The night sky above the grasslands was as clear as if it had been washed in water. The Milky Way stretched across the heavens, visible and vast, turning in its slow, silent rhythm.
The earth lay open and desolate, the glittering stars hung like ornaments upon the dome of the sky. From one end of the horizon to the other, their dim silver light softly illuminated the ancient, boundless plains.
Rustle, rustle, rustle—
In the quiet night, where only the chirping of insects and the murmur of the river could be heard, a sudden rustling sound broke the stillness — the sound of bodies brushing through tall grass.
Amid the faint scent of grass, there was now also a trace of blood.
"Who's there?" Jogo sprang to his feet, hand on the hilt of his curved blade, his gaze alert toward the south.
From the grass by the riverbank, tall as a man's waist, emerged a large, strong white horse. Under the moonlight, two children could be faintly seen upon its back. The one in front lay limp against the horse's neck, motionless.
Behind him sat a young girl, barely three or four years old, with short silver hair that fell to her ears. She wore a Dothraki-painted vest. Hearing Jogo's shout, she began to cry softly — weakly, with helpless fear.
"Khaleesi, it seems to be some child from a horselord tribe. One of them looks wounded," Jogo said, turning toward Daenerys, who still sat cross-legged on the grass.
"Bring them here," Daenerys said, opening her eyes. Her tone carried a mix of emotions.
"Where did you come from?" Jogo asked as he took hold of the horse's reins, carefully examining the children on its back.
The boy lying across the horse's neck had silver hair and appeared to be about seven or eight years old. His wound seemed to be on his chest — blood had stained the horse's belly red.
At the sound of Jogo's voice, the little girl continued to whimper softly, but the boy slowly raised his head, revealing a pale face and dim violet eyes.
Jogo noticed that the boy was still clutching a small curved dagger, his right hand tightening around the hilt.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, his wary gaze like that of a wounded wolf cub.
"Good lad!" Jogo's eyes lit up as he laughed. "Khaleesi, this little wolf cub is a true horselord."
Daenerys rose to her feet, studying the boy with a strange expression.
Unlike her own oval face, his was round and chubby, with two dimples on his cheeks.
The silver hair and violet eyes marked him as a foreigner, but his bronzed skin and almond-shaped eyes were unmistakably those of the Dothraki.
"Boy, who are you?" Daenerys asked, feigning ignorance though she already suspected the answer.
The boy stared wide-eyed at her, momentarily confused. "I am Jango, son of Khal Jaco. Who are you?"
"Ah, definitely a horselord," Daenerys muttered, rubbing her forehead.
Only a Dothraki could be so stubborn. Any child with a little more sense, after being hunted for a thousand miles, would have used a false name.
"Jaco?" The admiration in Jogo's eyes vanished, replaced by cold fury. He drew his curved blade with a hiss, ready to strike.
"Don't move." Daenerys stepped forward, placing a hand on her bloodrider's shoulder to stop him.
"Khaleesi, he's Jaco's son! We can kill him to avenge Prince Rhaego," Jogo said in a low, tense voice.
"I know what I'm doing."
Daenerys replied calmly, then stepped forward and took the curved dagger from the boy's hand — though he held on tightly and tried to resist.
Then, she lifted him down from the horse herself and carried him to the riverbank to clean his wound.
Jingle, jingle.
As she moved him, several small bronze bells tied to the braid behind his head chimed softly.
The little girl on the horse had stopped crying. She sat stiffly in the saddle, eyes vacant, expression blank with helplessness.
"You've taken a blade to the chest. You've lost too much blood. You won't live," Daenerys told the boy.
His wound was indeed grievous — a deep slash from his right shoulder down to his left waist. Through the torn flesh and muscle of his chest, she could see the cracked ribs and faintly exposed organs beneath.
He was weak and limp now, drained of all strength.
"Oh," the boy murmured, his face calm, without fear. "I killed two of them."
"There's no blood on your dagger," Daenerys said.
"I used my bow," the boy replied. "Shot them through the throat."
"You're dying. Aren't you afraid?" Daenerys asked curiously as she removed his painted vest and silk trousers.
"What is death?" the boy asked in confusion.
"You've killed people, and you still don't know what death is?" Daenerys's tone grew stranger.
"I don't know, but I'm not afraid. My mother said I ride the great horse of the world. There is nothing I should fear."
His pale face trembled as pain pulled at his wound, his body shivering.
Large almond-shaped eyes filled with tears he couldn't hold back.
"You're crying, yet you say you're not afraid?" Daenerys laughed softly.
"I… I'm cold. I don't know… I'm so cold…" The boy's voice weakened, the light fading from his eyes.
Daenerys sighed and began drawing the faint essence of the world around her — selecting the beta-type active spirit essence, merging it with the divine power of the Mother, transforming it into Holy Healing.
Boom.
A sphere of milky-white flame materialized, enveloping the boy whose blood had been washed away.
Within the white glow radiated an aura both sacred and merciful.
The Dragon Queen held the boy in her arms, as though cradling a bundle of burning white firewood.
Before their eyes, the torn flesh of his chest slowly knit together.
Warmth and strength, once lost, began to return to his frail body.
But from blood loss, he remained unconscious.
"Khaleesi, what are you…" Jogo stared in astonishment.
