As the first rays of morning sunlight pierced through the prairie's mist, the Khalasar's people suddenly erupted in cheers—the outline of the Dothraki Sea finally appeared on the distant horizon: stretches of low shrubs spread along the river, and the shimmering "Mother River" wound like a silver ribbon through the center of the prairie; in the oasis by the riverbank, several tall poplars stretched their branches, gently swaying in the wind.
"It's the Mother River! We've arrived!" Kohol reined in his horse, his voice filled with uncontrollable excitement. The Dothraki revered the Mother River as a sacred river; after every long migration, seeing this river was like returning home.
Daenerys stopped Silver Wind, dismounted, and quickly walked towards the river. She knelt, cupped a handful of river water, and the cool touch instantly dispelled the fatigue of days of travel. "So cool..." She looked up at Illyrio, her eyes as bright as the shimmering Mother River. "We've finally arrived, Illyrio. Drogo said that across the river is his main camp, where many of our people are waiting for us."
Illyrio walked to her side and also cupped a handful of water—the water carried a faint earthy scent, clean and clear, much sweeter than the bitter water of the Red Grass Fields. "Yes, once we reach the main camp, we can rest properly." He agreed verbally, but his gaze swept over the shrubs by the riverbank, his vigilance undiminished—the escaped Lannister assassin had not yet been found, and the closer they got to their destination, the easier it was to relax their guard. The assassin might strike at this moment.
Drogo also dismounted and walked to the river, washing the dust from his face with river water. His arm inadvertently lifted, and Illyrio's gaze was immediately drawn to it—the scratch from yesterday was now red and swollen, with a faint yellowish edge, clearly inflamed.
"Khal, your wound..." Illyrio quickly walked over, pointing to his arm. "It's already inflamed. You need to bandage it quickly with a clean cloth and apply some herbs, or it will get worse."
Drogo glanced down, still indifferent: "What's a little inflammation? Dothraki warriors never stop for such a minor injury." He said, turning to his warhorse, preparing to continue their journey.
"Drogo!" Daenerys stepped forward, grabbing his arm, her tone a hint of firmness. "Illyrio is right, the wound cannot be ignored. You are the Khal of the Khalasar; if you fall ill, what will happen to our people?" This was the first time Daenerys had spoken to Drogo in such a tone, without her previous timidity, but with the responsibility of a Khaleesi towards her people.
Drogo paused, looking at Daenerys's resolute gaze, and finally conceded: "Alright, as you say. Find a place to camp and treat the wound."
Kohol immediately directed his people to set up camp in the oasis by the river. Slaves unloaded tents from horseback and began erecting them; several older members of the tribe went into the shrubs to search for anti-inflammatory herbs (the Dothraki were familiar with prairie herbs and knew which ones could treat external injuries).
Viserys also dismounted. He did not go to the river but stood by the tent, looking towards the distant main camp, his face still grim. "Where is the main camp Drogo spoke of? Once we arrive, when will he finally send troops?" He walked to Illyrio's side, his voice filled with barely suppressed impatience.
"Once we reach the main camp, Drogo needs to discuss sending troops with the other leaders. After all, a hundred thousand cavalry cannot be moved just like that." Illyrio patiently explained, "Wait a little longer; at most, half a month, and there will be news."
"Half a month? I can't wait any longer!" Viserys suddenly raised his voice. "I am the King of Targaryen, not here for a vacation on the prairie! If Drogo delays any further, I will..."
Before he could finish his sentence, he suddenly heard a commotion by the river. "Khaleesi! Be careful!" A slave's voice shrieked.
Illyrio spun around, only to see a dark figure dart out from the shrubs, holding a black leather pouch, pouncing towards Daenerys—it was the escaped Lannister assassin! The pouch in his hand clearly contained poison, and he intended to pour it into her waterskin while she was distracted.
"Daenerys, get away!" Illyrio shouted, rushing over. Daenerys reacted quickly, immediately dodging to the side. The assassin missed, and the black liquid from the pouch spilled onto the ground, splashing tiny bubbles—it was "Widow's Breath," commonly used by the Lannisters. If it touched the skin, it would rapidly paralyze nerves; if ingested, it would cause instant death.
