At dawn, Daenerys remained at the camp with the elderly, the wounded, women, and children. Ser Jorah Mormont stood as their protector, while Drogo led the bloodriders and the recently returned khalasar warriors to the edge of the Dothraki Sea.
Their mission was not conquest, but hunting—to gather game and search for seeds that might be cultivated.
The road to Qarth was long and harsh, cutting through the barren Red Waste. Without enough food and reserve livestock, they would collapse from hunger and exhaustion, their corpses eroded by wind and dust.
Drogo, ever farsighted, would not overlook such matters of survival.
Though seeds would not thrive in the parched desert, Khal Drogo had given the order—and no one dared to question it.
As a nomadic people, the Dothraki lived by the hunt, herding, and raiding.
Now free of the white lion threat, and with unmatched archery skills, they hunted every beast in sight. In just two weeks, they'd gone out multiple times and returned with prey that far outmatched their numbers.
Lactating females were spared for milk; the males were butchered and, under Drogo's guidance, smoked into preserved meat.
The hides were expertly tanned and sewn into waterskins, resistant to heat and evaporation.
After this bloody work, Drogo judged the provisions sufficient. He then ordered a full mobilization in search of clean water sources and firewood for fuel.
Once preparations were complete, Drogo convened a tribunal, naming Daenerys the chief judge. The defendant: Mago—a hollow shell of a man, with nothing left to live for.
Most in the khalasar bore bloodstained hands and lingering guilt. None stepped forward to denounce Mago—save the Khaleesi.
Daenerys had never personally taken a life. After much inner struggle, she chose to spare Mago, sentencing him instead to a life of disgrace. She ordered him castrated and crippled, ensuring he would never again harm another innocent girl.
Now a broken man, Mago would be useless to Khal Jhaqo, a castoff waiting to be abandoned and left to rot in the Dothraki Sea.
After the sentence was carried out and Mago regained consciousness, Drogo, with Daenerys' consent, tied him to a lame horse and gave him a message to deliver:
"Tell Jhaqo—the Mother of Dragons will one day ride into Vaes Dothrak atop her dragon. She will unite all khalasars, and on that day, your Khal will die."
With the matter settled, Drogo and Daenerys wandered from the camp and sat beneath the starlit sky. She leaned into him and asked:
"Why is it me—not you—who will conquer the Dothraki Sea?"
Drogo smiled mysteriously. "Because that glory belongs to you, my moon of my life."
Daenerys didn't quite understand, but she liked the sound of that glory—and asked no more.
After a long silence, Drogo gazed at the blood-red comet still lingering in the heavens and finally voiced the question he had long buried:
"You were forced to marry me… Do you regret it?"
The question struck her. She hesitated, visibly shaken. After a pause, her delicate face shadowed and brightened by turns, she finally answered:
"I used to be like a stray kitten, with no place to call home. Assassins sent by the Usurper lurked around every corner. I lived in fear, without dignity. But you… you gave me safety. You gave me protection. You gave me a life I never imagined."
Though not the direct answer he sought, it was enough.
Sensing her gloom, Drogo added casually, "Robert Baratheon deserved death. Perhaps he's already dead."
Daenerys assumed he was trying to comfort her, and forced a smile. "The Baratheons have ruled Westeros for years. That Usurper—they say he's strong as a bull. I doubt he's dead."
Drogo pointed to the comet and said with mock solemnity, "Qoyar Qore told me the gods sent him a dream. The true dragons have returned—and the Iron Throne no longer belongs to Robert. Qoyar Qore will fly across the world spreading the news. The dragons are reborn. The Baratheon reign is coming to an end."
Daenerys gave him a skeptical smile. "Maybe."
With that, she stood, dusted off her skirt, and walked back to camp with a heart full of anticipation for the journey ahead.
Watching her silhouette fade into the night, Drogo felt hope swell in his chest.
He wasn't certain whether Robert Baratheon was dead. He only followed the logic of the books—the prophecy that guided him. He longed to reach Qarth and ask Westerosi sailors for the truth.
He had once considered exposing Ser Jorah Mormont, hoping to extract information. But in the end, Drogo reasoned that Jorah, so far from Westeros, likely knew nothing of current events.
After one more day and night of rest, beneath the blood moon's glow, Drogo ordered the camp to move. Following the path of the bleeding star, they began their true journey—into the terrifying, barren wasteland.
It was destined to be a grueling march.
To preserve their strength and protect the weak, Drogo ordered all able-bodied men to walk on foot. The horses were saved for the wounded, the elderly, women, children, and to carry supplies.
Though he could've ridden, Drogo led by example, always marching at the front.
To avoid the scorching sun, they traveled at night, resting in tents during the day to avoid heatstroke.
They crossed low hills, wind-carved deserts, and riverbeds dry as bone. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Over two moons passed.
Yet no one died of hunger or thirst.
Thanks to careful planning, they slept with full bellies, lulled by music and warmth. Their spirits remained high, even as the land around them remained lifeless.
Some of the oldest and sickest horses perished—but the people endured.
No one had imagined survival possible in the dreaded Red Waste. But not only had they survived—they had grown stronger. Some even conceived children. The tiny khalasar now brimmed with life and future warriors.
Still, surrounded by a sea of dust and death, many began to wonder:
Does this wasteland ever end?
To every such doubt, Drogo answered with unwavering certainty:
"Yes. And soon… we will reach a paradise where seeds can take root once more."
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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