Drogo's straw palace was a marvel of Dothraki architecture. Thick rush lined several of the walls, while the roof and facade were a complex multi-layered mix of silk and coarse cotton. Folded together, these layers could easily fill ten carts. In the modern world, such materials might be considered worthless—but here, they were invaluable.
Animal skins adorned the interior: golden sable, thick bison hides, and even the rare white lion pelts of fantasy lore, each of which could be traded for several luxurious apartments within the Third Ring Road of Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou. These treasures underscored the power and wealth of Drogo and his khalasar.
In the world of ice and fire, the greatest khals naturally resided in the finest palaces. Drogo's straw palace, though humble by some standards, was undoubtedly the most magnificent on the Dothraki Sea.
"Khal, it grows late. I fear we must camp here for the day," Mago said cautiously to Jako.
Jako paused, considering the encampment, then shouted to Quarrod and the others, "Leave me the palace. Tonight, I host a feast for the khals' warriors. Also, I know of Drogo's ten chests of gold medallions and fifty chests of silver. Hand them over, and they'll all be mine."
The Dothraki had no currency system and did not trade in cash, yet even they needed gold and silver when traveling to the heavily fortified Free Cities. Precious metals could be exchanged for necessities. They were smelted into medallions, sometimes interlocked into belts worn by a khal to signify honor and achievement. Occasionally, a khal would unfasten a medallion and reward it to a warrior for loyalty or valor.
Drogo, the most powerful of all khals, possessed the strongest warriors and the greatest wealth. Over two hundred square meters of his luxurious palace were stacked with heavy wooden chests. Clothing and necessities filled some, but the bulk of the treasure was gold and silver.
"You are too late," Daenerys said coldly, her violet eyes narrowing. "You are not the only one coveting Khal Drogo's wealth."
Jako barked, "Not a 'khor.' I am Khal Jako."
Dany's gaze remained firm. "Those chests were thrown out long ago to prevent enemies from entering the tent. The Dosh Khaleen have Vaes Dothrak to support them. I need neither gold nor silver."
"Really?" Jako's voice carried irritation, disbelief, and greed.
Ser Jorah stepped forward. "We carried the chests ourselves and threw them out. Sixty chests in total. Everyone knows it."
"Everyone knows it," Aggo echoed.
"Everyone knows it," murmured Daenerys' loyal khas, their voices mingling in affirmation.
Frustration flashed across Jako's face, and he lashed out with his whip. "Damn it! Leave now!"
The Dothraki revered tradition: no one could seize a khal's dowry, weapons, or horses. These were sacred, inviolate relics of honor.
A dozen wooden chests, likely wedding gifts, were stacked haphazardly in one corner of the twenty-square-meter linen tent. As Mago dismounted to inspect them, the tent's small size forced them to pull aside the curtains, allowing the nearby firelight to illuminate the interior.
The dim flames revealed Qotho's grim face. He had guarded Drogo's bedside for days, prepared to see his khal's life end and to watch over the child of 'Blood of My Blood.' Hago, drunk, slumped nearby, his eyes vacant, fixed on the ceiling.
"The child should have remained with Blood of My Blood… to face the final moment together. Cohollo should not have listened to her," he muttered.
Dany sat at the doorway, pale and trembling, stuffing cotton into a headless rag doll she had fashioned from pale yellow silk. Jako had left the infant's body to the wild dogs.
The night sky stretched above them, studded with jewel-like stars. Silence hung like a frozen shroud across the camp, broken only by the crackling of firewood. Ser Jorah, still clad in heavy armor, looked upon his princess with silent pity. His lips parted, but no words of comfort emerged. He knew that nothing he could say would ease her grief.
A memory flashed unbidden in his mind: King's Landing, fifteen years ago, on the eve of the Targaryen dynasty's fall. He had been chosen as personal guard to Lord Ned Stark, heir to the North, witnessing horrors no man should. He had seen a three-year-old princess's head severed, an infant prince reduced to a pool of blood. The distant clatter of horse hooves had awakened the silent crowd—a night of terror that mirrored the grief he now saw upon Daenerys' face.
