As darkness fell over the desolate plains, Dany spoke to Aggo with calm authority. "Detain Oddo's men. Give the Lamb slaves some food, and then let them leave on their own."
Aggo glanced nervously at the cowering Lamb slaves huddled to the side. "Khaleesi," he said, voice low and cautious, "the Lamb hate us. They know our location now, and they might gather a large force to encircle us."
"They are cowardly," Dany replied thoughtfully, "but not foolish. Still, how far can they travel on foot through the night? Even if they reach the banks of the Raza River by tomorrow afternoon, it would be a miracle. We will already have departed by morning."
Aggo's brows furrowed. "It's better to kill them," he muttered, then turned and left, his young mind torn between obedience and survival.
As the blood-red sun sank beneath the horizon, the Lamb slaves, startled by the unexpected offer of freedom, hesitated, testing the boundaries before finally fleeing in droves into the darkness.
The pyre, however, did not yet ignite. A group of Dothraki horsemen, their almond-shaped eyes wide and vigilant, scanned the night sky, searching for an omen to guide them.
When a khal passed from this world, it was custom to slay and bury his mount alongside him. This symbolized the khal's proud ride into the night realm, a final journey to the embrace of the horse god. As the bodies burned, the khal was believed to ascend on his flaming steed, transforming into a constellation. The fiercer the fire, the brighter the star that would shine in the darkness.
But before the flames could be lit, the Dothraki had to identify the star that represented their fallen khal. It was not any star, but a unique one, appearing only on the day the khal had died.
For Dany, this proved perplexing. She had only just arrived in this harsh, alien world, and her predecessor had little understanding of the nomads' astrology. The centaurs, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the ground, scanning the heavens with patient devotion, leaving Dany feeling awkwardly out of place.
"Does every khal find his own star?" she asked an elderly centaur, curiosity mingled with awe.
"Of course," he replied, face flushed with excitement, as if speaking to a goddess herself. "The great Khal Drogo is the twelfth I have served. I have seen eleven khals ride their fiery steeds into the night, transforming into shining stars—including your father."
Twelve? Dany thought in astonishment. How many dynasties had this old man witnessed? Yet the man's reverence was clear; every hero of the Sea of Grass left a trail like falling stars, fleeting yet eternal in memory.
"How long do we wait?" Dany asked.
The centaur laughed, a sound like dried leaves rustling. "Khaleesi, it is still early. Sometimes, we wait until the latter part of the night. Once, we found the star just as the sun rose. We waited all night!"
Dany understood then. This was a test of endurance, of patience, a rite demanding resolve. The warriors' bodies grew weary, their stomachs hollow from hunger, their eyes blurred and minds fogged. Even the moon could be mistaken for the khal's celestial guide.
Finally, a shout broke the tense silence. "Found it! There!" Rakharo's voice rang out with excitement.
Dany looked where he pointed and, sure enough, a red comet burned low in the eastern sky—a comet like flowing blood, like fire exhaled by a dragon. There could be no stronger omen.
"The twelfth," the old centaur said with a chuckle.
Dany lifted her voice. "Pour the oil!"
Jars of scented oil, castor oil, and vegetable oil were poured over Drogo's body, soaking the silk quilt, the branches, and the bales of hay. The rich fragrance mingled with the chill night air, filling the plain with the scent of solemnity and reverence. Haggo, Qotho, and others were also doused, the oil dripping from their armor, binding them symbolically to the khal in death.
"Bind the witch and throw her into the pyre," Dany commanded again.
Mirri Maz Duur, the blood witch, had been hiding in the crowd, her silver hair gleaming in the firelight. She had thought her torment was over when Jakko brought back the infant's head. Though satisfaction had flickered across her mind, she had not anticipated this—Dany's sudden, unwavering resolve to end her life.
"No, no, no, Silver Lady, Khaleesi, listen to me!" the witch shrieked, struggling futilely. "I saved Lady Lilith. You promised me a reward. I even sang the birthing song to ensure a healthy prince. You cannot do this. It is madness!"
