When Drogo announced his decision, the bloodriders voiced their objections again and again:
"Khal, you were born to conquer, to turn the defeated into slaves—not to forsake our honor by buying them! Why let those eunuchs, stripped of their identity, join our ranks?"
Their sense of honor, instilled by old traditions, ran bone-deep. The old Drogo might have had no answer—but the new one chose reason over pride.
"Our enemies are no longer rival khalasars or the white lions of the Dothraki Sea. They are cunning and powerful schemers. We must match brains with blades."
"My blood-of-my-blood," he said gravely. "Look at our khalasar. Our warriors barely outnumber the weak, the elderly, the women and children. We are fewer than four hundred. If we recklessly march on cities like Qarth, Meereen, or Yunkai, we will be destroyed—or worse, enslaved. 'Gold moves even ghosts'—never forget that. The merchants and Good Masters are as dangerous as any khal, if not more so."
Only the younger warriors grumbled. The others, aware of their weakness, remained silent—they knew their place.
Standing alone among those too simple to understand, Drogo felt a strange loneliness. No one truly understood him. He drank the wine Xaro had left behind and wandered beneath the stars with Snowball, letting the haze dull his thoughts until sleep came.
Perhaps someone did understand him—but he had yet to realize it.
Someone like Ser Jorah Mormont, who stayed behind just to hear the sound of Daenerys's voice when Drogo was away.
With the Usurper dead and Westeros in chaos, Daenerys burned with urgency. She wanted Drogo to head to the nearest Qartheen port, find ships, and cross the Black Salt Sea to the land of eternal summer.
She completely opposed his plan to go to distant Astapor and buy Unsullied.
She had seen eunuchs like them in the Free Cities—helmeted with bronze spikes, serving merchants and governors. They couldn't ride, many were overweight, and none of them looked like warriors to her.
To Daenerys, Drogo's plan made no sense.
But she had no one else to confide in. The bear, ever loyal, came to her side—and she welcomed him.
Jorah sat across from her, the same knight who had once knocked poisoned wine from her hand in Vaes Dothrak, saving her life. He had risked himself many times for her, and she was grateful.
But Daenerys felt no romance toward the balding man who was old enough to be her grandfather and looked at her with such hunger. She saw him only as a loyal retainer, nothing more.
Whether Jorah knew this or not was unclear.
In his eyes, as long as Drogo lived, Daenerys would never be free—neither her body nor her heart. That was his torment.
He listened intently to her ambitions, nodding with a show of admiration. But when she mentioned Drogo's journey to Slaver's Bay, he finally spoke.
"Khaleesi, have you heard of the story of three thousand Unsullied defending the trade city of Qohor?"
Daenerys tilted her head. "I haven't."
Jorah's eyes gleamed. "Over four hundred years ago, a mighty Khal named Temmo led thirty thousand Dothraki across Slaver's Bay, pillaging every town in their path. They approached Qohor—a top-tier Free City at the time—and crushed two of the greatest mercenary companies: the Bright Banners and the Second Sons."
"With the city on the brink of destruction, the Qohorik made a desperate choice. They bought three thousand Unsullied from Astapor—slaves they had once scorned."
"The Dothraki laughed. Against twenty thousand charging riders, the Unsullied held their ground, locked shields, and lowered spears. They did not move."
"Temmo's khalasar charged them twenty times. They broke like waves on stone. The Unsullied held their wall, raised their shields against falling arrows, and never flinched."
"By the end, only six hundred Unsullied survived—but they had killed more than ten thousand Dothraki, including Khal Temmo and every one of his war leaders."
"The new khal cut off his braid and tossed it at their feet. Since then, the Unsullied have been revered as elite soldiers—prized above all others."
Daenerys looked uncertain. "That really happened?"
"It did," Jorah said firmly. "Anyone who studies Free City history knows it."
His story softened her opinion of Drogo's plan. "So my husband sees farther than I gave him credit for. With warriors like that, even the rebels in Westeros might tremble."
"Indeed. Khal Drogo is well-suited to be a conqueror."
Whether he said it to flatter her or because he meant it, she couldn't tell.
But he wasn't careful with his words. Daenerys glanced at him and asked softly:
"What about me?"
"You?" he repeated, surprised.
Then he hesitated, before declaring:
"You are the bravest and most beautiful woman I've ever known. You are my queen. From the moment you stepped into that pyre and emerged unburnt with your hatchlings… I've loved you, Daenerys."
His breath quickened. Suddenly, he lunged like a starving wolf.
But Daenerys was no innocent girl. She sidestepped easily, leaving him to stumble.
He lunged again.
"Ser Jorah, you go too far!" she shouted. "I am Khal Drogo's Khaleesi—your queen! Take one more step, and I'll scream."
Jorah froze. Shame washed over him. Not just because he feared sullying the last shreds of his knighthood—but because he feared him. Her giant. Her warrior.
"I'm sorry, Khaleesi. I lost control."
He bowed deeply, then looked up and said:
"The Targaryen sigil is a three-headed dragon—three riders. I want to be one of them. Please… believe me. No one in this world is more loyal to you than I am. Not even your dragons. Not even your husband."
With that, he turned and stumbled out of her chambers, lost and broken.
Daenerys stood there, shaken. Her heart raced.
But as the silence settled, she found herself replaying his final words in her mind.
.
.
.
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