Drogo's grass-curtain palace had several walls woven from thick reeds, while the roof and the front were stitched together from multiple layers of silk and coarse cotton cloth. Once dismantled and folded up, it would be enough to fill ten entire wagons.
Placed in modern society, it would almost be worthless… uh, no, extremely valuable. Dozens of animal hides hung from it—golden marten pelts, thick wild bison hides, and even the fantasy world's unique white lion skins. Any one of those could probably be exchanged for several apartments within the Third Ring Road of Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou.
Alright, back to the world of Ice and Fire.
The greatest khal naturally lived in the finest palace, and Drogo's grass-curtain palace was undoubtedly the foremost existence in the Dothraki Sea.
"Khal, it's getting late. Looks like we'll have to make camp here tonight," Mago said to Jhaqo.
Jhaqo thought for a moment, then loudly ordered Qotho and the others to stop. "You all leave. The palace stays with me. Tonight, I will feast the warriors of Khal LS.
"And I know Drogo has ten chests of golden medallions and fifty chests of silver awards. Hand them over. They're all mine now."
The Dothraki had no currency system, no money-based trade, but this world did not consist of horse people alone.
The horselords were not even the strongest race.
When they arrived at the nine Free Trade Cities with their towering walls, deep moats, and heavy guards, they still needed to exchange gifts to obtain daily necessities.
Gold and silver were hard currency in the world of Ice and Fire, and the Dothraki needed them as well.
They smelted gold, silver, and copper into medallions and badges—pieces that could be fastened together into belts. From time to time, a khal would unhook a medallion from his waist as a reward for meritorious service.
The strongest Drogo possessed the strongest khalasar and the greatest wealth.
The "luxurious" grass-curtain palace of over two hundred square meters had nearly half its space filled with heavy wooden chests. Aside from clothes and daily utensils, gold and silver made up the bulk of it.
"You're too late. You're not the only one who covets Khal Drogo's wealth."
Jhaqo rudely cut her off. "Not 'one of them.' I am Khal Jhaqo."
Daenerys's gaze was disdainful as she continued, "To prevent unruly soldiers from barging into the tents, I already had those things thrown outside. Anyway, the Dosh Khaleen have the entire city of Vaes Dothrak to support them. I don't need gold or silver."
"Really?" Jhaqo was irritated, and also doubtful—unwilling to believe it.
"We carried the chests out together and threw them away. Sixty chests. Everyone knows," Ser Jorah said.
"Everyone knows," Aggo echoed.
"Everyone knows," Dany's khasar said in a messy chorus.
"Damn it! You all leave at once!" Jhaqo lashed his whip in fury.
The khaleesi's dowry, the khal's weapons and horses—no one would forcibly seize those. That was a tradition all Dothraki knew.
In a twenty-square-meter linen tent, over ten wooden chests were piled messily in one corner, most of them gifts Daenerys had received at her wedding.
When they were carried out of Drogo's palace, Mago had even dismounted to rummage through them once.
The newly pitched camp was too small to dig a fire pit, so they could only pull the tent flaps aside and light a roaring fire not far outside the entrance.
Under the dim yellow flames, Qotho's cold face was illuminated as he stood vigil by Drogo's bed, waiting for the moment when "my blood of my blood" would ride to the Night Lands.
Haggo was drunk, lying listlessly on the ground, his dull eyes staring blankly at the top of the tent.
"The child should have been kept by my blood of my blood, waiting together for the final moment. Kohollo shouldn't have listened to her," he muttered indistinctly.
The tent was too crowded. Daenerys sat at the entrance, not responding to Haggo's words. Her face was pale as she lowered her head, stuffing cotton into a cloth doll.
The doll was something she had just sewn from pale yellow silk. It had no head.
Jhaqo said he had thrown the child's body to the wild dogs.
The atmosphere of the camp beneath the starry sky was oppressive, the space so silent it was nearly frozen solid. In this small khalasar of one or two hundred people, the only sound was the crackling of firewood burning in the flames.
Ser Jorah remained fully armored. He looked at his princess with pity. Several times his mouth opened as if to speak, but it was as though his throat were blocked—he couldn't utter a single word of comfort.
Perhaps no words could ease the sorrow in her heart at this moment, the knight thought sadly.
Involuntarily, a scene from King's Landing surfaced in his mind.
That was fifteen years ago, on the eve of the complete destruction of House Targaryen.
As the heir to the House of Bear Island, renowned for his valor, he had been chosen as the personal guard of his lord—Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell.
When he led the northern army and followed Lord Stark into the Red Keep, what he saw was much like tonight's scene: a three-year-old princess beheaded, and a prince not yet one year old smashed into a bloody pulp against the wall.
Clop clop clop.
The sound of approaching hooves broke the stillness and startled everyone.
Qotho rode out to investigate, then quickly returned to report to Daenerys. "Khaleesi, it's Khal Jhaqo's khaleesi—Lady Lillith. She says she wants to thank you in person."
Daenerys sat cross-legged on the ground, a bundle folded from a wool blanket placed before her. Hearing this, she lowered her head and stared blankly at the infant's corpse inside the bundle for a long while before speaking hoarsely, "Let her come."
"I'm here." A woman's voice came from the darkness, followed by a string of torch-bearing riders.
Without waiting for Daenerys's order, Lillith's people barged straight into the small circle.
"You—" Daenerys spoke a single word and stopped.
The flames dancing in the wind illuminated a face mixed with smugness and mockery.
