Passing Jhakokas's camp, Daenerys and her five knights—Jorah, Aggo, and three others—arrived at the outskirts of the Khalasar. A group of women wearing colorful Dothraki vests were weaving straw mats. Their rough, cracked fingers moved with surprising dexterity as they plucked the heads of grain from each stalk and tossed them into a nearby winnowing basket. Like knitting a sweater, they wove the remaining half-green, half-yellow stalks into long, continuous mats.
The Dothraki yurts were constructed almost entirely from these straw mats, and even cloth for clothing was scarce. They wore leather vests and cloaks, and most of the horsemen lacked the means to make tents.
When the Khaleesi arrived, the women and children nearby remained expressionless. They offered no respectful greetings, nor did they glare at her with hatred.
"These are slaves captured from Ogo's Khalasar," Jorah whispered beside her.
The Dothraki "ecosystem" was brutally unforgiving.
About a month earlier, in Vaes Dothrak (the Horse Lord City), the aged Dosh Khaleen had prophesied that Daenerys would bear "a steed to ride the world." At that time, Ogo and Drogo had been drinking and carousing together in a tent, like the closest of brothers.
About nine days ago, on the banks of the Lhazar River, thousands of miles from Vaes Dothrak, the two men met again.
At the time, Ogo was leading his Khalasar in besieging a Lhazareen town, and Drogo Kao happened to pass by.
Without hesitation, Drogo led his Roaring Warriors into battle immediately.
He didn't help Ogo take the town; instead, he took advantage of Ogo's preoccupation with the siege to attack the rear of his forces.
After sweeping through Ogo's tribe, Drogo swiftly captured the Lhazareen town, which was on the verge of collapse.
In that battle, Drogo personally killed Ogo and his son, and severed the head of an Ogo Bloodrider. He fought three opponents at once with minimal cost—only a strip of skin was torn from his pectoral muscle.
Drogo's martial prowess aside, his actions revealed the Dothraki's brutal survival code.
The opening scene of *Kung Fu* shows the Crocodile Gang leader saying to the Axe Gang leader, who is about to chop him down: "Wait! Don't you remember? I treated you to a meal!"
Drogo and Ogo had done far more than just share a meal.
Alas, such camaraderie and peace exist only in Vaes Dothrak.
Beneath the shadow of the Mother of Mountains, every Dothraki of Vaes Dothrak was a brother to another, all disputes set aside. But once they left the Holy City, the Dothraki Sea reverted to its brutal law of the jungle: survival of the fittest, elimination of the weak.
Drogo had not only killed Ogo and his son, but had also enslaved all the women and children of their Khalasar. Now, they were marching west along the Lhazar River to sell them to the Ghiscari slave masters of Slaver's Bay.
A clamor of shouts and the crack of whips brought Daenerys back to her senses. Unbeknownst to them, their group had already left the outermost reaches of Ogo's Khalasar.
Under the hazy, ochre sky of evening, several Lhazareen manors struggled amid the billowing black smoke, the flames roaring with crackling fury. Warriors in painted vests on horseback galloped through the ruins of crumbling mud-brick walls, their long whips cracking like thunder as they drove the survivors from the smoldering ruins.
Daenerys saw many mothers with vacant, lifeless expressions, stumbling along with sobbing children in tow. Driven by the whips, they were being herded toward Drogo's slave camp.
Few men remained among them, and most were either disabled or elderly.
The adult men were almost all dead.
The Dothraki warriors instinctively cleared a path for Daenerys and her group, drawing the attention of those resting beneath the earthen walls. Soon, Haggo, his face smeared with blood, rode forward.
"Khaleesi, are you here to steal more slaves?" he sneered.
Suddenly, Haggo's expression twisted into a wolfish grin. He yanked a hemp rope hanging from his saddle high into the air.
"Ah—"
Just as he'd anticipated, a nauseatingly sweet, bloody stench wafted toward them. Daenerys's pupils contracted to pinpricks of terror, and she gasped for breath, unable to stop herself.
It was a string of heads, young and old, some frozen in fear, others contorted in rage even in death. Thick, dark red blood dripped slowly down the ropes binding their hair, soaking into Haggo's thigh hanging at the saddle's side.
Some heads were cleanly severed, the cuts neat and precise. Others had jagged, ragged necks, as if multiple failed attempts had been made to sever the head.
Daenerys even saw one head with a bloody, black neck where a section of white vertebrae still clung.
*Did he hack through the neck and then forcibly rip the half-severed head from the shoulders?*
Their eyes widened, mouths agape, and Daenerys seemed to hear the wailing of accusations and curses ringing in her ears.
As she'd never witnessed such a brutal scene before, Daenerys was understandably terrified, almost to the point of madness.
