After the fall of Valyria, the Free Cities entered a period of division that lasted for centuries.
There was even an era later known as the Century of Blood.
Viserys successfully turned his victory over the Dothraki into a shared triumph for all the Free Cities.
As descendants of Valyria, having been threatened by so-called barbarians for hundreds of years was, without question, a humiliation.
Most of the Free Cities operated under systems resembling elections.
Every faction wanted to earn military glory in this grand expedition. As a result, Viserys's proposal to form an allied army was quickly approved.
"The darkness of war is brief, but the glory of victory will endure," Viserys declared. "And this glory will not belong to House Targaryen alone."
His speech stirred the ambitions of countless politicians.
The date for the campaign against Vaes Dothrak was set for three months later.
Each city-state would be required to contribute no fewer than twenty thousand troops.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters would count as a single force, with a quota of thirty thousand.
Among the envoys attending the alliance, some even proposed building a grand brothel beside the so-called "Womb of the World" lake, a sacred site in Dothraki belief, as a way to humiliate them.
Meanwhile, in Vaes Dothrak itself, countless Dothraki had gathered.
Grief, sorrow, and despair hung over the city like dark clouds.
"Where is my father, Khal Drogo?"
"Where is my husband, Khal Drogo?"
"Where are my brothers?"
"Khal? Khal!"
"Give them back to me!"
"Khal, I want to go home!"
Khal Drogo jolted awake from his bed, gasping for breath. Sweat soaked the blankets beneath him, and his forehead was drenched.
He instinctively reached up to his hair.
Without his braid, his head always felt strangely light.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he closed his eyes. The nightmare still lingered vividly in his mind.
What tormented him most was not the crushing defeat at Goose Mountains.
It was the looks in the eyes of his people when he returned.
The questions.
The expectations.
Drogo swore he had never felt such agony in his life. Not even when his father died.
Whenever he recalled those faces, it felt as if his insides were being torn out and fried in burning oil.
The greatest khal had no answers for them. He could only gather the remnants of the scattered khalasars.
His khalasar once numbered over two hundred thousand.
He had taken forty thousand warriors into battle.
Now, though sixteen or seventeen thousand remained, most were women, children, and the elderly.
Even after absorbing other khalasars, bringing his numbers up to two hundred and fifty thousand, he still could not muster twenty thousand capable warriors.
Deep down, he knew the truth.
With such strength, revenge against Viserys was impossible.
Reason told him to retreat.
To go east.
Further east.
To lands beyond the reach of the Free Cities.
To raid the Lhazareen, to recover, to wait for years—perhaps decades—until a new generation of warriors rose.
Only then could he challenge Viserys again.
But Drogo had never known restraint. Worse still, the humiliation would not release him, even in his dreams.
For twenty-eight years, he had lived without defeat. He could not accept failure.
He sat there, gaunt and silent, until rain began to fall outside.
Stepping out into the downpour, he found his only remaining bloodrider waiting.
"Khal."
"We go to the Dosh Khaleen."
"Yes."
The Dosh Khaleen was not a place, but an order.
It was made up of the widows of khals, who resided beneath the Mother of Mountains.
Drogo's own mother was there, though he did not know if she still lived.
There was a saying in another world—when misfortune strikes, one seeks out a fortune teller.
Drogo was no different.
The women of the Dosh Khaleen held roles akin to high priests or seers.
Along with his bloodrider, Drogo was accompanied by a group of khaleesis.
Among the Dothraki, polygamy was common. A khal or ko might have several wives, even dozens.
Drogo himself, though never formally married, had fathered several children, all still young.
His father had once told him, "Women will weaken your legs."
So Drogo had not touched a woman until he was seventeen.
His eldest child was now only ten.
If he died, any woman who had not been his wife would be sent to the Dosh Khaleen.
Among nomadic people, women were not scarce.
Strong men were.
This custom reflected that reality.
Especially now.
With so many Dothraki men dead, young warriors had become more valuable than ever.
Before long, Drogo arrived at the Dosh Khaleen.
Even before he approached, women emerged from their tents, watching in silence.
They did not look alive.
They resembled statues of ice.
Though the place was not lacking in sunlight, it carried an inexplicable damp and oppressive atmosphere.
There was no singing.
No laughter. No conversation.
The Dothraki brought them food regularly, just enough to sustain life.
Not all the women here were old. Many were still young and beautiful.
A faint scent lingered in the air.
These khaleesis were ranked according to their husbands' former status.
Those of the highest rank wore white robes that covered their bodies completely, with hoods that concealed nearly their entire faces.
Drogo left his men behind and followed a tall, thin khaleesi up a small hill.
At its peak stood a black statue of a rearing horse, overlooking the land. It was so lifelike it seemed ready to come alive at any moment.
This was the Horse God the Dothraki worshipped.
"Kneel, Khal Drogo."
___________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/BloodAncestor