stacked high.
Cohollo's own head was placed beside Drogo on the main pyre.
(End of Chapter)
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