"Over two hundred people," Jorah said slowly, then paused, his expression turning grim. "Fewer than a hundred can actually fight. The elite Qohorik screamers—only the sixty from your own khas. They…" He sighed, unable to hide his reluctance. "It's foreseeable that during a long march ahead, half of the old, weak, sick, and young will die."
"And supplies?" Dany asked, frowning.
"We can ensure everyone has a horse. Cattle and sheep together total just over two hundred head. As for water… after Khal Drogo left, that small stream is barely enough for us, and it's far away—about five kilometers out."
Dany frowned in confusion. "There isn't even a blade of grass nearby. What will the horses and sheep eat these next few days?"
"There's a red-brown demon grass growing between the rocks," Rakharo warned her. "It's tough and fibrous, but it's enough to keep the horses alive. Still, this won't last long. This land is already exhausted. We must keep moving."
"Where to?" Dany's heart stirred. She tested the horselords carefully. "What are your plans next? If I reorganize this small khas into a khalasar, and make the four of you my bloodriders—would you accept?"
Her words clearly troubled the four Dothraki warriors. They frowned and pondered for a while. Qotho was the first to refuse.
"That cannot be," he said. "To be a woman's bloodrider would shame me. And there are only ever three bloodriders."
Dany turned to the next. Aggo lowered his eyes. "I cannot swear either. Only a man may lead a khalasar."
"You are khaleesi, and only khaleesi," Rakharo continued. "I will ride beside you to Vaes Dothrak beneath the Mother of Mountains, guarding you from danger until you join the crones of the Dosh Khaleen. Beyond that, I can promise nothing more."
"I—"
"That's enough, I understand," Dany cut in sharply before Jhogo could speak. "We'll set this aside for now. The most important thing at present is to send the great Khal Drogo back to the Night Lands."
Ser Jorah suddenly sprang up from where he sat cross-legged. With a sharp shing, he drew the sword from his waist. The gleaming blade flashed, nearly blinding Dany.
Then Jorah Mormont dropped to one knee and laid the sword at her feet. "Your Grace, I swear myself to your service, to obey all your commands. I will not hesitate to give my life."
He swept his gaze across the four Dothraki and declared forcefully, "I swear by the sword in my hand and the bear sigil of my House: unless you go of your own will, no one will take you back to Vaes Dothrak. You do not need to join the Dosh Khaleen."
The four horselords exchanged looks, their almond-shaped black eyes flickering with confusion and unease.
So even in a Westeros where rites and music had collapsed, there were still loyal men of true honor.
Though Ser Jorah's motives were not entirely pure—his loyalty sprang more from unrequited love—Dany was still pleased.
"According to Dothraki custom," she said, "a khal returns to the embrace of the Horse God by riding a swift steed through fire. I command you to lead riders to gather everything that can burn—wood, dead grass, vines…"
This was a bitter, desolate land, not a place to linger. Dany had to leave as soon as possible.
When word spread that Dany intended to burn Drogo's body, the two bloodriders who had been sunk in despair once more left Drogo's bedside. They, too, had preparations to make.
"You may leave," Dany told her handmaids. "I will end his pain and his humiliation."
Drogo had not woken for four days. Half his chest was black and rotting, yet his breath still lingered faintly. For him, this was both unbearable torment and the deepest shame—a great rider should never lie helpless upon a bed.
Dany spent three minutes freeing him with a feather pillow. She then cut away the rotten flesh, drained the pus and blood, and filled his chest cavity with thick, fragrant ointment.
Irri and Jhiqui cleaned his hair and body. Dany washed his long hair herself, braided it anew, and tied on a long string of bells.
More bells—gold, silver, and bronze. These bells would proclaim his coming to his enemies and strike fear into their hearts, even in the land of the dead.
Doreah dressed him in his horsehair leggings and tall boots, and buckled a heavy belt around his waist, studded with gold and silver medallions.
Irri and Jhiqui together lifted Drogo's broad yet emaciated body and helped him into his painted vest, hiding the scars upon his chest.
The vest was old and faded, but it had always been his favorite.
Dany had planned to hold the cremation that very evening, but even by sunset they had not gathered enough wood. Jhogo rode the farthest, traveling twenty kilometers north, nearly back to the lands of the Lamb Men.
"They shot arrows at me," Jhogo said angrily. "The Lamb Men do not welcome horselords."
Well, of course not. Every year the Dothraki rode south from Vaes Dothrak into the Great Grass Sea to "harvest," treating the Lamb Men as a kind of New Year's bounty.
This year, though, seemed especially cursed—two khals had fallen in what was practically the beginner's village.
Jhogo soon grew excited again. "But I met Ogo's khalasar. When they heard I was gathering wood for a khal's funeral pyre, they offered to help us sack a village as sacrifice."
