The woman in white robes spoke, and Khal Drogo dropped to his knees with a heavy thud before the statue of the Horse God.
It was less like kneeling and more like a towering tree collapsing into the ground.
He pressed one hand against the claw-shaped tattoo on his chest and spoke with reverence.
"Great Horse God, I ask for the power to take my revenge."
"I offer you everything I have—my life, my soul. I, Drogo, son of Bharbo, grandson of Thotho, offer all that I am in exchange for your blessing."
He repeated the prayer silently three times in his mind, then lowered himself further, bowing until it seemed as if he wanted to bury his head into the earth itself.
When he raised his head again, he suddenly felt as though the statue before him was looking back at him.
"It moved?"
The words slipped out of his mouth unconsciously, drawing the attention of the khaleesi beside him.
She glanced at Drogo, then at the statue, which remained completely still. She assumed she had misheard him.
But in Drogo's eyes, the massive black horse statue had indeed begun to move.
The raised front hooves slowly lowered.
The head dipped down. The horse's mouth came so close it nearly touched his forehead.
Strangely, Drogo felt no fear.
He did not even think to flee.
He could almost feel the hot breath from the statue's nostrils brushing across his face, from one ear to his forehead and then to the other.
Then, the enormous horse passed directly into his body.
Drogo lowered his head in pain.
In an instant, his round pupils twisted into the rectangular shape unique to horses.
His consciousness blurred.
It felt as if he were sinking into an endless abyss.
Deeper.
And deeper. And deeper.
"Khal! Khal!"
The shouts in his ears were the last thing Drogo heard before his body collapsed.
Strangely, his awareness remained.
"I'm still conscious... why can't I move?"
The khaleesi alone could not possibly lift his massive body.
Drogo watched helplessly as she ran out to call for help, his mind awake but his body unresponsive.
He felt as if he were trapped inside a dark red world.
"Drogo."
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind.
It was his father.
"Drogo."
"Father?"
"Drogo."
"Father, is that you? Where are you?"
As he desperately tried to find the source of the voice, a massive black horse's head appeared before him.
For some reason, he did not feel fear.
Instead, there was a strange sense of familiarity. "Drogo… are you willing to become my chosen son?"
Meanwhile, on the grasslands, horses began to gather.
Hooves pressed against dew-covered grass as they moved toward the Mother of Mountains.
The wind stirred the manes of the horses and the braids of the Dothraki.
Some braids were adorned with bells, which chimed softly with each movement.
Among them were men with thinning gray hair, and others with dark, youthful hair. The latter still carried the immaturity of children.
They formed a long line, like a river flowing toward the distant mountains.
Drogo's only remaining bloodrider did not understand what was happening.
Following Drogo's command, he had gathered all boys over twelve and all men under fifty from the khalasar.
Could these people even fight?
The bloodrider looked at an old man struggling just to mount his horse, confusion filling his mind.
The young Dothraki boys, however, were full of excitement.
The moment they heard that the great Khal Drogo had summoned them, they mounted their horses and rushed to assemble.
"Khal Drogo will lead us to take revenge!"
"He will lead us to crush the traitors!"
"Revenge! Destroy the traitors!"
The boys did not understand the brutality of war.
They did not know that their fathers had already paid the price in blood.
To them, it seemed that raising their arakhs would be enough to conquer even the strongest cities.
But the older Dothraki men were more clear-headed.
They remembered the heat of blood splashing across their faces. They remembered the cries and pleas of their enemies.
And they remembered the deaths of their own kin.
Not long ago, their sons—and even their grandsons—had died in the same place.
A frail old man began coughing violently.
The cost of the Dothraki way of life was early aging. For a Dothraki, reaching sixty was rare.
Even fifty was considered old.
This man was forty-eight, his body thin and worn.
In another few years, he would have quietly left his tent under the pretense of hunting, dying alone somewhere in the wild, his body left for wolves or vultures.
His soul would return to the Horse God.
But now, Drogo had summoned them.
Many of the older men came with the mindset of fighting one last battle before death.
The harsh traditions of their people made them unwilling to simply wait for death under the scorching summer sun.
Yet one old man turned back to look at the excited children, deep concern in his eyes.
"At the very least… those children shouldn't be here."
"Khal Drogo must have his reasons."
The two elders exchanged uneasy glances.
If this was about reducing the burden of the khalasar due to shrinking resources, then sending the old men to die in battle would make sense.
But why bring the children?
They knew the truth.
The Dothraki had been severely weakened. They no longer had the strength to rival the Free Cities.
Calling it a battle was almost the same as calling it a death march.
But even dying should have meaning. What meaning was there in dragging children into it?
Despite their doubts, none dared question Drogo's authority.
Even after his defeat, he was still the strongest khal among the Dothraki.
Soon, nearly sixty thousand boys and older men gathered at the Mother of Mountains in Vaes Dothrak.
They were assembled in an open field.
Thanks to Drogo's preparations, all foreigners had already been driven away.
This was sacred ground.
Now, it belonged only to the Dothraki.
The sky was dim and yellow.
White hair, dark braids, and the black statue of the Horse God stood like the hilt of a blade.
The earth itself seemed like the blade's edge, plunged into a vast and desolate world.
Women in white robes, their heads covered with hoods, circled the statue and began to dance.
"The Horse God has moved! The Horse God has moved!"
Someone shouted.
Then, with a thud, an old man dropped to his knees. His body, once frail and near decay, now seemed filled with renewed strength.
He had struggled even to mount his horse earlier, yet now his movements were firm and powerful as he bowed.
Those around him looked from the kneeling man to the statue.
It had not moved at all.
"The Horse God has moved! The Horse God has moved!"
A boy no older than ten shouted next.
His thin arms suddenly bulged with muscle. He too fell to his knees, bowing fervently.
"The Horse God has moved! The Horse God has moved!"
More and more voices joined in.
Tens of thousands of Dothraki fell like waves of grain in the wind, kneeling in unison.
Every face was flushed with fanatic devotion.
___________
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