The wind worried the grass. Smoke crawled low over the trampled earth. What was left of the camp faced him in a wide, ragged ring—men with dust-dulled braids and nicked arakhs; women with infants at the breast; boys on wiry ponies trying to sit taller than their years; old men with weathered faces like dried riverbeds. A few hundred warriors. A few thousand souls. The rest gone.
Drogo felt Daniel's calm resolve harden inside him.
"Then I will make a new khalasar," he said, voice low, to himself first, to the sea that seemed to breathe somewhere inside his chest. "Greater than before."
He rose to his full height.
Bells in his braid chimed once—clear, cold, unquestioned. Murmurs died. Horses tossed their heads and stilled.
He let silence stretch until it bit.
His gaze walked the ring, face by face, not hurrying. A scarred rider with a split ear and a clenched jaw—fear under the hardness. A young woman with blood on her hands from tending the wounded—anger shining wet in her eyes. A boy with a too-big arakh resting across his lap—hope and terror warring. An old ko with sunburnt cheeks and the set of a man ready to leave if the wind turned wrong. A mother with a babe asleep, willing the world not to notice her. A wiry farrier with burn marks up both forearms. An arakh-smith chewing the inside of his cheek. A singer, clutching a cracked zither. Ser Jorah beyond them all, jaw tight, one hand resting on his sword. Daenerys at Drogo's shoulder—silver hair, violet eyes, steady.
He spoke.
"I am Khal Drogo."
A beat. No one answered.
"I walked into death," he said, and the words came harsh and simple, the way Dothraki words must be. "I walked back out."
A shuffle of hooves. Someone whispered a prayer. Someone spat to ward off witchcraft.
"My bloodriders are ash," he said, not hiding it, letting the truth ring. "Qotho. Cohollo. Haggo."
A ripple through the crowd—sorrow in some throats, spite in others. He heard both. He accepted both.
"They raised steel in madness when my khaleesi was in danger," he went on. "They fell. They did not follow me into the night lands, but they are gone all the same."
He lifted his chin.
"A Khal without shadows is not whole. I know it. You know it." His eyes cut to the old ko with the sunburnt cheeks. "Say it."
The old ko swallowed. "A Khal without bloodriders is no Khal."
"Good," Drogo said, and Daniel's mind whispered: name the fear, steal its teeth. "So hear me. I do not ask you to pretend. I do not sing lies. My shadows are gone."
A hush. The man with the split ear stared at the dirt. The arakh-smith didn't blink.
"Then who are you?" a rider called from the far side, voice thin with bravado. "A man dragged from the dead by a maegi? Or a demon in a Khal's skin?"
Mirri Maz Duur jerked at her ropes, teeth bared. "Abomination," she hissed. "Stolen breath—"
"Bind her tighter," Daenerys said, voice like drawn steel. Jorah moved; leather creaked; the witch choked off to a muffled snarl.
Drogo didn't look at Mirri. He looked at the rider who'd spoken.
"Come closer," Drogo said.
The rider hesitated, then urged his pony three paces inward. His braids were thin. His arakh was clean.
"What is your name?" Drogo asked.
"Rakharo," he said, chin lifting to prove it.
"Rakharo," Drogo said, tasting the rhythm of it. "You ask who I am. I'll tell you. I am the man who left and returned. I am the breath that would not stop. I am the hand that will close on the reins of the world. I am Khal."
Rakharo's mouth worked. He did not answer.
Daniel's thought slid under the words—calm, practical: You must bluff until the bones of the bluff are real. Power is image until it's momentum. Give them an image. Give them a next step.
Drogo raised his voice so the ring could not help but hear.
"My khalasar shattered," he said. "Pono took ten thousand. Jhaqo took twenty. A dozen more peeled away like dry grass in a fire. They were right to leave a dying man."
He let that sit, then drove the next nail.
"But I am not a dying man."
A murmur. A shiver that wasn't fear.
He turned a little, letting his shadow fall across different faces. He spoke like a hammer, every line a strike.
"You want to know if I ride still. I ride."
"You want to know if I kill still. I kill."
"You want to know if I take still. I take."
"You want to know if I protect what is mine. I do."
