Drogo's condition had worsened compared to the day before. His head throbbed sharply, and he felt something was seriously wrong—as if he had been forced to keep his eyes open for three days and nights straight.
He wanted to find the cause, but important figures like healers—essential in any khalasar—had been taken away by Jhaqo and Pono. None had been left behind with Daenerys.
Thus, he could only endure.
Fearing that his wife would worry, Drogo kept his worsening state a secret. In fact, aside from his bloodriders and Jorah, he didn't tell anyone the true reason behind their journey to the Rainbow Lands.
Even if he had told Daenerys, she wouldn't have been able to help. It would only have burdened her with unnecessary worry.
Rubbing his temples, Drogo rose, donned a colorful leather vest, and—after politely asking Daenerys' permission—picked up her lion pelt cloak, still fragrant from having been worn only a day before, and draped it over his shoulders.
The Rainbow Lands were white lion territory. Wearing the pelt might serve as a weak disguise, but he knew it was a poor plan. Those beasts were extremely sensitive to human scents.
Still, Drogo had another way to mask his scent—though he wasn't sure how effective it would be. After all, the first creature he had ever slain was a white lion.
After equipping his arakh, he carefully lifted the baby dragon that had perched on the bone bow, slung the bow across his back, and called for Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah to help him quickly smear some mud on his face. That would have to do for preparations.
Before leaving, Drogo placed his hands firmly on Daenerys' shoulders and very seriously instructed her:
"You are a Khaleesi. After I leave, you must take your dragons and your people and follow the bleeding star's path. Go deep into the Red Waste. Remember—do not look back."
Daenerys, confident in her husband's invincibility after all he had survived, still felt uneasy.
"My sun and stars," she said, "what about you?"
Drogo smiled gently.
"My moon of my life, once I've finished what I must do, I will catch up to you."
This man carried too much inside him. Though she loved him deeply, Daenerys realized that, even now, she didn't fully understand him.
Drogo had little confidence about this mission—let alone the dangerous adventure that might follow if they managed to "escape."
But if he didn't fight, there would be no survival.
Leaving only three days' worth of food for so many people was a deliberate act: a way to burn bridges, to force himself and his companions to act decisively.
If he survived, others might live longer and more comfortably. If he died, unless Daenerys and the others had some miracle, reaching the "City of Bones" hidden in the Red Waste would be almost impossible.
Maybe his decision was wrong. Maybe it was selfish—more about reclaiming lost glory than survival.
But Drogo did not blame himself.
Born into blood and grass, he was made for great deeds. There was no time for sentimental goodbyes. He simply kissed Daenerys lightly on the forehead—then turned and walked out of the tent.
His love for her was deep, but he had long grown accustomed to life on the knife's edge.
Daenerys rushed after him, lifting her skirts, the baby dragon still scrambling to balance on her shoulder.
Outside the tent, the entire khalasar had gathered.
At the front stood Ser Jorah Mormont and the bloodriders, leading the best horses they still had, even if they were old and frail.
Drogo looked over the scene and felt a pang of loss.
Once, he had commanded tens of thousands—a roaring tide of warriors whose blade-flashes could light up the night and whose horse-cries could shake the Dothraki Sea.
Now—four warriors, worn-out horses, and a ragged remnant.
More than a hundred people stood waiting, looking up at him with bewildered faces.
Drogo, taller than any of them, hesitated.
What should I say? he wondered.
Before he could speak, Daenerys stepped forward, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning with fierce determination.
"Blood of my blood!" she cried. "Your beloved Khal Drogo will fight to win us a better life! The path ahead is full of danger and death—but we must bless these brave warriors! And I will lead you—following the bleeding star—to a land of abundance beyond the sunset! For a better life, will you follow me?"
Her speech set the khalasar alight. Men and women alike raised their arms and shouted:
"Khaleesi! Khaleesi! Mother of Dragons!"
Drogo glanced at his wife—her face radiant, her spirit undeniable—and felt a rush of mixed emotions.
