Dany understood with perfect clarity that she was now the leader of this weary, sunburned column. Every gesture, every word, every look of hers must project confidence and strength. Fear was a poison that spread faster than fire in dry grass, and weakness was a disease more deadly than thirst.
Just as a surgeon must never let doubt flicker across their eyes before entering the operating room, she knew she could not allow her people to see hesitation upon her face. The Dothraki, for all their savagery and ignorance, could smell weakness like wolves scenting blood.
"Are the horses unwilling to drink from the waterhole?" she asked again, her tone steady though the air itself shimmered with heat.
"Yes, they won't even go near it." Avanti's weathered face trembled with fear. His voice lowered to a reverent hush, as if speaking too loud might rouse demons. "It is poisonous water. Water that animals will not drink is cursed by spirits. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that," a voice echoed from behind her.
It was Aggo. The bloodriders emerged one by one, shirtless in the brutal sun, silk trousers clinging to sweat-slicked skin, their lean muscles gleaming bronze. The rainstorm of the night before had passed, leaving behind a damp heat that clung to the earth.
The horsemen were ignorant in many matters, but Dany respected their instinct for survival. They had crossed wastes before, and the desert did not forgive fools.
"I'll tell you a little trick to solve this problem," Dany announced.
At her order, a great red copper basin was hauled from Drogo's old possessions. It was larger than any tub of her childhood memory, weighing over a hundred pounds. Once, the two-meter-tall Khal Drogo had soaked in it like a lordly bull. Now it would serve another purpose.
A trench was dug around the stagnant puddle, shallow but firm, and the copper basin was lowered carefully inside. Then Dany ordered a sheepskin rug to be stretched across the rim, a hole the size of a bowl cut into its center. The sheepskin would block the merciless sun, keeping the precious water from vanishing into the air.
Next came a triangular frame of wood, two meters high, sturdy enough to support four hanging sacks. Each bag had its purpose.
The first was filled with coarse sand, thick and gritty.
The second with fine sand, almost soft as silk.
The third was packed halfway with cotton wool.
And the fourth, heavy and black, sagged with crushed coke.
The contraption looked crude, almost laughable compared to the palaces of Qarth or the castles of Westeros, yet in this barren waste it was nothing less than a miracle machine. To shield it from the blazing sky, she commanded that a tent be erected over the whole structure.
"Now," she ordered calmly, "fetch water from that stagnant puddle and pour it into the wide-mouthed bag at the top. Slowly—do not spill it."
At first it seemed hopeless. The muddy liquid seeped reluctantly, trickling through sand and wool. "Drip, drip—dang, dang—" the sound was faint, like the breath of dying men. But as the layers filled, the flow quickened, and from the last sack fell a shining thread of silver, clear water glimmering in the light, dripping into the great basin below.
Aggo bent low, peering in wonder. "The water's become so clean! Cleaner than what we get from the Goatman River."
Even the worldly Ser Jorah stared as though he had seen sorcery. "By the Seven…" he muttered. "Princess, what sorcery is this? Such a simple trick, yet…" He shook his head. Could his young queen truly be a genius?
Dany smiled faintly. She knew this "sorcery" was no more than knowledge—knowledge from another world, another life, knowledge that to these people was as strange as dragonfire.
The Red Waste was cruel but not barren. It was dotted with shallow pits of filthy water, fouled by rot, worms, and mud. What it lacked was purity. If she could turn poison to drink, then perhaps—just perhaps—her khalasar could survive this hell.
Ser Jorah's heavy voice cut through her thoughts. "Your Grace, we should melt down Drogo's bathtubs and make great water bottles. The puddles are too far apart to rely on one, yet too precious to abandon. If we send out scouting bands—three riders each, two horses apiece—they could carry bottles and waterskins, ranging outward like a net, collecting and bringing back. In this way we could sustain the whole company."
Dany blinked at him, surprised by the flash of cleverness. She had always thought of him as a brute in steel, a bear of a man, but here he stood, offering strategy like a maester. "Yes," she said, inclining her head. "That is wise counsel."
But wisdom had its limits.
"Khaleesi! The water's not flowing down!" Rakharo's voice rang sharp with panic.
Dany hurried forward, tugging at the edge of the lowest bag. A foul stench burst forth, gagging her, forcing her three steps back. The once bright red gravel was now black paste, slimy and choking the flow.