He looked down at Daenerys. She didn't look away. "I promised my son," he said, voice raw with something older than either of his lives. "I promised the world. I will keep that promise."
He faced the khalasar again.
"The Iron Throne will hear our hooves."
That drew outright gasps. A few men laughed, too loud. "The Sunset Sea has no grass," someone called. "Hooves drown in salt."
"Then teach the sea to bear me," Drogo said, and didn't smile. "Or I will teach it myself."
A rough chuckle from the split-eared rider despite himself. The arakh-smith's mouth twitched. The singer looked up.
Jorah's voice, low, for Drogo's ear alone: "They need more than boasts."
"I know," Drogo murmured back, not moving his lips.
He lifted an arm, bells chiming once.
"You say I am not whole," he called. "Then watch me become whole. Tonight, we bury our dead. Before the moons set, I will name three trials. Any man who stands through them will be my shadow. Blood of my blood."
That stirred them. Heads snapped up. Trials—that was Dothraki language.
A young rider with a scar under one eye rode out a length. "What trials?" His voice wobbled but didn't break.
Drogo swept him with a look. "Strength. Endurance. Oath."
"Words," the old ko muttered.
"Details," another snapped, emboldened.
"Good," Drogo said. "You want meat. Eat."
He raised three fingers.
"First: Strength. At sunrise, I will stand in the center. You will come at me one by one. No arakh. No daggers. Hands. Teeth if you must. If I fall, I was never your Khal. If you fall, you were never my shadow."
A hungry sound rolled around the ring—half approval, half apprehension. Empty bravado sagged a little.
"Second: Endurance," Drogo said. "We ride at dawn. No saddles. No water skins. No halt until the sun stands over our heads. If you break, you are not my shadow."
"That will kill boys," someone protested.
"It will make men," Drogo said.
"Third: Oath," he finished. "Not to gods. To me. To her."
He pointed at Daenerys.
"Blood of my blood. If she is insulted, you kill. If I am struck, you kill. If a child under my banner is taken, you hunt until breath leaves you. If I die—" he let the word ring until no one was breathing "—you follow me into the night lands. If you cannot swear, ride now and live. I will not chase you."
That last line startled them more than any threat. Choice was not a Dothraki tool. But choice offered now was a whetstone—if they stayed, they'd have bound themselves by will, not inertia. Daniel felt the calculation slide into place. Jorah glanced sideways, surprised, then nodded once to himself.
A woman's voice cut sharp from the second rank. "And what of the weak? The old? The children?"
Eyes swung to her—lean as a whip, hair bound back, a knife at her hip, blood drying on her hands. She didn't flinch.
"They will not starve in my khalasar," Drogo said, without hesitation. "The strong carry the weak or they are not strong. A Khal whose people die behind him has no tail to his braid."
That rippled oddly—respect from some, suspicion from others. The old ko squinted. "That is not our way."
"It is now," Drogo said. He didn't raise his voice to do it.
Silence again. Different, this time.
He stepped forward, one pace, and the ring stepped back without thinking. He turned slowly, taking them in, and spoke not like a war-chant now, but like a man talking to each of them alone.
"You," he said, pointing the bell-chime of his braid at the split-eared rider. "What is your name?"
"Qharo," the man said, surprised to be seen.
"Qharo," Drogo said. "You look at me like a wolf looks at fire. Good. Keep your fear. Fear keeps a man's eyes open. But if you bare teeth at me again, do it up close where my hand can reach your throat. Do you understand?"
A short, rough laugh from nearby. Qharo swallowed. "I understand, Khal."
"You," he said to the arakh-smith. "Name."
"Temmo," he muttered.
"Temmo, your hands are burned and your blade is nicked," Drogo said. "Fix both before the moon rises. A man who comes at me with a dull edge insults himself."
Temmo blinked, then nodded, almost grateful for an order he understood.
"You," Drogo said to the singer with the cracked zither. "Sing clean tonight. Sing of men who stood when the wind said fall. Sing of women who did not weep when fear pushed their throats. Sing of children who will sit taller because they saw their mothers not bend. If you sing lies, I will hear them."
The singer pressed his lips together around something like a smile. "I will sing truth, Khal."
