"Don't worry, old man." Mora raised his cup and stood up. Around him gathered both aged Dothraki and elderly Northmen. When drinking, there was no distinction between these grizzled warriors—only their skin and features revealed that they were not of the same blood. Like the Dothraki, the First Men elders had also stripped off their shirts, baring bodies marked by the trials of ice and winter. "With all those scars of yours, plenty of young men will challenge you."
Mora let out a sharp battle cry, and the surrounding Dothraki echoed his roar.
Not to be outdone, Robb Ryswell stood up, the old Northman howling like a wolf. This only excited the Dothraki further. The elder of House Ryswell was well-liked among them—not because his family sigil bore a horse, but because the old man was a true warrior.
The Dothraki honored strength. They had little respect for the weak or elderly, but those who were mighty or wise were revered. This was part of the change within Argo's khalasar. No longer threatened by constant raids from rival khalasars, they no longer viewed their elderly and children as burdens. Experienced elders remained invaluable.
This transformation was largely due to Draezell, who had granted Argo's khalasar an expansive nomadic range that stretched across the northern borderlands. From the westernmost region of Balance Keep to the easternmost White Tower, the khalasar could migrate between designated pastures at set times. On Draezell's personal lands, they paid nothing. When crossing the domains of other lords, they offered livestock and warhorses in tribute.
Experienced elders had scouted these lands years in advance, learning where the best water and grazing could be found, which pastures lay near Silver Blood strongholds for easier trade, and which local villages were more welcoming.
The thousands of Dothraki who had settled in Westeros gradually abandoned many of their old traditions. The presence of First Men from the North, who shared their rough and free-spirited ways, only accelerated this shift. These nomads, far from the Dothraki Sea, found a sense of familiarity among their new kin.
The two ancient peoples blended well. One man, a bear of a warrior named Jorah from Bear Island, had even earned a place among Argo's three bloodriders. He now spoke fluent Dothraki, albeit in a dialect tinted with Valyrian influence.
As the sun rose, the encampment—known in Dothraki as the "Tent City of the Khal"—grew more lively. At its center, Argo's three bloodriders—Jomo, Dahan, and Jorah—stood shirtless, flanking an aged Northman as he set a great bonfire alight. Days before, an ancient weirwood tree had been transplanted here from Dragon's Nest, its massive branches looming over the flames. Rather than smothering the fire, it seemed to make it burn even brighter—almost rivaling the rising sun.
A deep, resonant dragon's roar echoed from the distance.
In that moment, Dothraki, Northmen, invited villagers, and wandering merchants alike all dropped to one knee, preparing to welcome their lord and king.
The Kingsguard had arrived long before, along with the Seven Bloodsworn Brothers—though Tigaro and Sebastian had remained behind to guard the castle. They had sent gifts in their stead, delivered by Aslan and Hoffa—a dragonbone curved blade and a cask of fine Lyseni wine.
Among the gathered crowd were two familiar faces.
Stannis Storm, the bastard of House Caron of Nightsong, had first come to Dragon's Nest and Summerfield as a spy for his family. Now, he was one of Lord Royce Caron's most trusted men. His purpose here was to protect young Byran Caron, heir to House Caron, who was being fostered in the Purple Palace. The boy now served as Hoffa's squire.
Beside Stannis stood another bastard—Erik Storm, of House Swann of Stonehelm. Unlike Stannis, who had risen swiftly after House Caron swore fealty to House Vaelarys, Erik remained a spy, still serving his family's interests. He had once been a candidate for the Kingsguard but had been unseated by Ser Harold Darke in a joust. Since then, he had continued his work as an informant.
"Listen, Erik," Stannis murmured as dark shapes in the sky grew larger. "A Dothraki wedding lasts all day. They believe that death at a wedding is a good omen. These savages will fight over women, and some will even mate in the open. If you want to live, wait for Khal Argo and Khaleesi Agatha to reject their dishes, then just focus on eating. The Dothraki won't harm an unarmed man, nor will they touch a guest who's enjoying his meal."
"Oh," Erik muttered gloomily. His mission was already a failure. House Swann had abandoned him, even cutting off his stipend. The only reason he wasn't starving was that he still had his horse, sword, and armor—enough to work as a caravan guard. Stannis also tossed him coin from time to time to keep him from dying in a gutter.
Just then, Erik's pupils widened in shock.
Stannis sighed. "It's just a dragon. You see them every day—why the fuss?"
Of course, it was a big deal. Every boy in Westeros dreamed of soaring through the skies on dragonback, just as every Dothraki boy dreamed of riding a winged stallion to conquer the world.
The morning sunlight was blotted out as Vermithor's massive wingspan cast a shadow over the tent city. At its side, Silverwing let out a piercing cry as they both descended onto a nearby hill.
Trailing behind them, Stormcloud and Shadowmare roared as they swooped low over the kneeling crowd before finally settling beside their elder kin.
The two younger dragons left a strong impression, especially Starsong and Candlelight who landed latter.
Today marked Samantha's second time flying on dragonback. Unlike her brother, who rode with ease, the girl clung tightly to the saddle, her entire body hunched forward in nervousness. Candlelight, sensing her unease, extended two of its tentacles to secure her in place.
The problem was, the rest of Candlelight's tendrils drifted in the wind, giving it an eerie, unsettling appearance. Many among the kneeling crowd exchanged uneasy glances.
