The rain stopped early the next morning. Fenya was up at dawn, instructing her men to pack up. They set off while the air was still cool from the rain. If they waited for the sun to rise, the ground would become stiflingly hot as the rainwater evaporated.
Lynd mounted his horse, riding at the rear of the caravan. The warhorses followed closely, as if acknowledging his mount as their leader.
The ruins of the village were now silent, with more than a hundred pale, bloodless corpses piled along both sides of the road.
To increase the caravan's speed, Fenya, with Lynd's approval, added two Dothraki warhorses to each wagon. Though this made them more difficult to handle, it significantly boosted their pace. The rest stop they had originally expected to reach by nightfall was now within reach by noon.
It was there that they encountered a group of fleeing Dothraki riders—about three hundred in total.
Though wounded and retreating, the Dothraki did not hesitate when they saw the caravan and the warhorses trailing behind. Their instinct for plunder was deeply ingrained, making them incapable of passing up such an enticing target.
What they failed to realize was that this seemingly easy prey was, in truth, deadly poison.
As the Dothraki charged toward the caravan, Lynd did not reach for his bow. Instead, he gripped his spear and surged forward, breaking from the formation to meet them head-on.
Seeing a knight in armor charging toward them, the Dothraki—who prided themselves on bare-chested combat—sneered in disdain, as if they were facing a coward. They let out shrill war cries, brandishing their arakhs above their heads.
But when they raised their curved blades to strike at Lynd, his spear lashed out like a venomous serpent. Before their blows could land, he had already pierced their throats with precision and speed.
By the time Lynd's horse had cut through the enemy ranks, every Dothraki within his spear's reach had fallen—at least forty or fifty men.
The remaining Dothraki were paralyzed with fear. Their leader had been slain before their eyes, and with no one to guide them, they were left in disarray. With their warhorses charging forward, they could do nothing but continue rushing toward the caravan.
Lynd, however, had already wheeled his horse around. With even greater speed, he crashed into their formation from behind, mercilessly cutting them down.
By the time the Dothraki reached the wagons, their numbers had dwindled to fewer than a hundred. Fenya had long since prepared for this moment. At her command, the caravan's guards loosed a volley of arrows at the disoriented raiders.
Their aim, however, left much to be desired—of the dozens of arrows, only four or five found their mark.
Yet that was enough.
The Dothraki's natural brutality and raider's instinct were no longer enough to hold their courage together. Fear had taken root in their minds. Instead of continuing their attack, they veered away from the caravan and fled into the distance.
But by then, it was already too late.
Lynd nocked an arrow, taking them down one by one from behind. By the time his bowstring stilled, the skirmish was over.
Having learned from the previous night's encounter, Fenya wasted no time after the battle. She ordered her men to gather the spoils, retrieve Lynd's arrows, and add the captured warhorses to their herd.
"Lord Ornstein, something seems off." Fenya approached Lynd after inspecting one of the bodies, her expression troubled. "Their wounds are fresh—their injuries haven't even had time to heal. The force that defeated them might be just ahead. What should we do?"
Lynd remained calm. "Can we still take a detour?"
Fenya shook her head.
"Then what about turning back? Can we avoid them that way?"
She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head again.
Lynd shrugged. "Looks like we don't have a choice. We keep moving forward."
Fenya let out a weary smile and nodded. She had known from the start that there was no avoiding the danger ahead. Asking Lynd wasn't about seeking a real solution—it was about seeking reassurance, something to keep her own fear at bay.
With the battlefield cleared, the caravan resumed its journey. After traveling for about an hour, they crossed a small hill and arrived at another abandoned village.
Compared to the last one, this village was in far better shape. Most of the houses remained intact, and the area itself was more hospitable. A stream, fed by a nearby mountain, wound its way past the settlement, forming a small lake.
The water had made the land fertile. The surrounding fields were overgrown with wild wheat, tangled among patches of weeds.
This quiet, forsaken village had already been claimed—by a fully intact Dothraki khalasar.
From the bodies scattered around, it was evident that a fierce battle had recently taken place here. The victors of this battle were the Dothraki of this khalasar.