*Heaven help me,* she thought. *Just this morning, I was on the sunny Medical College plaza, receiving my Master's degree in Surgery!*
Ser Jorah quickly rode up to Daenerys, supporting her teetering form to prevent her from falling. He patted her back to help her catch her breath and poured water from a waterskin into her mouth.
Daenerys remained limp like a rag doll as Jorah and Aggo fussed over her for a while before she finally regained her composure and clarity.
She forced back the tears and fear in her eyes, striving to infuse them with murderous intent. Then, she raised her head and forced herself to meet Haggo's gaze, his eyes fixed on the string of severed heads he still held aloft.
Gradually, Haggo's cruel smile faded. He lowered his head with an air of boredom and hung the heads back on his saddle.
But as he lowered his head, the quiet, somber atmosphere seemed to agitate him.
"Khaleesi, what are you staring at?" he snapped, his voice rough as he glared at Daenerys.
Daenerys' eyes were no longer filled with fear or confusion. Her violet eyes were clear and icy, like a pool of glacial water. "I'm counting to see if you've taken the most heads. Unfortunately, Bonokho has two more than you."
"You—"
Veins bulged on Haggo's neck as he prepared to lash out at Daenerys, but he quickly clamped his mouth shut. He agilely dismounted and hurried to Bonokho's side, facing the string of heads and quietly counting them. After a moment, a puzzled expression spread across his face as he began counting on his fingers.
Daenerys' icy composure wavered slightly.
The Bloodriders were indeed formidable, but *A Song of Ice and Fire* was a low-magic, low-martial world. The strongest warriors could only rival ten men in combat, and even the most skilled would be exhausted after slaying seven or eight consecutive foes.
Neither Haggo nor the dozen or so Kasgo present had any head strings exceeding twenty. Yet Haggo, with fingers as thick as carrots, spent nearly a minute counting.
Finally, he returned to his saddle, lifting his head string and comparing it one by one with Bonokho's.
*Ah, the 'gifted student' Daenerys was right. Haggo does indeed have two fewer.*
*Thud!*
The blood-caked head rolled across the ground, coated in a thin layer of dust, like a fried chicken drumstick coated in breadcrumbs.
Haggo, breathing heavily, dropped his string of heads. He yanked a woman in her thirties from the group of Sheep People slaves beside him. Ignoring her desperate screams and struggles, and even though the Khaleesi was watching, he unbuckled her sheepskin breeches and mounted her.
The woman's wails seemed to fuel his pride. He even looked up and flashed Daenerys a cruel, mocking smile, dripping with defiance.
Everyone knew the Khaleesi had once defied Dothraki tradition by forcibly rescuing a woman being publicly humiliated.
Daenerys knew even better that this was a war between her and Haggo. The wisest course of action—for both her and the unfortunate woman—was to leave as if nothing had happened.
"Hah!"
She gently kicked the belly of the small silver horse beneath her, and it trotted away with light steps.
Haggo cursed in Dothraki and finished his act.
As Daenerys entered the battlefield, the dying horses stirred, lifting their heads to whinny mournfully at her. Wounded soldiers, their lips cracked and dry, moaned and called out, "Khaleesi, please, some water." Before Daenerys could move, a Jhakaran trotted over.
"Forgive me, Khaleesi, for disturbing you."
He smiled apologetically at Daenerys. With a flash of his knife, he slit the throat of a wounded soldier begging for water.
Blood spurted in a hissing arc as the soldier's eyes dimmed with a gurgling sound. His face showed no pain or fear, only a faint regret and bewilderment.
In his final moments, he seemed to be wondering: *Why didn't they let me have one drink of water before I died?*
The Jhakaran were Dothraki designated to end the suffering of the wounded. They moved through the battlefield, harvesting a string of heads from the dead and dying.
A group of little girls, each carrying a basket, skipped cheerfully behind the Jhakaran. After glancing curiously at Daenerys, they giggled and approached the corpses. With their small, blood-stained hands, they pulled the arrows from the bodies and tossed them into their baskets.
Undamaged arrows were saved for later use, while those with damaged fletching were repaired with new feathers. Broken arrows were salvaged for their metal heads, which would be reattached to wooden shafts by slaves or women back at camp.
Finally, a pack of gaunt, ravenous dogs with fierce eyes approached. They cautiously sniffed at the corpse before Daenerys, and seeing she didn't intervene, they began tearing into it with bared teeth. A pack of dogs always followed the Khalasar, forming a unique part of the grassland ecosystem.
This scene had played out many times before. The dogs were accustomed to it, and assumed the 'horse-person' Daenerys before them was too.
"Ugh—"
Daenerys, still slumped over her horse, retched violently. The startled dogs scrambled back, abandoning the warm, pale muscle they had been tearing at.
"Khaleesi, it's growing late. We should leave," Ser Jorah said, placing a concerned hand on her shoulder.
"Yes, let's go back."
This brutal world had stripped away all pretense from Daenerys.
In the shortest time, she had come to understand her surroundings all too well.