The neighing of horses, swishing tails, thick crimson blood, billowing dust, shallow hoofprints embedded in the parched red soil, and scattered patches of brown grass — these elements summed up Drogo's vague and desolate dream, stretching endlessly ahead.
He didn't know how long he wandered through that dream.
Eventually, something different appeared: aside from the scattered ashes of dead campfires, the most striking sight was a corpse — its chest and abdomen crushed, its throat torn out — clutching tightly to an arakh even in death.
Drogo remembered the body.
It belonged to someone from his khalasar, a man named Hoso, who had served under Jhaqo's khas.
The corpse quickly faded behind him, and the barren wasteland returned.
As the blood congealed and darkened into brown-black, the dream's momentum slowed as well.
Until finally, the blur turned into sharp focus: a patch of bronze-colored grass bent low, slowly rebounding, and the image froze.
Near him, it was grass. In the distance, it was all dark red.
Suddenly, a silver-patterned snake darted out, flicking its tongue as it slithered along the blood trail, coiling upwards — then striking!
"Ahh!"
Lying on soft animal pelts, Drogo was startled awake by the image of the snake's fangs and screamed.
Above him, hanging from a tent pole like a parrot, the baby dragon resting atop the giant bone bow flapped its wings in alarm, lifting its drooping head and hissing sharply:
"Hiss, hiss, caw, caw."
Daenerys, who had been sleeping tightly clutched in his arms, opened her sleepy violet eyes.
She lifted her bald head and anxiously asked:
"Husband, what's wrong?"
"Hoo..."
Realizing it was just a dream, Drogo exhaled a long sigh of relief.
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, patted her shoulder, and replied, still shaken:
"Nothing. Just a nightmare."
Daenerys gave a worried hum but then snuggled her head back against Drogo's chest, smacking her lips and closing her beautiful eyes again.
Sunlight filtered through the cracks of the tent, confirming that dawn had already broken.
Though he had rested half a day and a night, Drogo felt his head heavy and muddled, his spirits even worse than yesterday.
He wanted nothing more than to keep lying there forever —
but as a Khal, laziness was unbecoming.
Drogo sat in a daze for a long while before finally convincing himself to get up.
He gently lifted Daenerys' head and placed it on a cashmere pillow, then climbed out of bed and threw on a garment that might as well have been no garment at all.
Looking at his own bare-chested outfit, then glancing at Daenerys' so-called "conservative" minimalist clothing, he couldn't help but grimace:
"Even if I have to adapt to local customs, this is way too uncivilized. Once things settle down, I must teach them a new way of life."
The baby dragons were clearly hyperactive and restless.
Pointing at his still-sleeping wife, Drogo made a "quiet" gesture at the little dragons:
"Shh."
He didn't expect much cooperation, but surprisingly, those three molten-lava eyes turned obediently toward Daenerys and stopped fussing.
Seeing them act so humanely out of consideration for their "mother," Drogo felt a pang of jealousy.
He decided he should win their affection with a fatherly bear hug.
The baby dragons didn't resist his approach, but their claws clamped onto the bone bow like iron pincers, stubbornly refusing to let go.
Drogo didn't dare be rough — these were still the most dangerous creatures alive.
Even a loyal dog might bite if its tail was stepped on.
Reluctantly, Drogo gave up the idea.
Watching the dragons affectionately nuzzle the bow's limbs, he became certain:
"If even the dragons love it so much, Father didn't lie — this bow is truly made from dragon bone and sinew! But where did he get it? Dragons have always been rare."
Thinking of his father Balbo stirred Drogo's emotions.
Though Balbo had been harsh and cold, without his unforgiving lessons, there would be no Khal Drogo.
Rumor had it that Balbo had traveled east of Asshai, into the Shadow Lands — a place where legends said dragons had first appeared.
Even Daenerys' dragon eggs, gifted by Illyrio Mopatis, might have originated from there.