Her resistance was pitiful and short-lived. Within moments, she was restrained on the sand, powerless before the centaurs' strength.
"Bring my dragon eggs," Dany ordered, and her maids scurried to obey, clutching the precious relics.
Ser Jorah stepped forward, pale and anxious, grasping Dany's arm. "Princess, Drogo has no need for dragon eggs in the Nightlands. We could sell them in Asshai. One egg could buy a ship to the Free Cities. Three would provide wealth enough for a lifetime."
Dany's lips curved in a cold, unamused smile. "Do I need money?"
Jorah's hands tightened involuntarily, as if he could pull her back from the edge of fate. "Princess, I know the death of Prince Rhaegal has wounded you. Though you hide your grief, your heart threatens to drown in sorrow. The burden of loss is heavy, and yet you—"
He faltered, realizing the futility of words. "You are only fourteen," he added softly. "You have countless years ahead to live, and countless little princes and princesses to bear."
Dany gently withdrew her arm from his grasp, her voice steady yet imbued with resolve. "Rest assured, Ser. I am of the blood of the dragon. Last time, I thought Viserys would survive even molten gold. He was no true dragon."
Jorah released her, bewildered, watching as Dany, clutching the three dragon eggs, climbed onto Drogo's pyre. Aggo and Rakharo supported her as she positioned the white egg on Drogo's chest, while holding the black egg in her hands and placing the green between them.
"So you are mad," the witch spat, watching the scene unfold. "Endless pain drives you to insanity. You should have accepted my advice: life for life, death for death. My blood magic could have resurrected your khal. Now? Your husband is dead, and your revenge comes too late."
"I will kill you first," Qotho growled, reaching for his arakh.
"Stop," Dany commanded sharply. "She will burn. That is her punishment."
For the first time, Qotho obeyed without hesitation. Even his fierce loyalty was tempered by respect for the ceremony and Dany's will. Perhaps he understood that the Night Realm awaited, and that the khal would choose his khaleesi once more.
Dany turned to the witch. "Have you forgotten? When I treated the khal's injuries in your temple, Cohollo said: if the khal dies, you must die. I am keeping that promise. Whether or not you caused his death, the day he dies is your day to die."
Haggo, standing nearby, laughed and slit his own throat, following the tradition without hesitation. Qotho's blade followed, and one by one, the loyal warriors completed their grim tribute.
"They are all gone," Dany murmured, her voice a mixture of sorrow and determination. She looked at the red comet burning low in the sky. "Now it is your turn. When Drogo fell, I had already prepared for this moment. You killed him. You sought to sacrifice his son. You orchestrated all this through a wife and a mother. Your justice ends here."
The priestess, silver hair catching the firelight, smiled triumphantly. "But your son is dead. My revenge is complete."
"Yes," Dany replied calmly. "You may have your revenge. But I saved you. How can you repay me?"
Lazar's eyes blazed. "You call this favor? I was dragged from my temple, men attempted to violate me—violence unnatural and grotesque. Your presence did nothing to save the innocent. I watched my temple burn, my people slaughtered, and the lives I healed destroyed."
Dany remained silent for a moment before answering steadily, "I did all I could. I saved your life, Eloye, and the women. I did what was right."
Even the original Daenerys, born of the blood of the dragon, could say with a clear conscience that she had done her duty.
Lazar smiled coldly. "And yet, what does life mean when all you hold dear is gone?"
Dany's eyes glimmered with quiet resolve. "Meaning comes not from possession, but from action. You cannot destroy what is beyond your reach. You cannot control the will of the dragon."
The fire crackled, shadows dancing across the faces of warriors and priestess alike. The Nightlands, harsh and unyielding, bore witness to the reckoning. Dany's gaze remained steady, unflinching, as the flames prepared to rise.
Her dragon eggs, the symbol of her lineage and power, rested safely in her hands. Her resolve, unwavering. Her khal, honored. And the blood witch would meet the fate she had chosen.
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