Quarrel suddenly rode into the circle of firelight, returning swiftly. "Khaleesi, it's Lady Lilith, Khaleesi of Jako. She wishes to thank you in person."
Daenerys, seated cross-legged, stared at the woolen bundle before her—the tiny, lifeless form of her child. "Send her over," she said in a hoarse voice.
A female voice called from the shadows. "I am coming." A line of torch-bearing knights followed, cutting through the darkness. Lilith and her attendants entered without waiting for permission.
"You…" Dany began, pausing as the firelight revealed Lilith's face, a mixture of smugness and sneer. Even a fool could see that Lilith's intentions were far from kind.
As Daenerys placed the baby boy's head upon the rag doll, she whispered, "I saved you."
Lilith tugged at her reins, circling her horse awkwardly. "Look, I ride a horse too—a silver-maned mare, like yours."
In truth, their horses were different. Dany's mare shimmered like silver threads; Lilith's was plain white. Lilith, abandoning her Myrish dress, now wore a painted Dothraki vest, attempting to blend with local customs. Her weak postpartum body required assistance from her attendants to dismount.
Lilith approached Daenerys and mimicked her posture, sitting cross-legged on the ground. She leaned close, covering her mouth to whisper softly, "I hate you."
"Obviously," Dany replied seriously.
Lilith leaned back slightly, gazing at the stars. "I am a Khaleesi now. I have my own silver horse, my own Khasbunun. And most importantly, a son as strong as a dragon."
She leaned forward, lifting Daenerys' veil with a mocking hand. "Tsk, tsk. What a pathetic little thing! Not half the size of my Django. And made of cloth from head to toe. His original body was eaten by dogs."
Strangely, relief coursed through Dany. The suffocating guilt that had weighed on her heart lightened. "Thank you," she said sincerely.
Lilith froze, aghast. "Thank you? Are you insane?"
Dany grinned maliciously. "Even though you are a vile creature, you remember to visit me. You have exceeded my expectations."
Lilith's face twisted, struggling to comprehend. "I…"
Dany interrupted, stern. "Dothraki must not harm the Dosh Khaleen. Violate this, and the horse god will curse you. Everyone knows that."
Lilith's handmaiden answered immediately, "Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," Irri and Jhiqui echoed.
Lilith's glare sharpened, but she laughed. "It doesn't matter. I am a bitch, and you are no better."
"I saved your life!" Dany reminded her for the third time.
"I am grateful, but that is all," Lilith replied, scanning the crowd before focusing on the witch. She sneered. "You saved her, yet she still killed your khal and child."
"I didn't," the witch protested, hands raised. "Silver Lady, have you forgotten that I used the Song of the Moon to help you give birth?"
Lilith ignored her, turning to Dany. "Drogo is yours. You know better than anyone the scars he bears. Many injuries are worse than broken chest skin, yet he remains the most powerful khal on the Great Grass Sea. Even Lys brothels whisper his name, blood and death in every syllable."
"I believe her," Dany said lightly.
She asked, softly, "Why do you hate me? Is it jealousy? But being a Khaleesi… shouldn't that inspire awe, not envy?"
Lilith's silver hair fell across her chest, her lavender eyes blazing. "Because I hate being a replacement!"
"What do you mean?" Dany asked, puzzled.
"In Essos, silver-haired, violet-eyed women are countless. Even Drogo had dozens of such slaves. I was originally Illyrio's. He wanted you, but when he could not touch Khal Drogo's bride, he bought me from a Lys brothel. That fat pig kept screaming your name while—while he…" Lilith's voice shook with bitter memory.
Dany raised an eyebrow but remained calm. In any society, beauty draws desire, and the Targaryens were blessed with extraordinary genes. Their appearance often contrasted sharply with their character—a lesson Dany knew well.
Lilith gritted her teeth. "I am low-born. Il