After freshening up, Daenerys gathered her followers at the base of the hill. She mounted her silver mare, holding one baby dragon in her arms while the other two rested on her shoulders.
The silver mare tread across the dry, crimson sands as Daenerys called out loudly, "From this moment forth, my khalasar will be reformed as the Khalasars. I will not ride to Vaes Dothrak to join the Dosh Khaleen. Are you willing to follow me into an uncertain future?"
"I am willing."
"Willing!"
"We are all willing!"
Her khalasar erupted into a cacophony of enthusiastic and resounding replies.
"Good!" Daenerys nodded in satisfaction. Then, addressing the crowd once more, she called out, "Jhogo, Aggo, Rakharo!"
The three men seemed to anticipate what was coming next. Their faces showed no hesitation or reluctance, only excitement and barely concealed joy.
Quaro, who hadn't been named, looked dejected, his face ashen with disappointment. In this moment, he deeply resented the well-known tradition of the Bloodriders.
As expected, Daenerys dismounted her horse and approached the three Dothraki warriors. She took the silver-handled whip hanging from her saddle and handed it to Jhogo.
"This silver-handled whip was my bride gift. Today, I give it to you and appoint you as my Bloodrider. I ask that you swear to be my blood of my blood, to live and die with me, to fight by my side, and to protect me from harm."
Jhogo solemnly accepted the whip and fastened it to his belt. Then, with a swift motion, he drew his arakh. Kneeling on one knee, he held the curved blade aloft with both hands, level with his forehead.
"Blood of my blood," he declared loudly, his voice heavy with commitment.
It was a pledge, a vow.
Daenerys took the arakh from him and personally helped Jhogo to his feet before returning the blade to its sheath.
"Blood of my blood," she replied in Dothraki, sealing the bond.
She then repeated the ritual with Aggo and Rakharo, gifting them a double-curved dragonbone bow and a gilded arakh, respectively.
All three weapons were part of her bride gifts, given to her during her wedding by Drogo's Bloodriders. Jhogo had given her the whip, the arakh had been a gift from Cohollo, and the towering bow, taller than Daenerys herself, had been presented by Qotho.
It had only been a year since that day, yet now the people were gone, though the items remained.
The three new Bloodriders stepped out of the crowd to stand behind Daenerys. Her gaze then fell upon Quaro.
Meeting his eyes, which glimmered with a faint hope despite his earlier despair, she spoke: "Quaro, I have an important mission for you."
"Do you see my dragons?" She raised the white dragon in her hands high. The little creature clumsily flapped its translucent, membranous wings in her palm.
"One day, they will be powerful enough to rule the world, but for now, they are so fragile they cannot even fly. I need a loyal and courageous Dragon Guard to protect them. Will you take up this task?"
"It is my honor, Khaleesi," Quaro declared passionately, raising his arakh high as he swore his oath.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys turned her gaze to the knight, who had reverted to wearing Dothraki attire, "you have already sworn your loyalty to me. One day, you shall receive from my hand a blade unlike any other—a sword forged by true dragons and cast in Valyrian steel."
Jorah did not repeat the formal oath-taking process. Instead, he simply nodded with solemn conviction.
"It's midday now, and the heat is unbearable. Everyone should return to their tents and rest. At dusk, we will depart from here," Daenerys decided.
"Where are we going?" Aggo asked.
Daenerys hesitated. In the original story, they had followed the comet in the sky as their guide.
But a problem arose: who has ever seen a stationary comet that doesn't shift direction?
A comet is a comet precisely because it lacks a fixed, observable coordinate—it appears suddenly and vanishes unpredictably.
Take, for instance, the Bloodstar—the name given by the Dothraki.
It had appeared the previous night near the eastern horizon, a blood-red speck no larger than a coin, trailing a barely perceptible tail. One could miss it entirely without careful observation.
Overnight, it had climbed noticeably higher, its position and brightness shifting.
Even in broad daylight, it was visible—a faint crimson slash in the southeastern sky, forming a long scar against the azure face of the heavens.
Following it would likely lead them in circles. And this was the Red Waste—a desolate expanse where wandering in circles was tantamount to suicide.
In fact, in the original storyline, Daenerys' khalasar had suffered heavy losses. The old and the young had perished almost entirely, leaving behind a trail of bodies—a journey of elimination where only the strong survived. Even Doreah, her handmaiden, did not make it.
Strangely enough, despite losing her husband and her ten-month-old son sacrificed by a sorceress, Daenerys herself managed to survive the grueling trek across thousands of miles of desert, unscathed and intact.
Dragon dreams, it seemed, were remarkably effective.
Snapping out of her thoughts, Daenerys smiled at her followers and asked, "Let's start by discussing where we cannot go."
Ser Jorah spoke first: "We cannot go north. Not only is Drogo's khalasar waiting for us, but even if we avoid them, entering the Dothraki Sea would spell doom. The first khalasar we encounter would annihilate your weakened group—killing the warriors and enslaving the rest.
