Having passed through Jia Ke Khas's camp, Daenerys rode with Ser Jorah, Aggo, and five other knights until they reached the far edge of the Khalasar. At the foot of the settlement, a cluster of Dothraki women sat weaving rush mats. Their vests were dyed in faded colors, but their fingers, rough and cracked from years of work, moved with astonishing speed.
They plucked ears of wheat from the stalks, dropping grain into wide baskets, while their hands twisted the hollow stalks into long mats of green and gold. The mats would later become walls for yurts or crude bedding for the slaves.
The Dothraki had little use for cloth. Their yurts were wicker and leather; their clothing, stitched from hides, was practical rather than fine. The Horse People reserved what little cloth they had for ornament, trophies from raids, or tribute from merchants.
As Daenerys approached, the women and children raised their heads. Their faces were blank, neither welcoming nor hostile. They did not bow, but neither did they curse. They simply watched.
"These are slaves taken from Ogo's Khalasar," Ser Jorah murmured at her side.
Daenerys said nothing, but her stomach tightened.
The Dothraki way of life was harsh beyond measure. Only a month ago, in the holy city of Vaes Dothrak, Drogo and Khal Ogo had drunk from the same cup beneath the eyes of the crones of the Dosh Khaleen. There, they were brothers of the grass, bound by sacred law. Yet outside those sacred mountains, bonds meant nothing.
Nine days ago, far from Vaes Dothrak, the two Khalasars had met again on the banks of the Lhazar River. Ogo had been sacking a Lhazareen town. Drogo, passing by with his own riders, had not joined the siege. Instead, he struck at Ogo's rear, catching his former ally unprepared.
In the slaughter that followed, Drogo slew Ogo and his son with his own hand. He beheaded one of Ogo's bloodriders as well, taking three foes at once for the cost of a single shallow wound across his chest. The Dothraki admired such feats, but to Daenerys it revealed a brutal truth: among the Horse People, friendship was as thin as the grass beneath their horses' hooves.
In Vaes Dothrak, under the shadow of the Mother of Mountains, all were brothers. On the open steppe, only strength mattered.
Drogo enslaved Ogo's women and children, and now he marched west along the Lhazar River, bound for the slaver cities of Ghiscari Bay. The thought sickened Daenerys, though she kept her face serene.
A sudden clamor pulled her back to the present. The crack of whips split the air. Black smoke rose against the evening sky, and flames licked at mud-brick walls as the Khalasar swept through another village. Painted warriors rode back and forth, shouting as they herded the sobbing survivors toward the slave pens.
Daenerys saw mothers staggering with dead eyes, children wailing at their sides. Few men remained alive—only cripples and graybeards. The warriors had cut down the rest.
The riders parted for her as she passed. Their eyes followed her, curious, but none barred her way. Soon a familiar figure appeared—Haggo, one of Drogo's bloodriders, his face spattered with blood.
"Khaleesi," he called with a crooked grin, "are you trying to steal someone else's slaves again?"
The mocking tone made her shiver. Then Haggo tugged at a hemp rope that dangled from his saddle. Something heavy swung into view.
A wave of sickly-sweet stench struck Daenerys. Her breath caught, and a cry escaped her lips.
The rope bore a row of human heads. Some were twisted in fear, others locked in fury even in death. Dark blood dripped onto Haggo's thigh, thick and sticky. One skull was split clean, another hacked raggedly until the neck gave way. She saw one head half torn from its shoulders, a sliver of white spine still clinging to the stump.
Their mouths gaped. Their eyes accused. Daenerys swayed in her saddle, dizzy.
It had been only that morning—or so it seemed—that she had stood beneath a bright sky, receiving her master's degree in medicine. And now she was here, staring at severed heads on a blood-soaked rope.
Her horse shifted beneath her. Ser Jorah rode close, steadying her with a firm hand. He pressed a waterskin to her lips. Aggo took her reins before she could fall. She drank, trembling, until her breath came easier.
At last she lifted her head. She forced her tears back, forced her voice still, and met Haggo's gaze.
The bloodrider's grin faltered. The longer she stared, the less certain he became.
"What are you looking at, Khaleesi?" he growled.
Her voice was ice. "I am counting. To see if you have taken the most heads. I fear Bono has two more than you."
A vein throbbed in Haggo's neck. For a heartbeat, Daenerys thought he would strike her. Instead, he dismounted, pushing past his own men to compare his grisly trophies with Bono's.
He counted once. Twice. His lips moved as his fingers worked. At last he scowled, for the girl was right.
With a curse, Haggo hurled the rope to the ground. One head rolled in the dust, trailing blood like grease on a butcher's block.
Rage boiled in him. He seized a woman from the line of captives—a Lhazareen in her thirties—and dragged her down. Ignoring her screams, he tore at his deerskin breeches. He forced her to the earth before Daenerys, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin as if daring her to intervene.
Every eye was on the Khaleesi. She had once shamed the bloodriders by rescuing raped women. Would she defy them again?
Daenerys's heart thundered, but she held her head high. To interfere would mean open war with Drogo's fiercest men. To turn away would be surrender. She chose neither.
With a flick of her heel, she turned her silver filly and rode on.
Haggo spat a curse after her, but the moment passed. The woman's cries faded behind. Daenerys did not look back.
The path grew darker. Here lay the dying, the moans of wounded men rising weakly in the dusk. They reached for her with cracked lips, whispering, "Khaleesi, water, please."
Before she could answer, a jaqarun appeared—a Dothraki mercy-killer. He bowed with mocking courtesy, then slit the man's throat. Blood fountained. The dying warrior gave a soft grunt, surprise more than pain, and was gone.
Daenerys's stomach clenched. The man's last thought, she felt, had been no prayer or curse but simple regret: Why not a sip of water first?
More jaqarun worked among the bodies, cutting throats, collecting heads. Behind them skipped a band of little girls with wicker baskets. They giggled as they yanked arrows from corpses, their small hands stained red and black. Good shafts would be reused; broken fletchings discarded. Even arrowheads were pried off, to be mounted on fresh shafts.
Then came the dogs. Gaunt and yellow-eyed, a dozen of them circled the field. They slunk between corpses, sniffing, growling. One bold cur sank its teeth into a man's thigh. Flesh tore, wet and stringy. The others joined in, snapping and snarling.
A pack of wild dogs always followed a Khalasar. They were scavengers in the Dothraki food chain, feasting on whatever was left behind. To the riders, it was natural.
To Daenerys, it was horror.
Her breath quickened. She leaned forward in her saddle, clutching the mane of her silver. The dogs flinched at her sudden movement, retreating with chunks of bloody meat still dangling from their jaws.
"Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said softly, steadying her shoulder. His face was grave. "It is late. We should return."
She swallowed, forcing the bile down. "Yes. Let us go back."
The world around her was cruel beyond measure. In only a short time, it had bared its fangs at her again and again.
And Daenerys Targaryen, alone among them, was expected to smile, endure, and ride on.
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