If the Shadow Lands truly had dragons, then Balbo might have forged the bow's materials from them.
If so, perhaps Balbo was not dead after all — maybe he had gone to that distant, mysterious place.
Moved by familial longing, Drogo made a silent vow:
"I must go to the Shadow Lands someday."
Without long hair or a beard to fuss over, the newly "refined" Drogo got ready faster than ever.
Within an hour, he stepped outside the tent.
As he lifted the curtain, he saw Daenerys' three handmaidens already waiting for him — carrying basins and towels.
Irri and Jhiqui, dark-skinned Dothraki girls with almond-shaped eyes, and Doreah, a blonde girl from Lys, all quickly bowed:
"Khal."
"Mm."
Drogo feigned aloofness, grunting a response.
These women were Daenerys' people, and thus now his people too.
They were responsible for helping him wash each day.
Last night, Daenerys had even offered to let them sleep together, but Drogo, more modern in his thinking, had flatly refused.
He pitied these broken souls.
At his towering height, it was awkward for them to assist, but a king had to live like a king.
If he did everything himself, it would probably upset these girls, who were deeply indoctrinated into the ways of their society.
There were no chairs nearby, and he didn't want to disturb the exhausted Daenerys,
so Drogo shamelessly plopped down onto the ground and yawned:
"Alright. Please begin."
Such casual kindness stunned the three girls.
Closing his eyes to avoid splashing water, Drogo waited a few minutes — but nothing happened.
Opening his eyes again, he saw three wooden statues.
Confused, he asked:
"What's wrong, beauties? Start already!"
His tone was like some rascal from a dark alley —
the three handmaidens could hardly believe that the mighty Khal could speak so lightly.
Nervously, they finally began their work.
Drogo could sense their fear, but he had no idea why.
"Am I really scarier than death itself?"
In the original story, these three girls were fated to die soon.
"But maybe I can change that," Drogo thought.
"If I, once dead, can come back to life, maybe I can change their fates too."
It was a small experiment.
If they survived, maybe destiny wasn't so unbreakable after all.
Once they finished, the girls stammered:
"Finished, Khal."
Drogo pinched his chin, checked his reflection in Jhiqui's bronze mirror, and was pleased with his fierce appearance.
Standing up, he instinctively said:
"Thank you."
Stretching his limbs, he casually walked away, leaving the three maids exchanging confused, amazed glances behind him.
Crossing the flat ground where the celebrations had been held last night, Drogo saw a scene of busy activity.
No one was idle — everyone was following his orders diligently, including Ser Jorah Mormont, the exiled knight who had once fought against him.
This was good.
Wherever he walked, the khalasar members would immediately stop their tasks, bow respectfully, and greet him:
"Khal."
Drogo thought to himself:
"It seems my authority among them has not diminished — they simply revere another figure now too: the Dragon Queen."
Thinking this, he turned his gaze toward Jorah, who was swinging a massive hammer to drive stakes into the ground.
Sensing Drogo's stare, Jorah did not shy away.
Instead, he put down the hammer, walked over, and bowed deeply:
"Khal, please forgive my ignorance."
Judging by the books and the show, Drogo thought:
If properly used, this man could be more loyal than a dog.
And with him around, Jorah would surely never dare act against Daenerys, only harbor secret feelings.
Thus, Drogo had no reason to be hostile.
He casually patted Jorah's shoulder and said:
"The ignorant are not to blame. Get back to work. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow, we're going to play a little exciting game."
Jorah, puzzled, asked instinctively:
"Game?"
Drogo smirked:
"We're going to steal young lions. Don't you think the whole pride will chase us, giving us a good race?"
This was no different from pulling teeth from a lion's mouth — and not just one lion, but several.
Especially considering the "heist" would take place in the Red Wastes.
Jorah was so shocked by Drogo's audacity that even his soul trembled.
He could already picture being torn apart by white lions.