"This is Holy Healing," Daenerys explained.
"I know that, but Holy Healing can't be used on nonbelievers — and not on such a scale!" Jogo stammered, swallowing hard.
"Ha, I'm different from the others."
By now, Dany had already delegated the power of Sacred Healing to her high-ranking disciples, and several saints capable of performing the miracle had appeared across Westeros.
Through prayer, they could obtain a certain number of "spell slots." A portion of the faith power generated through prayer—roughly one-third to one-half—would be taken as tribute to the Great Black, while the rest would be converted into the Holy Mother's divine energy and stored in the pool of faith. Whenever needed, it could be drawn out and transformed into Sacred Healing.
Unlike in Dungeons & Dragons, where mages must memorize and can only prepare a limited number of spells each day (once used, that spell slot is gone until the next day unless the mage has special abilities), the septons of the Seven Gods are more like savers depositing money into a bank.
Take the High Sparrow, for example. His "income" was the highest—he could accumulate hundreds of Sacred Healings each day. Whatever he didn't use continued to pile up. Although there was no "interest," after saving for three to five years, he alone could sustain a small war.
There was only one condition: they could heal only devout believers of the Seven.
This was a restriction Dany added deliberately to reduce costs.
Because Sacred Healing required not only divine power from the Holy Mother but also spiritual infusion.
Type-B active spirit matter did not distort the mind and was completely safe. Only when it combined with the Holy Mother's divine energy could it create the wondrous power of Sacred Healing.
Faithful believers possessed channels of belief connecting them to the Seven. Through these channels, spirit matter could be infused directly—like water flowing through a pipe into a bottle—achieving nearly one hundred percent efficiency with almost no loss.
But without such a faith channel—like now, as Dany treated the little boy Rhaego in her arms—she could only use the rough, "outside-in" method of infusion, much like setting a bowl outside in the rain. By the time it filled up, who knew how much would have been wasted?
That was why the sight of Dany healing Rhaego appeared so dramatic, like a torrential downpour.
"He's Jhogo's son," Jhogo reminded her, frowning.
"Taking in the children of defeated khalasars is a Dothraki tradition. From today, these two will join our khalasar—wait, someone's coming." Dany set the boy down on the grass by the riverbank and looked into the distance.
Thud-thud-thud, rumble…
The silence of the steppe was shattered. The thunder of hooves echoed like a rolling storm. It sounded as if thousands of riders were charging closer and closer. The earth began to tremble, ripples spread across the river's surface, and reeds swayed gently in the shimmering light.
The sound grew nearer—ten thousand horses galloping like thunder beneath the vast, desolate sky. Neighs, shouts, battle cries, the clash of steel, screams, and wild laughter all mingled into a chaotic symphony.
Beyond a low ridge, countless torches suddenly flared into view before Dany and Jhogo, spreading across the plains like wildfire sweeping in from the horizon.
Under the moonlight, Dany could make out a small band of knights ahead of the torch-bearing riders—being rapidly overtaken.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
The pursuing riders stood on their saddles, released their reins, and drew their bows to fire.
But the knights ahead did not flee without resistance. They flattened themselves along their horses' backs, loaded their hand crossbows, and fired back, felling several torch-bearing riders.
Roughly two thousand five hundred riders were chasing a mere fifty knights.
"Jhaqo! Greese!"
The white horse the little girl rode was strikingly visible under the moonlight, quickly drawing the attention of the knights ahead.
"Great Horse God—it's you!!!"
As they approached, the leading rider saw the Dragon Queen standing there, both hands resting on her sword, calm and unmoving.
He recognized her.
"Ah! Khaleesi!"
"Daenerys of the Sunset Sea!"
"The Dragon Queen!"
Most of the fleeing knights recognized her as well. Cries of astonishment rose up—many voices, but one name echoed again and again: Khaleesi.
She was, indeed, their Khaleesi.
Four years ago, these men had all been bloodriders in Khal Drogo's khalasar.
"Ha! The Horse God favors me! To meet you now—kill, kill, kill!"
The leading rider, stunned at first by the sight of the queen's serene smile in the moonlight, abruptly spurred his horse forward with a fierce whip, drew his curved blade, and charged at her with a howl.
Dany planted her longsword before her, one hand on the hilt, the other lowering her visor. She neither dodged nor moved.
Jhogo lifted the crying girl from her horse and set her beside the boy, then crouched before them with a large oak shield raised to protect both children.
"Kill! Kill!"
The rider galloped closer—so near that Dany could see his twisted, bloodstained face and eyes glowing with madness.
"Begone!"
When he entered within ten meters of her, the Dragon Queen finally spoke.
Fivefold Dragon Spirit—an echo of the dragon horn's soul-destroying power.
Neighhh! The rider's eyes rolled white. His horse convulsed violently and collapsed with a shriek, sliding several meters before stopping beside Dany.
And that was only one of them.
Every one of the fifty fleeing riders fell from their saddles, groaning in agony. Their mounts collapsed as if their legs had given way.
Hundreds of the nearest pursuers were too close to escape the effect. Their horses stumbled as though into invisible pits, and their riders tumbled to the ground.
The rest hastily pulled on their reins, struggling to calm their terrified, panicking steeds.
(End of Chapter)
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