The Dothraki seemed bewildered when confronted with numbers larger than ten, let alone the "complicated" idea of a structured management system.
Daenerys Targaryen frowned as she looked at the unruly host of horsemen before her. Drogo's forty thousand howling warriors moved as if bound only by instinct, their entire society organized in the simplest of patterns. A khalasar was divided into khas—small groups that could be broken down no further. Each khas was led by a khor, who commanded perhaps a dozen men at most.
That was the extent of their hierarchy. Three ranks in total: Khal, Khor, and warrior. Yet even those distinctions were blurred. A khal was nothing more than the strongest khor, while a khor was simply the fiercest of the warriors. In truth, only two steps separated the lowest from the highest.
The horsefolk were primitive—so primitive that their system of leadership resembled a form of rough democracy. Strength determined loyalty, and loyalty determined survival. For most, that was enough.
But not for Daenerys.
She did not want democracy of any kind, certainly not this crude version born of the endless grasslands. If the Dothraki were more like the feudal lords of Westeros, at least her fate as Khal Drogo's widow would not be so precarious. At worst, she could have claimed a title like Queen Regent.
Her ambitions, however, stretched far beyond survival.
Daenerys's goal in reorganizing the Dothraki was to impose a hierarchy—layers of command that could evolve into a true centralized feudal society. Feudalism had existed for thousands of years in other lands. It did not require invention, only adoption and adaptation. The world already possessed the productive capacity to sustain such a structure; all that was needed was vision and discipline.
At the very least, she wanted to establish a ruling bloodline—a "Golden House" built around her and her dragons.
She thought of the Mongols of the distant past, before the rise of Genghis Khan. Then, any man of strength could be called Khan. Bloodline meant nothing; inheritance was unknown. Only personal might and charisma elevated one man above another.
But after Temüjin, known to the world as Genghis Khan, united the northern steppes, that changed forever. From that point forward, only the Borjigin clan could claim the title of Khan. Even outsiders who rose to prominence were forced to marry Borjigin women so their sons would carry Borjigin blood. Thus, the ruling family became eternal—their line known across the steppes as the Golden House.
The Dothraki, Daenerys realized, were no different from those early, disorganized Mongol tribes. Their world cried out for its own Genghis Khan.
And why should that not be her?
She did not yet think of world conquest, but with three dragons at her side, how could she waste the opportunity? If she could not forge her own Golden House, then the dragons were nothing more than pretty pets, squandered by a foolish girl.
The khalasars of the Dothraki Sea were not a curse. They were a gift from heaven itself—a foundation upon which to build an empire. But such a gift would only come once. She could not afford to waste it.
At first, she admitted, she had been naive. Like Murong Fu of legend, she had been obsessed with returning to her homeland, with restoring her family's throne in Westeros. But the truth was bitter. Westeros lay tens of thousands of leagues away. Its nobility was a pit of vipers, steeped in intrigue, treachery, and ambition. Every smiling lord was a dagger wrapped in silk. And beyond all that loomed the frozen North, where pale demons from myth—the White Walkers—threatened to bring death itself upon the world.
What sane ruler would crave that?
Even if the Iron Throne were handed to her freely, Daenerys was no longer certain she would accept it.
No—the future lay here, among the horse lords. Her reforms could not falter, no matter how much resistance she faced.
She began with the simplest of lessons.
"Ago," she asked one evening as they sat by the fire, "what is five tens?"
The bloodrider tilted his head, brow furrowed. After a moment, he replied hesitantly, "Fifty?"
"Good," Dany said with a nod. "And what is five fifties together?"
Ago struggled longer this time, counting on his fingers and muttering to himself before finally answering, "Two hundred… fifty?" His tone was uncertain, as though he expected to be scolded.
"That's right." Daenerys clapped her hands lightly. "You see? Numbers are tools, like swords. The more you use them, the sharper they become."
Ago scratched his head. "But you said there were captains. If we count them, then how many warriors remain?"
"Why exclude them?" she countered. "If you are a captain, then the men beneath you are yours to command. Whether there are ten or two hundred, they are your strength."
Ago frowned deeply. "But… is a captain also a warrior? Does he serve himself? A khor serves the khal, but he does not count himself…"
The words tangled in his mouth, his thoughts too complex for his language. He gestured wildly, unable to express the contradiction he felt.
Daenerys smiled faintly. She understood. The horsemen had no habit of layered hierarchies. To them, a leader was separate, not part of his unit. To think otherwise felt unnatural.
"This is a new rule," she said firmly. "You will grow used to it. Obey, and it will make us strong."
Jorah Mormont, ever her shadow, leaned close. "Khaleesi, it may be wise not to use foreign terms like 'squad' or 'cohort.' The Dothraki have their own words for such things. Use those, and they will adapt more easily."
He was right, she realized. Words carried power, and familiar words would carry less resistance.
"What words?" she asked.
"Do you know niulu and golhu?" Jorah prompted.
"Niulu is a hunting party," she recalled. "Golhu is a banner. But… are they also formations?"
Jorah nodded. "Yes. A niulu is usually ten men, hunting together. Too few, and they cannot bring down lions or aurochs. Too many, and the prey is wasted. Ten is the perfect number. In Westeros too, hunters often divide into groups of ten once they reach the forest. And a golhu—a banner—represents a hundred men sent ahead as scouts. The khalasars count strength not by numbers alone, but by how many banners ride with them."
Daenerys's eyes gleamed. "So the Dothraki already know the shape of order. They only need someone to give it meaning."
Her thoughts drifted to history. The niulu and golhu sounded so much like the early Manchu banners of the Qing dynasty—primitive tribes waiting for a Nurhaci to transform them into a conquering machine. Martin, the Westerosi bard who had written of this world, had clearly drawn from many real histories. The Dothraki were a blend of Mongol ferocity and Manchu discipline, waiting to be forged into something greater.
And she, with her dragons, would be their Nurhaci.