"The filters clog," she explained, regaining composure. "The sand and charcoal must be replaced often. Cotton is rare, but when it runs out you may use weeds. The tougher the better."
Her mind leapt to the devil's grass, so harsh that horses spat it out. "Roll it, mash it into fluff. Or—" she smiled slyly, "put it in a horse's mouth first. Let it chew. Then pull it out."
Avanti grimaced. "Tame mares, yes. But stallions—some would rather bite a lion than let you take food from their jaws."
"Then choose wisely," Dany said simply.
Even after filtering, she was not satisfied. Every drop was boiled before distribution, and to each pot she added salt and dried figs, recalling lessons of mineral loss and electrolyte balance from another life. The result was lightly sweet, faintly salty, and strangely refreshing. Doreah sipped eagerly, her eyes lighting with delight.
By the second evening, they had advanced only eighty kilometers. Progress was slow, but Dany would not sacrifice horses to haste. "A khalasar without horses is no khalasar," she reminded herself.
That night, as water dripped through filters, she ordered walls of mud and stone to be raised around the camp. Crude though they were, the low barriers caught the dawn's rays, shielding the tents and sparing her people the full cruelty of the sun.
On the third morning, a new problem arose—one less of thirst, more of stench.
The Dothraki loved their braids, each lock a symbol of victory, honor, pride. A long braid told the world a warrior had never been defeated. Even Avanti, bent with age, wore thin strands tied with stubborn dignity. But in the Red Waste, long hair became a curse. Sweat soaked it, grease clung to it, lice thrived in it. The smell was rank enough to choke.
Dany herself, fire-touched and flame-proof, could cleanse her silver-gold hair with a step into fire. The flames burned away dandruff, lice, grease—all that remained was clean silk shining like molten metal. But her people had no such blessing.
"Aggo," she said at last, eyeing the warrior's filthy braid, "cut your hair."
Aggo recoiled as if she had struck him. "If I cut my braid, all will think me defeated! A man without a braid is no man among the Dothraki."
"Then all shall shave," Dany replied calmly.
Jhogo spoke at once, voice sharp with alarm. "Khaleesi, the braid is sacred. The bells, the length—without them, men will think us slaves, or worse, cowards driven from battle!"
Even Jorah, who cared little for Dothraki custom, gave her pause. "Your Grace, the braid and bells are more than vanity. They are the very soul of their pride. To cut them is to wound them deeper than steel."
Dany hesitated. The smell, the sickness—it could not continue. She set her jaw. "Then leave only the braid," she said. "Shave all else. The braid shall remain, untouched."
And so it began. Jorah himself pressed a dagger to Aggo's scalp, scraping away months of filth. Hair oil, sweat, dandruff, dust, flea eggs—an unspeakable mixture slid down his neck. Aggo grimaced as the blade tugged at his skin, but when at last the hair fell away, leaving only the proud braid down his back, he lifted his head.
Rakharo eyed him curiously. "How does it feel?"
Aggo breathed out slowly, as though shedding a heavy burden. "Like taking off a sheepskin blanket in summer. I feel… free."
"It's not your imagination," Dany teased, laughing lightly. "Your head was carrying three pounds of filth."
Quaro pointed excitedly. "Look! The braid remains! The pride of the Dothraki untouched. This is a gift from Khaleesi herself—a blessing of the horse god!"
Soon others clamored for the same. Men, boys, even maidens begged for the "Khaleesi cut." Dany almost choked on her own laughter when Jhiqui asked shyly if she too might be shaved like a warrior.
In the end, the entire khalasar followed. The men wore their braids proud, but their heads gleamed clean, shining in the sun. The women, inspired by Doreah's short locks, cut theirs into lighter, more manageable styles.
Dany alone kept her hair long. She needed no blade. Fire was her comb, flame her cleansing water. When she stepped into the blaze, dandruff and lice withered instantly, grease burned to ash. Her three dragonlings would follow her into the fire, wings beating happily, as if the flames were their mother's embrace.
In those fiery baths, Dany learned more of her children—their needs, their hungers, their bond with her. They were not only her dragons. They were her destiny.
And her people, watching her emerge from the flames unscathed, with dragons clinging to her shoulders, knew that they followed not merely a khaleesi, but something greater.
A dragon queen.
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