At this point, even a fool wouldn't think she had come with good intentions.
As Daenerys fitted the freshly cleaned head of the baby boy into the neck of the cloth doll, she said dully, "I saved you."
"Look, I'm riding a horse too," Lillith awkwardly tugged at the reins, letting her mount turn in a small circle on the spot. "A silver-maned little mare, exactly the same as yours."
In fact, they weren't the same. Dany's little silver had fur that shimmered like silver threads, while Lillith's was simply a white horse.
Unlike the Mirri-style dress from last time, she had adapted to local customs and changed into a Dothraki painted vest.
Daenerys covered the bundle, raised her head, and met Lillith's gaze directly. "I saved your life."
Lillith pressed her lips together and beckoned behind her. Two agile Dothraki women rode over to help her dismount.
Though she could sit on horseback, Lillith was still in her postpartum period. Her limbs were weak, her body inconvenient, and she needed maids to support her even when walking.
She couldn't compare at all to Daenerys, who held dragon eggs daily and dreamed of dragons.
Staggering over to Daenerys, she imitated her and sat cross-legged on the magic carpet laid on the ground. Leaning close to Daenerys's ear, she covered her mouth and whispered with a giggle, "I hate you."
"Obviously," Daenerys nodded seriously.
"Heeheehee." Supporting herself with both hands, Lillith leaned back slightly, gazing at the gemlike stars in the sky. With a sigh, she said lightly, "Ah, I'm a khaleesi now too. I have my own little silver mare, my own khalasar—these are my people. And more importantly, I have a son strong as a dragon."
As she spoke, she pushed herself forward again, bent down, and lifted the cover of the cloth bundle in front of Daenerys.
"Tsk tsk tsk, such a pitiful little thing. Not even half the size of my Jango. The body below the head is sewn from cloth? Well, makes sense—his original body was eaten by dogs."
Hearing this, Daenerys felt strangely relieved, as if the heavy guilt pressing on her chest had suddenly lightened, no longer suffocating her.
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
"Tha—" Lillith froze. "What are you talking about? Are you crazy?"
Daenerys bared her teeth in a venomous sneer. "Even though you're a disgusting slut, at least you still knew to come see me. That already far exceeds my expectations of you."
Just how low were your expectations of me?
Lillith stood there dumbly for a moment before fully understanding. Her face twisted in rage.
"I—"
Before she could explode, Daenerys immediately warned, "The Dothraki cannot harm the Dosh Khaleen, or they will suffer the Horse God's curse. Everyone knows that."
As she said this, she also turned her gaze toward Lillith's maid. The Dothraki woman immediately responded, "Everyone knows."
"Everyone knows," Irri and Jhiqui also said.
"You—" Lillith glared at Daenerys. After a long pause, she suddenly laughed. "It's fine. I've always been a slut anyway. You're not much better."
"I saved your life!" Daenerys reminded her for the third time.
"I'm grateful to you, and that's all," Lillith said. Scanning the crowd, she found the witch peeking and craning her neck to look over. Pointing at her, Lillith sneered, "You saved her too, yet she still killed your khal and your child."
"I didn't!" The witch waved her hands frantically, loudly denying it. "Silver Lady, have you forgotten? It was I who used the Song of the Moon to help you give birth!"
Lillith had no intention of engaging with her. She only turned back, smiling sweetly at Daenerys. "Drogo was your man. You know better than anyone how many scars he had on his body.
"Many of those wounds were far more serious than the scratch on his chest, yet he was still the mightiest khal of the great grass sea. Even the brothels of Lys spread tales of his name steeped in blood and death."
"I believe her," Daenerys said calmly.
Then she asked, "Why do you hate me so much? Just out of jealousy? Being a khaleesi isn't really something worth envying."
Lillith stroked the silver strands hanging over her chest, her pale violet eyes blazing as she ground her teeth. "Because I hate—hate—hate being someone else's substitute!"
"What do you mean?" Daenerys asked, puzzled.
Across the western continent of Essos, there were countless silver-haired, purple-eyed women. Even among Drogo's khalasar, there were dozens of slave girls like that.
"I was originally Illyrio's woman. Because he wanted you but couldn't tear the membrane that belonged to Khal Drogo, he bought me from a Lysene brothel." Lillith leaned close to Daenerys's ear and whispered venomously, "That fat pig—when he fucked me, he kept shouting your name."
"Is that all?" Daenerys's eyebrow twitched, her expression utterly indifferent.
In modern society, which beautiful woman hadn't been fantasized about?
When men jerked off, did they all stare at themselves in the mirror while doing it?
House Targaryen had its own genetic boost to beauty—every member was a handsome man or a stunning woman. Take Daenerys's dead brother, for example: his character was trash to the extreme, but his looks… well, looks and character were two extremes.
Daenerys Targaryen's appearance was naturally top-tier as well. More importantly, she carried the buff of being the last princess— the final princess of ancient Valyria. Just thinking about it was enough to make people excited.
Seeing that she hadn't provoked Daenerys at all, Lillith grew displeased. Gritting her teeth, she continued, "My status was low. Illyrio never took me seriously and often used me to entertain others.
"The night before you married Drogo, your 'Beggar King' brother, Viserys, tried to sneak into your bedchamber.
It was Illyrio who stopped him, telling him that angering Drogo would not only make it impossible to borrow the khal's Dothraki screamers to reclaim the throne, but would also cost the siblings their lives.
"Then the Beggar King fucked me too—shouting your name again."
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(End of Chapter)