People would only wonder in their hearts about the nature of this massive dragon; they would never question its beauty or ugliness. After all, a dragon was a dragon, and strength was always the ultimate form of beauty.
As the dragons finally landed, the gathered crowd could clearly see the riders atop them. Draezell and Diana carefully climbed down from Vermithor's back. To ensure Diana's safe descent, Vermithor even extended a wing, allowing her to dismount with greater ease.
Rey and Rhaena, Valar and Leyla also dismounted from their respective dragons. Among the two ladies, Rhaena was the most excited. She had long yearned to ride a dragon and take to the skies, but unfortunately, her own dragon, Morning, was still too small. For now, she could only borrow Rey's partner. After getting off from Shadowmare's back, she even circled around the black dragon, running her hands along its scales. This earned her a few grumbling snorts of displeasure from the mighty beast.
Viserys followed behind Aegon, holding Rhaegor with one hand and Samantha with the other. The three boys had debated for a long time before deciding to wear sleeveless, painted vests to the wedding. However, upon arriving at the Dragonpit and seeing Draezell and the others in their usual attire, they immediately regretted their choice. Draezell and his companions had not bothered to change into Dothraki-style clothing.
Unfortunately, it was too late to change. Thus, the three boys arrived at the wedding site in their sleeveless vests, making the White Knights twitch at the sight. Even so, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was rather pleased. This showed that Aegon, like his elder brother, was a king who considered the sentiments of his people.
"Great Khal, may we begin?" Mora had refrained from drinking for this occasion. He quickly took his position and glanced at the sky.
Dawn had arrived.
"We may." Draezell curled a finger, and Vermithor, who had been enjoying the horse and venison offered by the Dothraki, lifted his head and released a pillar of flame into the sky.
Nearby, the bare-chested nomadic warriors blew their horn trumpets. Two magnificent steeds stepped forward, slowly making their way to the center of the vast tent city.
Argo and his khaleesi, the warrior woman Agatha, began riding toward the central bonfire as soon as the dragonflame shot skyward. The young Khal and his silver-haired bride circled the flames again and again until, at last, Argo urged his horse through the fire and swept Agatha up into his arms.
A roar of excitement erupted from the gathered crowd. Even Aegon and Viserys could not resist shouting.
"Samantha, should I marry you like this in the future?" Aegon grinned at the little girl beside him, who was watching Argo lift Agatha with an enraptured expression.
His words earned him a sharp glare from Samantha.
It was only then that Aegon noticed Draezell's amused expression behind him and quickly sat back down.
"Argo, my companion." Draezell looked at the young Khal astride his horse. "Congratulations on marrying your moon."
"My blood of my blood, your presence is my greatest honor." Argo said, visibly moved. "My bloodline shall forever beat in your name, my blood of my blood."
Draezell smiled and signaled for Valar to present his gift to Mora. Then, he quietly observed the continuation of the ceremony.
"Khaleesi of my blood." The elderly bloodrider, Jomo, stepped forward first, presenting a dragonbone whip. "May your steed always ride across the vast plains."
"May his steed forever gallop across the land," Agatha responded. She was a fierce girl. Remounting her warhorse, she took the whip and cracked it across Argo's arm.
Argo only laughed, catching the whip in his hand and yanking it back toward himself.
"Just like this." Agatha laughed heartily as she accepted an arakh from Jorah, then exchanged a few playful strikes with Argo before finally handing the curved blade back to her husband.
The final gift was a longbow from Dahan. Agatha pulled the string taut, displaying her impressive strength before returning the weapon to Argo.
"By the Great Sky God." A Northern elder, standing before the heart tree, raised his voice. "In the name of the heart tree, we bear witness to the Khal and his Khaleesi's union. Agatha Khaleesi's children shall take up the arakh and ride beneath the wings of dragons. The heart tree bears witness, the gods bear witness!"
A tidal wave of cheers burst forth, deafening the ears of all present.
With the addition of the First Men from the North, Argo's khalasar had once again been infused with a new layer of belief. The heart tree, now revered as a watcher of the gods, had been embraced by their worship. In truth, many of the old gods' traditions were essentially nature worship—most First Men did not even know exactly what they were praying to.
Then, the fighting began.
In Argo's khalasar, men no longer fought over women. Instead, they battled simply for the joy of combat. Warriors faced off in pairs, indulging in the thrill of the fight. Some women even joined the fray, eager to prove their martial prowess was no less than that of any man.
Robb Ryswell roared as he defeated three Dothraki warriors, only to be thrown to the ground by the brute strength of Droko. The honor of a warrior's death still eluded him, and so the old man could only retreat in disappointment, drowning his sorrows with spiced wine.
Several Dothraki men even challenged the Kingsguard and the sworn brothers of the Blood Oath. However, lacking superior equipment, they were ultimately defeated.
The children, their blood boiling with excitement, wanted to join the fight.
Of course, they were held back.
The battles lasted an entire day before the Dothraki wedding finally came to an end.
No one had died, but over a hundred had shed blood.
No one had sown any seeds either—it was far too wild for that. However, hundreds of warriors, both men and women, had proven their strength. Draezell rewarded them on the spot.
Perhaps that was the true purpose of this grand melee at the wedding.