Drogo turned to the boy with the too-big arakh. "How old are you?"
The boy jutted his chin. "Old enough."
"Wrong," Drogo said. "You are fifteen." He didn't know; he guessed, and he watched the boy flinch because he was close enough. "You will not come at me at sunrise. You will run beside the horses at dawn and keep running until the sun stands high. If you stop, I will see it. If you do not, when you are sixteen I will put your hand on the reins of a better horse."
The boy's throat worked. "Yes, Khal."
"And you," Drogo said to the woman with the knife and the blood on her hands. "You will bring me the names of every child in the camp before dark. Every infant. Every boy. Every girl. If we ride, none are left. If we bury, none are forgotten."
She blinked hard, then bowed her head a fraction. "It will be done."
He breathed once, slow. The sea-call hummed in his veins; the heat of the day felt like strength, not burden. Daniel stepped back inside him, not retreating—settling—and Drogo filled the space.
He lifted both hands.
"Listen," he said. "This is not a thing of witchcraft. This is not a cheating of gods. This is the world. A man dies. A man breathes. A khalasar breaks. A khalasar is made. Strength is what you do now."
He let his hands fall.
"We bury our dead before the moons rise. Ko Jorah—" he said it deliberately, and the old ko's mouth pinched at the Westerosi man being given a Dothraki title "—see the graves cut. Burn Qotho, Cohollo, Haggo with a rider's honor. They fought like fools at the end, but they were brothers of the saddle before that. Their bones will not feed dogs."
Jorah bowed his head slightly. "As you command, Khal."
"Food," Drogo said. "Water. Tents struck and raised again. I want every horse fed before men eat. An unfed mount is an insult. It is known."
"It is known," a few voices echoed automatically, surprised to find the old phrase still fit.
"Anyone who would leave," Drogo said, "take what is yours and go. Do not cut the ropes of those who stay. If you raise an arakh against those who stay, I will take your hand at the wrist and give it to your horse to eat."
That earned a harsh bark of laughter from somewhere behind the singer. The line was half joke and half promise. It worked.
He turned a last time, eyes grazing every face, and stopped at Daenerys. He spoke to the ring, but for her.
"I promised my son," he said again, steady. "I promised the world. The Stallion Who Mounts the World has not died. He has only begun."
"Only begun," someone murmured, and someone else picked it up, and then three boys said it, grinning because they were afraid, and then five men said it because their mouths remembered how to shape belief, and then a woman said it like a prayer, and then it was a thing the air held:
"—has only begun."
Jorah's jaw loosened a hair. "Fear and awe," he murmured, not quite to himself. "Enough for now."
"Enough for now," Drogo agreed softly.
He stepped down off the little rise of earth and moved among them, not a statue on a hill but a weight in their midst, stopping men, naming them, pointing at tasks, throwing short orders like hooks that grabbed and held. The old ko watched and did not leave. The arakh-smith hurried to his fire, shoulders straighter. The singer tested strings and frowned until they sounded right. The boy ran laps around the ring until his chest burned and wouldn't show he hurt. Mothers gathered their children closer and started counting out loud.
Daenerys stayed by his shoulder, silent, her hand at his back like the butt of a spear—anchoring him without binding him.
Mirri Maz Duur twisted at her bonds and whispered curses that died under the low hum of work beginning. No one looked at her.
The sun slid west. Shadows lengthened. Men dug with arakhs and spades. Fires were built stoneless and small. The camp, which had been a wound, began to look like a thing that knew what to do with its blood.
When the moons rose, there will be fire and blood. The rebirth of an old legend, one of her making. I looked at Daenerys.
At dawn, there would be a ride that would skim the skin off the weak and leave the bone of the strong. After that, oaths.
And after that—water.
Drogo's eyes went to the horizon, to where he did not see a river but felt one anyway, slow and patient under the earth. It tugged at him. It promised something. It waited.
He breathed in the dust and heat and work and fear and awe and Daenerys's closeness and the faint, impossible scent of far water.
"Greater than before," Daniel whispered inside him, becoming one with him.
"Greater than before," Drogo answered, and the bells in his braid rang once, like a vow.