She was becoming a true queen.
And he suspected that she now understood the true reason for his journey.
Maybe she had asked Jorah while he was trapped in those strange dreams.
Maybe she had acted out of love.
Or maybe—maybe the dragons now meant more to her than he did.
Perhaps both.
Not wanting to interrupt her moment of glory, Drogo silently approached the red-maned old horse prepared for him.
He swung smoothly into the saddle, pulled his silver-handled whip from the side, and cracked it through the air.
"Hyah!"
The startled horse surged forward, galloping toward the pass that led to the great grass sea.
"Farewell, Your Grace," Jorah murmured, pulling his horse around and following Drogo. The bloodriders did the same.
As the five riders vanished into the distance, the khalasar gradually fell silent.
Together with their Mother of Dragons, they watched their king ride away.
Daenerys kept her eyes on the horizon, but her heart raced with the thrill of commanding a hundred voices.
Even after a long time, the exhilaration didn't fade—it grew stronger.
Addicted to the rush, Daenerys raised her hand and shouted:
"My people! In one hour, pack up the tents and prepare to follow me into the Red Waste!"
"Yes, Khaleesi!"
The khalasar roared back, scattering to prepare.
Meanwhile, in Drogo's mind:
She broke tradition. She freed the slaves. She championed equality—one ruler, all others equal. No wonder they love her.
I shouldn't be jealous.
But he couldn't stop the tangled emotions in his heart.
Desperate to clear his mind, Drogo lashed his horse harder, pushing it beyond its limits.
The old horse whimpered, but ran.
Behind him, Jorah and the bloodriders struggled to catch up.
Wearing the lion pelt, Drogo looked like a wild beast unleashed.
But flesh had its limits.
Before noon, the old horse staggered and refused to go on, no matter how Drogo whipped it.
Jorah caught up first, daring to advise:
"Khal, let us rest. If we keep pushing, all our horses will collapse."
The Dothraki—a horse people, proud of their archery and riding—relied on their steeds like brothers.
Drogo realized his mistake and, rather than growing angry, nodded and dismounted.
He tied the reins around a boulder and sat heavily on the ground.
Jorah dismounted as well, pulling out a waterskin filled with leftover mead.
Taking a few sips, he handed it to Drogo.
Baking under the sun, wrapped in thick clothes, Drogo was parched.
He grabbed the skin and drank deeply.
The alcohol burned down his throat—and, strangely, eased the stabbing pain in his head.
Was this "fighting poison with poison"?
Inspired, Drogo emptied the whole skin in one go.
Jorah clicked his tongue in amazement.
A true barbarian chief!
(Though if Drogo had heard that thought, he would have sneered—in his soul, he saw himself as a civilized man reborn.)
Soon the bloodriders caught up too. They dismounted, gulped water, and gnawed dried meat.
The mead warmed Drogo's body.
The headache vanished—leaving only a heavy drowsiness.
He couldn't resist.
Drogo slumped sideways and began to snore thunderously.
The others—relieved—took the chance to rest as well.
Time slipped by.
Drogo slept deeply for over three hours.
When he woke, he felt much better.
He had found a cure: mead.
He mounted again, leading the group onward—this time at a reasonable pace.
No more reckless charges.
The sun dipped behind the western hills.
Stars blinked into the sky.
The bleeding star was gone.
Drogo guessed that Daenerys had set out—following the comet's trail into the Red Waste.
The land grew more barren.
They encountered no dangers—but Drogo, always sharp-eyed, spotted something troubling:
Fresh hoofprints.
Dried blood.
Uncovered by wind or sand.
Someone had passed by recently.
"Stay alert," he warned.
The others tensed immediately.
Another hour passed.
They spotted a figure up ahead.
Drogo approached cautiously.
It was a corpse—its throat torn open—lying amid the ashes of dead campfires.
Drogo's heart tightened.
He recognized the man.
Hoso.
A warrior he had seen only recently—in his dreams.
.
.
.
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