A thin woman lay curled upon the ground, as though protecting something beneath her body.
Her body had long since gone cold.
A dark, clotted wound gaped in her back.
In the distance, the smell of roasted meat and charred wood drifted through the air, mingled with sharp laughter and cheering that sounded like the cackling of hyenas.
Among the endless ruins and broken walls, Dothraki warriors strutted about, showing off their plunder and boasting of their kills.
Their hair hung long, most of it reaching the small of their backs.
These men were known as roaring warriors, the fighters of the Dothraki.
A large crowd of them had gathered in a circle, their excitement like wolves that had tasted blood.
At the center stood their khal, Drogo, locked in a duel with a man before him.
The man held a spear and wore leather armor. A shield rested on one arm while the spear was gripped in the other.
Though he tried to look fierce, his heart hammered in his chest, and the fear in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Drogo, by contrast, stood nearly two meters tall, bare-chested, holding a curved blade shaped like a great fang.
His expression was calm.
He looked like a predator playing with its prey.
His hair was longer than any other man's, falling nearly to his thighs.
Among the Dothraki, there was a custom: once a warrior was defeated, he must cut off his braid.
Drogo's long hair proclaimed that he had never known defeat.
The leather-armored warrior suddenly thrust forward with his spear.
Drogo merely stepped back.
The attack missed easily.
In the next moment, his tall frame spun like a whirlwind as he closed the distance.
A flash of bright steel crossed the man's vision.
Then blood flooded his throat.
The warrior collapsed with a choking cry.
The Dothraki spectators raised their curved blades and roared.
"Drogo! Drogo! Drogo!"
"Drogo! Drogo!"
"Drogo!"
Drogo spread his arms wide, basking in their cheers. Lifting his blood-dripping blade, he pointed toward a stone idol nearby shaped like a cat-headed god.
"Take it back. Offer it to our god."
His voice was heavy like a hammer striking iron, deep and full of confidence.
"To the Horse God!" shouted a tattooed Dothraki.
Soon a group of riders began driving prisoners and villagers forward, forcing them to drag the idol away.
Among these bare-chested Dothraki stood two men who looked completely out of place.
They wore fine silk clothing and were accompanied by armored guards.
One of them was heavyset, with golden hair and blue eyes.
The other was younger, his face sharp and angular.
Illyrio and Koren had come together to find Khal Drogo, the strongest leader among the Dothraki, hoping to persuade him to attack Gohor.
Just as Drogo turned to leave, a young Dothraki approached them, speaking rough Valyrian.
"Come. Khal Drogo will see you."
Illyrio and Koren exchanged a glance and followed him.
Both had brought escorts.
Illyrio had two armored warriors.
Koren had brought the swordsman Quairo. Though Quairo had been dismissed publicly, he still secretly served Freygo.
The young Dothraki looked at their guards with open disdain.
To the Dothraki, armor only interfered with fighting on horseback. None of these men could match their khal.
As they walked, Koren spoke curiously.
"Ser Quairo, if you fought this Drogo, what chance would you have?"
Quairo gave a faint, bitter smile. "Me? He could fight two of me."
Drogo was a monster.
His technique was not refined... In fact, it was crude. But he was unbelievably fast.
So fast that Quairo could barely follow his movements.
Combined with his towering height of nearly two meters, he was a natural-born champion.
And that was without armor.
Quairo did not even want to imagine how terrifying he would become if he wore one.
Led by the young Dothraki, they soon arrived at Drogo's tent.
Several large chests were opened and displayed before the khal. Inside were gifts of gold, jewels, and silk.
The moment the lids were lifted, the smell of wealth seemed to fill the tent.
The men gathered there were Drogo's kos, chiefs who served him much like vassals served a lord.
At the sight of treasure, greed flashed openly across their faces.
Yet there were exceptions.
The warriors standing closest to Drogo were his bloodriders. Among bloodriders and their khal, everything was shared except the horse.
Even wives were shared.
If a khal died, his bloodriders must avenge him at any cost. After vengeance, they must either kill themselves or die in the attempt.
Nearby, servants adorned with gold jewelry offered Drogo wine.
Koren, still unsettled by Drogo's terrifying strength, hesitated to speak.
The more experienced Illyrio stepped forward instead. "Great Khal Drogo, I am a merchant from Pentos. These are gifts for you."
Illyrio spoke with a flattering smile.
Before coming here, he had already sent word to Viserys. How Gohor would deal with what came next was beyond his concern.
Drogo stared at the treasures and spoke several harsh lines in Dothraki.
The young rider who had guided Illyrio and Koren translated.
"Khal Drogo asks why your gifts are far fewer than those you gave his father. And why, for the past two years, you have not delivered them on time."
The question struck at something important.
Drogo had not received the same respect that had been given to his father, Khal Bharbo.
Everyone claimed Drogo was the strongest khal among the Dothraki. His pride demanded that he achieve greater glory than his father.
He was challenging Illyrio.
Illyrio hurried to explain.
"Great Khal Drogo, in recent years a new city has appeared to our east. Its name is Gohor. It blocks the road by which we bring tribute to you."
When Drogo heard the translation, his fury exploded.
He strode forward and drew his curved blade, pressing it against Illyrio's throat. Like a lion clamping its jaws around a warthog's neck.
Illyrio's guards rushed forward.
Drogo's bloodriders instantly drew their own weapons.
Quairo stepped in front of Koren.
The atmosphere in the tent turned razor sharp.
"Fool," Drogo growled in broken Valyrian. "You think I am stupid? Gohor. Ruins."
He believed he was being mocked.
For a brief moment, Illyrio felt as if all the years he had spent as an assassin meant nothing.
A hyena might be called a predator.
But Drogo was a tiger.
A lion.
Something far more dangerous.
___________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/BloodAncestor