The wide expanse of the Rainbow Lands was wrapped in the most common Dothraki bronze grass. Among it grew clusters of vibrant grasses that shimmered faintly with a rainbow glow. Under the forceful winds, they rubbed against each other, swaying east and west. Against the backdrop of night, the field resembled a colossal beast with endless, writhing tentacles, its gaping mouth stretching into the starry sky, as if ready to devour any creature daring to venture inside.
Drogo and his four companions reined in their horses at the dividing line between the bronze grass and the rainbow grass, filled with awe at the dizzying, surreal landscape before them.
Only Drogo remained relatively calm. He had been here several times before—for instance, during his coming-of-age ceremony arranged by Balbo, when he led a group to drive a white lion out from this place.
Back then, with overwhelming numbers and deafening roars, they had scared the white lion into fleeing in panic.
But now, the tables had turned. If the five of them charged recklessly into the rainbow grass, they would be the ones forced to flee.
The Dothraki revered bravery. Killing a white lion—the fiercest beast of the Dothraki Sea—was considered the highest honor, especially during the brutal coming-of-age rites. But among these five, only Drogo had actually entered the Rainbow Lands. The others had merely heard of it.
Only the chosen heirs of powerful Khals had the right—and the overwhelming support forces—to venture into the Rainbow Lands for their ceremony, to be baptized in the blood of the beast kings and forge their kingly spirit.
Ordinary warriors could only roam the edges of the grass sea alone, hunting lone white lions that had wandered out of their lairs.
Thus, Drogo was familiar with the area, while Rakharo and the others were lost.
Drogo's sharp gaze swept the land. He pointed with his silver-handled whip toward the center and asked, "Do you see that saela tree?"
Even without being asked, they could clearly see it. That massive tree, famed across Essos as the "Tree of Life" for its ability to store rainwater, stood over a dozen zhang tall. Its bloated trunk would require thirty men linking hands to encircle it.
Hearing the Khal's question, the bloodriders answered respectfully: "We see it, Blood of My Blood."
Drogo nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "That's the Lion King's territory. And my target is the cub it guards—the one with the blood-red mark on its forehead."
Upon hearing this, the bloodriders and Ser Jorah fell silent. They felt certain they were marching toward death.
The area around the tree was almost pure white—clearly, many white lions had gathered there.
A cub with a blood mark on its forehead was destined to grow larger and fiercer than ordinary lions, and would be treated as the heir by the Lion King.
To steal such a cub was pure madness—it would provoke the entire pride. Success or failure would mean death, and perhaps not even their bones would remain.
Yet Drogo seemed excited, his expression faintly exhilarated.
Jorah, suppressing his urge to curse, thought bitterly: "This man is not just a lunatic—he's a lunatic who drags others into hell with him!"
Bundling his lion pelt tighter, Drogo looked at the bundle of fire arrows tied behind Argo and said, "Argo, split the arrows evenly among them. Then... start eating grass."
The order stunned them.
Outraged, Jorah finally snapped: "Eat grass? Khal, forgive me, but I cannot comply!"
He spoke what all of them were thinking. They pretended not to hear, leaving Jorah to face the Khal's anger alone.
But Drogo wasn't angry. Given the situation, he didn't intend to punish anyone—for now.
He stared coldly at Jorah and explained: "I want you to chew the grass and smear its juices on your bodies. It will mask your scent and blend you with the land."
The four men were stunned, then slowly revealed expressions of admiration. The seemingly simple-minded Khal had made perfect sense.
Time was running short. Worried that Mago would seize the initiative, Drogo urged, "Enough talk. Get moving. We're on a schedule."
Argo quickly divided the oil-soaked arrows. They dismounted, chewed mouthfuls of rainbow grass, and smeared themselves with its juices.
When they finished, Drogo finally revealed the full plan.
