[ Dothraki Sea ]
[ 298 AC ]
The camp was silent.
The ritual fires had guttered out, leaving only blackened ash smeared into the red earth. The smell of burnt flesh, horse blood, and herbs clung heavy in the air. Dust swirled on the breeze, whispering across a thousand watchful eyes. The riders stood back in a wide ring, their hands on reins and weapons, their faces torn between awe and dread.
They had watched their Khal die.
They had watched his body rot into emptiness.
Now they watched him breathe again.
A miracle.
Or a curse.
Drogo — Daniel — breathed deep, the hot wind searing through his chest, dragging in the stink of sweat, smoke, and fear. Every inhale steadied him, yet the storm inside did not relent.
Two voices warred in his skull.
Daniel Adams: a man broken by failure, a life ended between crates in a warehouse.
Khal Drogo: the horse-lord, undefeated, born to command and kill.
Their memories clashed — battles and boot camps, arakhs and rifles, desert suns and fluorescent lights.
For a heartbeat, panic surged.
This was Westeros.
He knew the story. He had seen the end — how it burned, how it broke. A land of kings devoured by crowns, dragons consumed by fire, a world that punished mercy and swallowed the weak.
If he faltered now, if he looked uncertain, the riders would smell it. The Dothraki followed only strength. A Khal who stumbled was no Khal at all. By sundown, his bloodriders — or what was left of them — would cut his throat and split the khalasar into a dozen feuding shards.
He could not afford to be Daniel Adams, the "half-made soldier."
Not here. Not now.
His jaw clenched, and he forced the storm into stillness. He told himself, wordless but sharp as steel:
I am Khal.
I must act like Khal. Or I will be dead by the end of year.
The words grounded him. Power curled in his blood like coiled fire, not just Drogo's strength but something greater, something reborn. His spine straightened, shoulders broad as mountains. His gaze swept over the sea of riders, unflinching.
The silence deepened. No one moved. They watched, waiting to see if their Khal still lived — or if something else had taken his place.
And for the first time, Daniel did not flinch from their eyes.
He accepted the truth:
This world was cruel. It would devour weakness.
So he would give it none.
*
*
*
At first there was silence, stunned and heavy, broken only by the restless snorts of tethered horses. Then the murmurs began — low, hushed, as though the men feared their own voices might summon a curse.
"Khal Drogo lives…"
"No… he was dead. I saw it with my own eyes."
"The maegi's trick. She brings him back as a demon."
"No man returns from the darkness. No man."
Their tongues tangled in disbelief. Some whispered prayers to the Great Stallion. Others spat in the dust to ward off evil. A few clutched their arakhs tighter, eyes darting as though expecting their Khal's corpse to split open and reveal some monster inside.
Gasps broke out when Drogo shifted, his shoulders rolling as if to test the weight of his own body. His breath filled the silence — deep, strong, undeniable. The sound carried like thunder across the grass.
Fear spread as quickly as awe.
"He walks in death's shadow."
"He is not Khal — he is a husk, a thing."
"Maegi-spawn! Witch's child!"
The circle widened, horses stamping nervously, riders muttering to one another. Faith and terror warred in their eyes. They had seen men die by steel, by fire, by plague — but this was different. Death had claimed Khal Drogo, and yet he breathed still.
At the edge of the ring, Ser Jorah Mormont's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. His knight's eyes swept across the horde, weighing them, measuring the tilt of fear against the sway of faith. His face was grim. He knew the Dothraki would not suffer weakness, nor tolerate sorcery. Blood could spill at any moment.
Then came the maegi's voice — sharp, shrill, venom dripping like venom from a viper's fangs.
"This is no gift!" Mirri Maz Duur shrieked, her face twisted in horror and triumph all at once. "This is no Khal. This is a curse made flesh! He should be empty! He should be nothing!"
Her voice carried, and the words struck the riders like whips. Some recoiled, spitting again, warding themselves with old charms. Others muttered their agreement, their suspicion fed by her venom.
The tension grew unbearable. It was a knife's edge — one spark and the khalasar would turn on itself.
Daenerys's hands trembled against Drogo's chest, her tears falling like drops of fire onto his skin. Fear clawed at her belly, but she would not yield to it. She rose, her silver hair shining in the sun, her violet eyes blazing with desperate defiance.
Her voice cut through the storm.
"Behold him!" she cried, her words sharp as steel, carrying over the murmurs, the doubts, the whispers of fear. "Khal Drogo, my sun-and-stars — reborn! No husk, no corpse, but the Khal who rides still!"
Her voice rang clear, carrying into the hearts of men.
The murmurs faltered. Eyes turned from the witch to the Khaleesi, from doubt to the towering figure who now sat among them, alive, breathing, undeniable.
Daenerys's words served as the first anchor. Where fear had reigned, she gave them something else: not a curse, but a miracle. Not death, but destiny.
Drogo's gaze swept over them, black and unyielding. He gave no words, no boasts — only the weight of his stare, the force of a Khal who had faced death and returned.
And slowly, the khalasar bent beneath that weight.
Some bowed their heads.
Some beat fists to chests.
Some whispered, not in fear now, but in reverence.
A choice hung in the air: to see him as cursed, or as chosen.
And with Daenerys's voice ringing in their ears, they began — one by one — to believe.
Drogo's gaze swept across the camp, his sharpened sight cutting through smoke and shadow. The air reeked of blood and ash, and there — sprawled upon the trampled earth — lay the bodies of Qotho, Cohollo, and Haggo.
Once proud, once unshakable, now nothing more than cooling flesh. Their arakhs fallen from limp hands, their braids undone by death. His bloodriders. His shadows. Men who had sworn to guard his back until the grave — now left broken at his feet.
