"Over two hundred men, but no more than a hundred are capable of fighting. Only sixty of your khas's elite howlers remain," Ser Jorah reported, his voice tinged with worry. He paused, looking at Dany with a mixture of pity and resolve. "We can expect that some of the old, the weak, the sick, and the young will not survive the long journey ahead."
Dany frowned, her sharp eyes narrowing as she considered the logistics. "And the supplies?" she asked.
"Everyone will have a horse," Jorah replied. "But food is limited. We have barely over two hundred cattle and sheep combined. As for water, the stream the khals left behind is just barely sufficient, but it's five kilometers away—too far for convenience."
Dany's gaze swept across the desolate landscape. "There's not even a blade of grass. What have the horses and sheep been feeding on these past days?"
"Reddish-brown devilgrass growing stubbornly in the cracks between rocks. It's tough, but it sustains them for now," Rakharo said gravely. "The land is exhausted. We cannot stay; we must move."
Dany considered her horsemen, testing their loyalty. "Where shall we go next? If I reorganize this khalasar and let the four of you become my bloodriders, will you accept it?"
Her words caused hesitation among the warriors. Quarrod frowned, shaking his head first. "It cannot be," he said firmly. "It would bring shame upon me to be a woman's bloodrider. Besides, there are only three positions."
Ago, lowering his eyes, added, "I cannot swear that only men may lead the khalasar. That is not my way."
"You are Khaleesi, and only Khaleesi," Rakharo said with unshakable loyalty. "I will ride at your side to Vaes Dothrak, protecting you until you join the Dosh Khaleen. Beyond that, I cannot promise more."
"I—" Jhogo began, but Dany interrupted him. "Enough. Our first priority is to return Khal Drogo to the Night Kingdom."
Ser Jorah rose suddenly, the metallic clang of his armor ringing in the quiet. He drew his sword with a practiced flourish, the polished steel reflecting the harsh sun, dazzling Dany's eyes.
Kneeling on one knee, Jorah laid his sword at her feet. "Your Highness, I swear to serve you and obey your will, even if it costs me my life."
He glanced at the four horsemen surrounding him, his voice steady and commanding. "By the sword I bear and the sigil of my house, no one will take you to Vaes Dothrak unless you willingly go. You are not bound to the Dosh Khaleen."
The horsemen exchanged uneasy glances, confusion flickering in their almond-shaped black eyes.
Even in a land as fractured as Westeros, loyalty could still exist. Jorah's motives were mixed, born of love as much as duty, but Dany welcomed it nonetheless.
"According to Dothraki custom, a khal rides his steed into flames to return to the horse god," Dany commanded. "Gather wood, grass, and vines. Build a pyre worthy of Khal Drogo."
The land was bitterly cold and harsh; they could not linger. She needed to act swiftly.
Upon hearing of Dany's intent to cremate Drogo, the two long-suffering bloodriders prepared themselves once more, packing their belongings and setting off with solemn determination.
"You go ahead. I will see him to the end," Dany told her handmaidens.
Drogo had not awoken for four days. Half of his chest was blackened with rot, yet his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. This was both a torment and humiliation for a great warrior—a khal should never be confined to a bed.
Dany spent three painstaking minutes with a feather pillow, carefully freeing him from the stiffness and decay. She cut away rotting flesh, drained pus and blood, and filled his chest with a sticky healing ointment. Irri and Jhiqui cleaned his hair and body.
Then, with meticulous care, Dany braided his long hair, intertwining it with a string of tiny bells—gold, silver, and bronze. Each bell would announce his presence to enemies, striking fear into all who dared oppose him, even in death.
Doreah dressed him in horsehair leggings and tall boots, cinching a heavy belt adorned with gold and silver medallions around his waist. Irri and Jhiqui helped him into his painted vest, faded yet beloved, covering the scars etched across his chest from years of battle.
Dany had planned the funeral for that evening, but by sunset, there was insufficient firewood. Jhogo had ventured twenty kilometers north in search of timber, entering near the territory of the Lamb Men.
"They shot at me with arrows," he said irritably upon his return. "These people do not welcome horsemen."
Dany raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense. You pass these lands each year, south from Horse King City to the Great Grass Sea. You call the Sheep People your good luck for the new year. Yet this year, even their arrows seem sharper."
Jhogo, reinvigorated by the challenge, reported, "I met Oddo's khals. They offered to assist us with the khal's funeral pyre, as a tribute to his passing."
Oddo had once been a bandit under Drogo. Over forty thousand warriors had once followed Bono, Jako, and Drogo; now, only thousands remained with minor khals. Drogo, like his forebears, had been a rare overlord on the vast grasslands.
"Khal Oddo may not be entirely loyal. He likely awaits orders from Bono or the others," Jorah warned. "Your khas is loyal to you, Princess, but each follows their own will—a tradition stretching back millennia."
Dany's eyes narrowed. "We shall see in two days."
The next morning, Qotho rode north to meet Oddo. By noon, he returned, leading a caravan of two hundred sheepmen slaves bound together by ropes, faces pale with despair. Ten knights escorted a dozen wagons piled high with firewood and castor oil.
"These slaves will accompany us on the Night's Journey," Qotho announced grimly.
Dany shook her head firmly. "The khal has his five hundred most loyal warriors. He does not require cowardly slaves for tribute."
Qotho raised his whip in defiance, but Dany's voice was ice-cold. "Behave. I am in command here."
Quarrod and Jorah flanked her, while Aggo and Rakharo aimed their bows at Qotho. Silence fell as hundreds labored through the afternoon, arranging the funeral pyre.
By sunset, the pyre was complete: a square five meters long and four meters high, hollowed in the center and filled with straw, brushwood, bark, and hay—the "master chamber" for Khal Drogo. His treasures rested atop: blanket, painted vest, saddle, reins, the arakh that had felled Khal Ogo, and the massive dragonbone longbow.
Jhogo attempted to add the weapons given to Dany as bridal gifts, but she halted him. "Those belong to me," she said.
Dany then led two men to a mound nearby. Digging through the red earth, they uncovered cowhide bags filled with golden medallions the size of a child's palm. Drogo had ten chests of these medallions; Dany buried three of them, keeping their exact location secret.
A layer of gold medallions covered the khal's treasures, topped with several bales of hay. Qotho and Haggo solemnly carried Drogo's body to the pyre, placing him on his pillows and silken quilt, head tilted toward the Mother of Mountains.
Rakharo brought Drogo's crimson mount, a fierce horse whose fur shone like molten red silk. The horse approached the pyre, licked Drogo's cheek, accepted a shrunken apple from Dany, and then, obediently, met its fate at the axe of the bloodriders.
The bloodriders' own mounts were treated similarly, beheaded and placed on their respective pyres. They cleaned themselves, laid on the pyres with arakhs in hand.
A third pyre, lower in height, was built for five hundred human heads—warriors who had died with Coholus—covered with silk quilts and pillows. Coholus's own head rested beside Drogo, completing the grim tribute.
The platforms symbolized more than death; they marked the passage from black ice to blazing fire, honoring Khal Drogo's life, loyalty, and the unbreakable code of the Dothraki.
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