Ogo had once been Drogo's ko. His khalasar was not large—most of Drogo's former warriors had been taken by Pono and Jhaqo. Of over forty thousand screamers, Pono took twenty thousand, Jhaqo took ten thousand, and the remaining ten thousand were divided among more than a dozen kos. Each khalasar numbered only one or two thousand warriors.
In the vast Dothraki Sea, such numbers were the norm. A dominant overlord like Drogo had been rare.
"Khal Ogo has ill intent," Jorah said gravely after Jhogo left. "He is likely acting under Pono or Jhaqo's orders, waiting for you in the north. Princess, what are you truly planning? You tried to win over Qotho and the others, but they clearly refuse to return to Vaes Dothrak as part of the Dosh Khaleen. We seem trapped.
"And though your khas is loyal to you, they also follow their own will—the traditions of the Dothraki, unchanged for thousands of years."
Dany gave him a calming look. "You'll understand in two days."
At dawn the next morning, Qotho rode north alone to the agreed meeting place with Ogo. By noon, he returned with a long train of riders.
Ten riders from Ogo's khalasar escorted two hundred Lamb Men slaves, roped together in a long chain, their faces full of despair.
Another dozen slaves drove more than ten wagons.
The wagons were piled high with bundles of split firewood… and jars of castor oil.
"These slaves will accompany us on the Night Journey," Qotho said coldly.
Dany wore loose sand-silk trousers and sandals laced to the knee. Her upper body was clad in a painted Dothraki vest like Drogo's.
"The khal has you—five hundred of his most loyal warriors," she said without hesitation. "He does not need cowardly Lamb Men slaves."
"You—" Qotho raised his whip, malice on his face.
"Behave yourself. I rule here," Dany said coldly.
Qotho and Jorah stood beside her. Behind them, Aggo and Rakharo had arrows trained on Qotho.
Hundreds worked through the afternoon. Before sunset, the wood was stacked into a square five meters long and wide, four meters high, hollow inside and stuffed with straw, shrubs, bark, and hay. This was the khal's "main bedchamber."
Upon the pyre were placed Khal Drogo's treasures: his furs, painted vest, saddle and reins; the whip his father had given him when he came of age; the arakh with which he had slain Khal Ogo and his son; and the great dragonbone bow.
Jhogo wanted to place the weapons of Drogo's bloodriders atop the pyre as a bride gift to Dany, but she stopped him.
"Those are mine," she said. "I'm keeping them."
After a moment's thought, Dany took two people back down the hill. In a corner of packed earth and stone, she dug away a layer of red soil, revealing several oxhide bags the size of cement sacks.
Clatter—
She lifted the tails of the bags, and a dazzling river of gold poured out, blazing bright—each piece a gold medallion the size of a child's palm.
Drogo had ten chests of gold medallions. Dany buried three chests in the earth. Of the ten chests thrown out earlier, thirty percent had been filled with brass medals instead.
With thousands scrambling, no one could tell how many chests were missing—let alone that Dany had swapped fish eyes for pearls.
The straightforward, savage horselords had yet to evolve such tricks.
Another layer of gold medallions was spread over the khal's treasures, then several bundles of hay were laid atop them.
Qotho and Haggo solemnly carried Drogo's body from the tent as the Dothraki watched in silence.
They laid him upon his own pillow and silken quilt, his head facing the distant northeast, toward the Mother of Mountains.
Rakharo led forward Drogo's red stallion—huge and fierce, its coat red as burning coals, sleek as the finest silk. It was a beast almost without equal, one that would dare bite even the white lions of the grasslands.
The Dothraki were a harsh, merciless people and never named their animals by custom. Otherwise, Drogo's mount would surely have borne a name passed down through the ages, like the legendary steeds of ancient empires.
Today, the horse was unusually docile. It allowed itself to be led to the east side of Drogo's pyre.
As if it understood its fate, it lifted its head, barely reaching Drogo's face, and licked him gently. Two crystal streams fell from its onyx eyes, dampening Drogo's hair and pillow.
It ate the shriveled apple Dany offered, pawed the ground, threw back its head and whinnied, then finally stilled.
When Rakharo's axe fell, the horse did not flinch or flee. It was cleanly struck down.
The horselords piled wood atop the horse's body—tree trunks, thick branches—stretching from east to west, symbolizing sunrise to sunset.
Qotho and Haggo built two lower platforms to the south and north of Drogo. They laid their own wealth and weapons upon them, led forth their horses, fed each an apple, and ended them with a single stroke.
Those pyres belonged to the two bloodriders. They washed and prepared themselves, then lay upon them with arakhs in hand.
Extending outward from the bloodriders' platforms, the horselords built a long third tier from branches. Drogo's stood four meters high, the bloodriders' three meters, and this one two meters. It was covered in dry leaves and dead branches, laid from north to south, symbolizing ice to fire.
Upon the third pyre were stacked five hundred heads—the skulls of warriors who had fallen with Cohollo. At the very top, soft pillows and silken quilts were piled high.
Cohollo's own head lay beside Drogo.
...
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"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
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(End Chapter)