Seeing his ambush fail, the assassin drew a dagger from his waist and turned to flee. Kohol had already reacted, spurring his horse forward, and with a swing of his scimitar, the assassin's dagger was knocked to the ground. The assassin still tried to resist, but Kohol kicked him to the ground, and the Blood Riders immediately surrounded him, tying him securely with ropes.
"Speak! Do you have any accomplices?" Kohol stepped on the assassin's chest, his scimitar pressed against his throat. The assassin's face was pale, his lips trembling, but he said nothing. Illyrio knelt down and found a bronze ring in the assassin's pocket. The ring was engraved with a lion sigil—the same as the sigil on the dagger hilt seen in the warehouse before, a Lannister token.
"No need to ask; he definitely has accomplices." Illyrio handed the ring to Drogo. "The Lannisters wouldn't send just him alone; there must be others hidden near the main camp, waiting for an opportunity to strike at us."
Drogo took the ring, squeezed it forcefully with his fingers, and the bronze ring instantly deformed. "Give the order: after reaching the main camp, all outsiders must be inspected, and no one is allowed to approach the main tent without my command." His voice was filled with a murderous aura, clearly enraged by the assassin's sneak attack.
The assassin was eventually dragged by the Blood Riders to a distant grove and executed, his black blood staining the green grass by the river. Daenerys stood by the river, looking at the bloodstain, her face somewhat pale. Illyrio walked to her side and gently patted her shoulder: "Don't be afraid; the assassin has been dealt with. There will be no more danger."
"I'm not afraid..." Daenerys shook her head, her voice carrying a hint of heaviness. "I just feel that our desire to return to Westeros is truly difficult. The Lannisters target us everywhere, Viserys is always eager to send troops, and Drogo's wound is still inflamed..."
"It will get better." Illyrio interrupted her, pointing to the distant main camp. "Once we reach the main camp, you will have more people supporting you, and Drogo's wound will receive better treatment. As long as we are united, there is no problem we cannot solve."
Daenerys nodded, regaining her composure. She walked to Drogo, who was treating his wound, took the herbs handed by a slave, and carefully applied them to his wound. "These are 'anti-inflammatory herbs' found by our people. It will sting a bit when applied, but it will heal quickly." She said, gently bandaging it with a clean strip of cloth.
Drogo looked at her serious expression, his eyes full of tenderness, and reached out to stroke her hair: "My Khaleesi, it's good to have you here."
Just then, a woman in a ragged robe emerged from the crowd—she was the Dothraki witch doctor, named Mormont, her face covered in wrinkles, holding a leather pouch filled with herbs. "Khal, your wound is severely inflamed. Ordinary herbs won't cure it. I have better herbs that can heal your wound within three days."
Illyrio's heart sank—Mormont! In the original story, it was this witch doctor who used contaminated herbs to worsen Drogo's wound, ultimately leading him to become a vegetable, forcing Daenerys to end his life herself.
"No need, my wife has already taken care of it for me." Drogo waved his hand, clearly not wanting the witch doctor to touch his wound.
"Khal, this is different!" Mormont stepped forward, her voice a hint of urgency. "Ordinary herbs can only temporarily reduce inflammation. My herbs have been soaked in the sacred water of the Mother River and have the blessings of the spirits, capable of completely healing your wound. If you don't believe me, you can ask Kohol; his leg was kicked by a horse last time, and I cured him with these very herbs."
Kohol nodded from the side: "Indeed, Mormont's herbs are very effective. My leg injury last time healed in three days after applying them."
Illyrio quickly stepped forward, blocking Mormont: "Khal, the witch doctor's herbs are of unknown origin; it's better to be careful. We already have anti-inflammatory herbs, and by slowly applying them, it will eventually heal. There's no need to use unfamiliar herbs." He knew he had no evidence to prove Mormont's herbs were problematic and could only try to dissuade him.
"Illyrio, you are too suspicious." Drogo frowned. "Mormont is an old witch doctor of the tribe; many people have received her help. She would not harm me." He said, pushing Illyrio aside, allowing Mormont to approach his wound.