"The lands south of the river, belonging to the Lhazareen, are also unwise. Your group is too weak to withstand even those peaceful shepherds. The Lhazareen despise the horse lords and have no reason to treat us kindly.
"Avoiding the Lhazareen villages, we could travel southeast along the river toward Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor."
Rakharo immediately interjected, "I have heard from Marten that Pono's khalasar is driving thousands of slaves toward those cities to sell in the slave markets along Slaver's Bay."
Marten was a newly returned Dothraki warrior—though not exactly new. He had originally been part of Drogo's khalasar but had left with Drogo during the chaos. Now, he had "returned to his rightful place," swayed by Daenerys' titles as the Unburnt and Mother of Dragons.
Indeed, the Dothraki had begun whispering these titles in reverence.
"All those slaves were taken from Drogo's khalasar. Pono doesn't care for the gold medallions left behind by Khal Drogo; he values slaves far more," Aggo added.
"Then the only option is to head south, across the Red Waste," Daenerys said, observing their grim expressions. She sighed and continued, "Once we reach the coast, we can either sail to the Free Cities or find fertile land to farm."
"Farm?" Jorah sounded bewildered.
"My dragons are too small," Daenerys replied evasively.
As a late-game "hero," it was vital to bide her time and grow strong without unnecessary risks.
No matter how dire the early struggles, once her dragons matured, she could conquer the world with ease. At that point, restoring her kingdom—or even becoming a Genghis Khan or an Alexander the Great—would be entirely her choice.
Doreah, standing behind her, was pale with fear. "Khaleesi, that is the Red Waste—a desolate and terrifying land of demons! Even the horse people fear it. I have heard sailors in Lys speak of its horrors—no one can cross that cursed land alive!"
"I fear no demons, and with me, you need not fear them either," Daenerys reassured her. She gently took Doreah's hand and placed it on the dragon cradled in her arms. The creature's body radiated heat, like metal left to bake under the scorching sun, almost too hot to touch.
Once the maid's emotions were soothed, Daenerys turned to her followers and issued a command: "Our khalasar may be small, but I have decided to reorganize it."
"What is the most important thing for an army?" She scanned the group with a sharp gaze before asking.
"Courage—the courage to face death without fear," Aggo answered.
"The strongest khal," Rakharo immediately followed. "With the strongest khal leading us, our forces will be invincible. Khal Drogo conquered the entire grass sea this way."
"And warhorses, along with a large tribe. Strength lies in numbers—both men and horses," Jhogo added.
The three bloodriders had voiced all the insights their Dothraki upbringing could offer. Quaro furrowed his brow in deep thought, but despite his efforts, no words escaped his lips.
"Skill, tactics, and coordination among various units are even more important," Ser Jorah said earnestly. "In Westeros, every knight is trained from childhood. Swordsmanship, riding, jousting, and archery are taught by masters-at-arms, while maesters teach noble children arithmetic, literature, astronomy, and geography. The art of command and strategy is taught by their fathers or liege lords."
Undoubtedly, this conversation highlighted the vast gulf between the Dothraki and the knightly civilization.
"Do you possess the skills to command large-scale battles?" Daenerys asked, intrigued.
There's an old saying in Essos: It is easy to find ten thousand soldiers but hard to find one good general.
Her khalasar was barely fifty warriors strong, so there was no immediate need for a brilliant commander—but what about the future?
"I once commanded a force of two thousand men. It was during..." Jorah's expression shifted, and his voice trailed off.
"Was it during the time you joined Lord Eddard Stark of the North to overthrow my father's reign?" Daenerys asked calmly.
"My apologies, Princess," Jorah said quietly, bowing his head.
"There's no need to apologize. You served your liege lord, and that was not wrong," Daenerys said, waving off his concerns before returning to the topic at hand. "In my view, the most important thing for an army is a well-structured system."
"What kind of system?" Aggo asked, puzzled.
"First, we establish the rank of sergeant, and then we'll gradually refine the rest," Daenerys said, smiling as she met the Dothraki's confused stares. "From today onward, all Dothraki warriors under my command will abandon their chaotic banners and unite under the banner of the dragon. Every male, upon reaching the age of 14, will be automatically enlisted as a warrior."
This decision wasn't cruelty on Daenerys' part—she herself was only 14 years old. Her handmaidens and bloodriders were all Dothraki youths of a similar age, carefully chosen by Khal Drogo.
If the age for enlistment were raised to 18, she would hardly have anyone left under her command.
Of course, this was merely a temporary measure. In the future, when her power grew, she intended to raise the enlistment age significantly.
"A squad will consist of ten warriors, led by the strongest among them. Five squads will form a company, and the commander will be chosen from the five squad leaders based on merit in battle. Five companies will..." Daenerys paused mid-sentence as she noticed the bewildered expressions of her four Dothraki followers.
Their faces looked as though they were listening to some incomprehensible divine scripture.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Khaleesi, I understand that ten warriors form a squad," Aggo said, counting on his fingers, "but how many warriors are in five squads? And five companies?"
(To be continued...)
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