The truth struck him like a hammer to the chest.
A Khal without bloodriders was not whole. It was more than the loss of three warriors — it was the loss of living symbols, extensions of his strength and will. The khalasar would see their absence not as tragedy, but as weakness.
Daniel's inner voice whispered, cold and sharp.
So this is the weight of this world. Strength is not only in muscle or sword — it is in symbols, in bonds others believe unbreakable. Without them, a Khal is a horse without reins, a stallion unproven.
His jaw clenched. He remembered enough of this land's stories — how quickly the Dothraki turned on weakness, how swiftly blood was repaid with blood. He could not afford hesitation, not now.
Drogo's throne, Drogo's army, Drogo's body. But the world has shifted. I am not the man they knew, and the shadows at my back are gone. To survive, to rule, I must carve new authority. I must forge bonds that no witch's fire can break.
He let his eyes wander back to Daenerys, still pressed against him, her silver hair catching the light of the dying fire. For her, he would endure. For her, he would rebuild.
But beneath that vow, another thought curled like the whisper of the sea in his veins:
This world is harsher than my memory. I can see it now with all my memories of this body. To live here, I must be Khal Drogo not in name but in will.
As I look around the camp, I can tell most of it has been gutted. Drogo's memories whisper to me, painting the contrast. Where there should be endless rows of riders, braids swinging, horses stamping, now there are gaps everywhere. The earth looks bare, only scattered tents and cooking fires left behind.
In Drogo's memory, a khalasar this size should be a sea of motion — tens of thousands strong, stretching to the horizon. But what I see now is hollowed out, less than a tenth of what it was.
I let my gaze harden, speaking low.
"They are gone. I can feel it. Not just stragglers — whole lines missing. Kos who should be here, riders who should answer, they are nowhere."
Jorah steps forward, shifting his sword belt. His eyes flicker to the men and women still lingering, then back to me.
He said in Dothraki, telling me the harsh truth.
"You are not wrong. Pono left first. Ten thousand riders went with him."
"Not long after, Jhaqo followed. He took half the strength of the khalasar — twenty thousand spears, maybe more. The rest… they split in smaller bands. A dozen khalasars were born from yours in only a few days."
I taste the weight of his words, and the memories inside me confirm it. The Dothraki follow strength. They do not swear oaths before gods or crowns. A Khal rules so long as he rides, so long as his bloodriders ride at his side, so long as the strong believe he cannot fall. When the Khal falters, the khalasar fractures. It has always been this way.
Jorah keeps speaking, his tone grim, almost explanatory, as if he knows I already understand but wants the truth spoken aloud.
"They do not wait. A khalasar without a strong Khal becomes meat for the wolves. When word spread you had fallen… they took what men and horses they could, and each declared himself Khal. Pono and Jhaqo were the boldest. Others—Kos and lesser riders—splintered off with whoever would follow them. What remains…"
He gestures at the handful of tents, the thinning crowd. "…are those too weak to risk the ride. The old. The sick. The children. And a few warriors who still look to you, or to her."
His eyes flick briefly to Daenerys, still pressed against me.
I let the silence hang before answering.
Jorah's mouth is tight. His hand brushes the pommel of his sword, almost like the memory still clings.
"They turned on her," he says at last.
I stare at him. "Turned?"
He nods. "Qotho struck first. He saw the Khaleesi trying to save you. He thought it was blasphemy. He tried to hurt her, Khal."
A pause. His eyes flick to Daenerys, then back to me.
"I killed him before he touched her."
The words land heavy. My hands flex on my knees. Qotho… dead.
"And the others?" My voice is gravel.
"Cohollo and Haggo barred me. Blades out. They swore the maegi's work must not be stopped. They thought they were saving you.." He shakes his head.
"The flames, the blood, the screams… they didn't last long."
Silence stretches. The fire crackles. The air feels thick.
Three riders. My bloodriders. Gone.
They were supposed to follow me into the night lands. Not fall like butchered dogs in chaos.
"Bloodriders," I mutter, voice rough, "are sworn to ride with their Khal. To kill for him. To die for him. When he falls, they follow."
The thought twists like a knife. "Instead, they raised steel against the Khaleesi."
Jorah does not flinch. "They betrayed their oath, even if they thought it loyalty. That is the truth of it."
I shut my eyes for a breath. The bond, the memories — Drogo's grief gnaws at me, and I cannot tell if it is his or mine.
When I open them, my voice is iron.
"Then they are no brothers of the saddle. They are ash. Let them be ash."
Jorah studies me for a long moment. His jaw works, but he gives the smallest nod.
"To the Dothraki," he says quietly, "a Khal without bloodriders is no Khal at all. That is why so many left."
The words sting, but I hold them down.
I cannot show weakness.
A Khal who weeps is no Khal.
A Khal who lingers is no Khal.
I flex my hand, feeling the warmth still surging through my body. My voice is low, steady.
"They are not wrong. That is their way."
I let my gaze sweep the camp again. Dothraki custom is not complicated. A Khal commands because he is strong. His kos serve as lieutenants, binding thousands under their braids.
His bloodriders are more than guards; they are his shadow, his sworn blood. When a Khal dies, they are meant to die with him, to follow him into the night lands. Without them, the Khal is incomplete, a body missing its limbs.
The riders here know it. I can see it in their eyes — the nervous shifting, the way they whisper behind their teeth. To them, I am half a Khal at best.
Jorah lowers his voice, studying me.
"They will not believe you until you show them. The Dothraki follow strength, not memory. If you mean to hold them, you must prove you are still Drogo — stronger than before. Or else, they will bleed away until nothing is left."
I met his stare.
"Then I will show them."