Mormont gave Illyrio a triumphant look, took a clump of black herbs from her pouch, and applied them to Drogo's wound. As soon as the herbs touched his skin, Drogo frowned: "It stings a bit..."
"This is the spirits dispelling the evil in your body; pain is normal." Mormont said with a smile, securing the herbs with a cloth strip. "In three days, I will change your dressing again, and your wound will be healed by then."
Illyrio stood aside, looking at the black herbs on Drogo's arm, a heavy stone in his heart—he knew that the prelude to tragedy had already begun. But he had no evidence and could not convince Drogo to trust him, so he could only watch Mormont leave.
Daenerys walked to his side, noticing his worry: "Illyrio, what's wrong? Do you not trust Mormont?"
"I just feel that witch doctor is a bit strange." Illyrio lowered his voice. "Pay close attention to Drogo's wound. If there's any abnormality, such as more pain, more swelling, or if Drogo feels unwell, tell me immediately, and do not let Mormont approach him again."
Although Daenerys didn't know why Illyrio was so vigilant, she nodded seriously: "I understand. I will keep an eye on Drogo's wound."
In the evening, the Khalasar finally arrived at Drogo's main camp. The main camp was larger than Illyrio had imagined—thousands of black tents lined the Mother River, stretching as far as the eye could see; seeing Drogo and Daenerys, the people emerged from their tents, knelt on the ground, shouting "Khal Drogo!" and "Khaleesi!" Their voices were deafening.
Drogo led Daenerys by the hand into the main tent—the tent was covered with white animal skins, a huge wooden table in the center laden with fresh fruit and kumiss; on the surrounding walls hung the spoils of Drogo's battles (enemies' heads and weapons), showcasing his glorious achievements.
"My Khaleesi, this is your main tent; from now on, this will be your home." Drogo embraced Daenerys, his voice tender.
Daenerys leaned into his embrace, looking at everything in the tent, her eyes full of longing. Illyrio stood at the tent entrance, watching this warm scene, but his heart was filled with worry—Drogo's wound, the hidden Lannister accomplices, Viserys's impatience, and that insidious witch doctor, like an invisible net, were slowly enveloping them.
Viserys stood outside the tent, looking at the bustling scene of the main camp, his face even grimmer. He walked to Illyrio's side, gritting his teeth and saying: "Illyrio, mark my words, if Drogo doesn't send troops in half a month, I will find a way myself. Even if I have to cooperate with the Lannisters, I will return to Westeros!"
Illyrio's heart tightened—Viserys actually wanted to cooperate with the Lannisters? This was simply courting death! He was about to dissuade him, but Viserys had already turned and walked away, his back full of obsession and madness.
As night deepened, the campfires of the main camp gradually lit up, like stars scattered across the prairie. Illyrio stood outside the main tent, looking at the shimmering Mother River and listening to the laughter of the people, but his heart was heavy. He touched the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar, the cold metallic touch making him even more alert—the next half month would be a critical period determining the fate of the Targaryen, and he had to be extra careful to prevent tragedy from happening.
Just then, a muffled groan came from inside the tent. Illyrio quickly rushed in, only to see Drogo clutching his arm, his face pale: "My wound... suddenly hurts a lot, like it's on fire..."
Daenerys panicked and quickly untied the cloth strip on his arm—the black herbs had turned dark green, the skin around the wound was even more red and swollen, and even yellow pus was oozing out.
"Mormont's herbs are problematic!" Illyrio's heart sank to the bottom. "We must remove the herbs immediately, clean the wound with clean water, and apply anti-inflammatory herbs!"
Drogo nodded, too much in pain to speak. Daenerys quickly followed Illyrio's instructions, cleaning the wound with water from the Mother River and applying fresh anti-inflammatory herbs. But she knew in her heart that Drogo's wound was no longer as simple as it appeared on the surface.
Illyrio stood aside, looking at Drogo's pained expression, filled with a sense of powerlessness. He knew that Mormont's herbs had already begun to take effect, and Drogo's wound would likely never return to its previous state.