Watching Drogo move away with no trace of nervousness, Jorah thought to himself:
Maybe I should sneak away tonight.
And he wasn't the only one with such thoughts.
After speaking briefly with the bloodriders, Drogo noticed even Argos and the others, usually fearless as moths to flame, had turned pale.
From their expressions, Drogo could guess their worries easily.
But at this dangerous time, he believed they would stay.
Tomorrow morning, he expected to see many of his warriors bearing black circles under their eyes.
As Jorah stood there stunned, he caught sight of Daenerys approaching gracefully, handmaidens following behind her.
His gaze locked onto her, and unconsciously, a silly smile spread across his face.
The surroundings were desolate.
They had used up all nearby resources, forcing the people to travel far to cut wood and bring it back on flattened carts.
Following Drogo's orders, the khalasar began building defenses:
On the north side, they left a gate wide enough for horses, with an opening and closing mechanism.
In the center of the hilltop, they placed a trebuchet, its aim directed north.
Though most of the workers were the old, weak, women, and children, their strength was considerable.
Before sunset, they completed a sturdy palisade enclosing the hill, a crude but functional trebuchet, and bundles of giant arrows — as thick as a man's waist.
Drogo ordered them to seal up all jars of perfumed oil and store them, along with the bundles of arrows, beside the trebuchet.
Thus, his preparations were complete.
To reward the people — whom he had once considered expendable — he organized another bonfire feast.
Ignoring the fact that food and drink were running low, he ordered the khalasar to leave only three days' worth of rations.
The rest, he told them, they could eat and drink freely tonight.
In Drogo's mind:
"This might be the last meal many of them ever enjoy. They should at least die full."
Despite his fatigue, he politely refused all offers of drink.
He ate only roasted meat and drank fermented mare's milk, sharing his meal with the restless little dragons.
Once full, he eagerly scooped up Daenerys and rushed back into the tent.
That night, Drogo's dream was no longer barren.
Along with the familiar snorts of horses and swishing tails, life burst into his vision —
bronze, lemon yellow, indigo, blue, orange — the wild grasses vibrant under a reddish night sky.
Among the sea of grass, as the vision shifted from pink to dusky yellow,
a young chestnut-colored foal approached.
Sadness shone in its glowing eyes as it stretched out its tongue to lick the clotted blood on a mare's tail.
Suddenly, the injured mare collapsed.
The scene tilted violently downward.
The foal whinnied mournfully.
Suddenly, the vision rose sharply upward — and a face appeared that filled Drogo with endless rage.
It was Jhaqo — his former bloodrider, now a traitor!
"Eh?
A weirwood arrow engraved with a crying face?
That's Drogo's arrow!
But he's already a walking corpse.
Maybe his woman is challenging me, sending a message through this broken mare?"
Jhaqo laughed viciously.
"Fine!
If she wants to come to Vaes Dothrak and become a crone, I'll fulfill her wish.
But first, she'll have to be my wife for a few days. Heh heh!"
Turning to the distance, Jhaqo shouted mockingly:
"Mago!
Take two hundred riders and go to the Red Wastes.
Bring our khaleesi here with great ceremony!"
Mago — another name Drogo recognized well.
He was once his bloodrider too, now Jhaqo's sworn shield.
"My sun and stars, it's time to get up."
The soft, familiar voice called to him.
Drogo blinked awake, finding Daenerys whispering sweetly by his ear.
He realized with a shudder:
He had just had another strange, prophetic dream.
Doshi Khaleen:
After a Khal dies, his Khaleesi (widow) must go to live among the crones of Vaes Dothrak, the sacred city of the Dothraki.
There, she becomes part of the Doshi Khaleen, a group of revered elder women who, in theory, rule over Vaes Dothrak.
However, for the widowed Khaleesi, this is less a position of true power and more a lifelong confinement — they are respected, but stripped of real influence, destined to spend the rest of their days in isolation.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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