"You will infiltrate the area near the Tree of Life from four different directions. Position yourselves within four hundred yards. Your bows can reach two hundred fifty yards—so you must get closer."
"When I give the order, light the arrows and fire them into the grass. Set a sea of flames. After firing, retreat immediately to the Red Waste camp. Retrieve the remaining arrows. Hide in two-man teams on the hills by the pass. Only act when I give the second order. Understand?"
The bloodriders answered in unison: "Understood!"
Jorah muttered: "Got it."
They sighed inwardly with relief—it seemed they wouldn't have to clash directly with the lions.
But then they realized: Drogo hadn't said what he would be doing.
Jorah asked uneasily: "And you, Khal?"
Drogo shrugged, smiling slightly. "What else? When the fire starts, I'll charge into the fire and snatch the cub."
"If I find a half-roasted lion, I might even carve a piece off to taste."
Risking the deadliest task himself and even joking about it—their admiration for him deepened.
Even Jorah couldn't help but feel a flicker of respect.
The bloodriders, their blood stirred, immediately began volunteering.
"Blood of My Blood, it's too dangerous! Let me go instead!"
"No, Argo is too clumsy—let me!"
"We are your bloodriders! Let us share life and death with you!"
Such sincere loyalty touched Drogo.
Jorah only cursed them as idiots.
Suppressing his emotions, Drogo refused: "If you go in, you'll only die for nothing. Follow the plan."
He removed four bronze medallions from his belt and tossed one to each of them.
The bloodriders caught them, ecstatic—these medallions represented supreme honor among the Dothraki.
Even Jorah felt a small pang; he wasn't truly one of them, but the gesture moved him.
Seeing their morale high, Drogo ordered: "Tie up the horses and move."
The four quickly dismounted, tied their reins to clumps of grass, and vanished into the Rainbow Lands.
They scattered, creeping toward the giant tree from four directions.
Standing atop his horse's back, Drogo waited.
Once the four raised their bows to signal readiness, he took a deep breath and roared:
"Light the arrows and fire!"
The roar startled the lions awake. They growled and paced restlessly.
The bloodriders quickly loosed their flaming arrows. The dry rainbow grass ignited with a whoosh, turning the fields into an inferno.
Drogo struck his horse's rump hard and bellowed:
"Hyah!"
The red horse, well-fed and strong, charged toward the fire.
As he rode, Drogo only regretted the loss of Daenerys' lion pelt— it had been meant to shield him from the lions' noses, but now it would burn away.
The searing heat lashed at him in waves.
The red horse, reluctant, was forced forward by Drogo's unrelenting will.
Through the fire, Drogo became a flaming figure.
The panicked lions mistook him for a burning piece of debris and ignored him.
"I am fireproof," Drogo muttered.
Scanning the chaos, he quickly spotted a massive white lion under the saela tree—undoubtedly the Lion King.
At its side was a stumbling white cub with a blood-red mark.
The adult lions were scrambling to climb the tree, desperate to escape the flames.
Drogo whipped his maddened horse straight toward the Lion King.
Most lions fled from the flaming figure, but the Lion King stood firm.
Yet even its courage could not withstand the charging mad horse.
The horse slammed into the Lion King, flinging it into the tree trunk.
Seizing the moment, Drogo leaned over, grabbed the cub, wrenched the reins, and charged back into the fire.
As he galloped away, he laughed and taunted:
"Don't worry. We'll have a grand battle someday. But not today."
Behind him, the Lion King roared furiously but could not follow.
At the edge of the Rainbow Lands, the bloodriders, thinking their Khal dead, bowed their heads in mourning.
Even Jorah bowed solemnly.
Suddenly, a heartrending horse scream echoed through the night.
They looked up—
A black horse, forelegs rearing high, burst from the fire.
On its back, a man-shaped figure of flame held a ball of white fur aloft.
The bloodriders bowed from their saddles in reverence.
Even Jorah gasped aloud:
"The Unburnt!"
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