The defeated had already been absorbed into this khalasar, and they could be easily identified by their shaved heads—a mark of submission. The annexation of another khalasar had significantly bolstered their numbers, swelling their population to what seemed to be tens of thousands.
Among them, the vast majority were mounted warriors, while the rest were slaves taken from various conquests. Their sprawling encampment not only covered the entire village but also extended into the surrounding farmland and even the lake. The air was filled with noise and chaos.
Perhaps due to the sudden influx of people, the khalasar seemed bloated and unwieldy. If they set out immediately, logistical issues would undoubtedly arise. Their Khal had likely recognized this as well, which explained why they had chosen to remain camped, consolidating their gains rather than pursuing the remnants of their defeated enemies.
When Lynd and Fenya's caravan came into view, a group of Dothraki riders broke away from the camp and galloped toward them.
Fenya instinctively tensed at the sight but quickly regained her composure. Their numbers weren't overwhelming, and more importantly, they hadn't drawn their weapons.
The riders approached swiftly. Their leader first scanned the herd of horses trailing behind the caravan, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He could tell at a glance that the warhorses had belonged to several different khalasars.
His gaze then shifted to Lynd, who was among the warhorses, and his expression darkened with disdain at the sight of Lynd's full armor. But before he could say anything, his eyes fell upon Lynd's mount.
Though among the many descendants of the legendary mare, Moonmaid, Lynd's horse appeared to be one of the most unremarkable, that was only by comparison. Its quality was unmistakable—after all, it had compelled a herd of Dothraki warhorses to acknowledge it as their leader and follow in its wake.
"You are not worthy of it," the Dothraki warrior said, pointing at Lynd.
Lynd, who had learned Dothraki from Balin while studying High Valyrian, understood him perfectly.
He did not bother with a reply. Instead, he reached for his bow, pulled two arrows from his quiver, nocked one lazily, and loosed it into the air. Almost instantly, he released the second arrow, which raced after the first and split it cleanly in two.
The entire time, Lynd never even turned his head to watch the arrows—he had fired completely blind.
A collective murmur of astonishment rippled through the Dothraki. The scorn in the lead warrior's eyes vanished. He pointed at Lynd again and said, "You are worthy of it."
With that, he turned his attention to Fenya and asked in a deep voice, "Merchant of Myr?"
"Yes," Fenya answered curtly. She knew exactly how to handle Dothraki—no flattery, no servility. Just a straightforward response.
The Dothraki seemed satisfied with her demeanor and gave a brief nod. "Follow me."
Without another word, he turned his horse and led them toward a massive tent near the lake.
...
On the way, Lynd and Fenya witnessed the raw, unrestrained nature of Dothraki culture. Warriors feasted on their spoils openly by the roadside, with no regard for modesty. Fights broke out over the slightest provocation, and once blades were drawn, there was no retreat—only death. Even those who had fought side by side as brothers moments ago would not hesitate to turn on one another.
The expressions of the slaves within the camp were vacant, their gazes empty. To them, this was nothing new. They had simply exchanged one master for another.
Several Dothraki were sorting the captives. Women and children were separated and sent deeper into the camp. Young men were divided into labor groups and assigned to various slave gangs. The elderly, however, were herded together and driven toward the camp's outskirts. They seemed to understand their fate. Fear flickered in their eyes, but none of them resisted. They were like lambs being led to slaughter.
As Lynd passed by, his gaze lingered meaningfully on the group of old slaves awaiting execution.
...
Before long, they arrived at the entrance of the grand tent. The Dothraki warrior who had escorted them dismounted and stepped inside. Moments later, he reappeared, gesturing for Lynd and Fenya to enter.
Exchanging a glance, they both dismounted. Lynd left his spear behind, instead securing two plain knightly swords at his waist before stepping forward. Fenya, looking slightly apprehensive, followed him inside.
...
Inside, a feast was in full swing.
Meat roasted over open flames, and the tent was crowded with Dothraki warriors, each indulging without restraint. Many had claimed their own trophies—human or otherwise—and reveled in their victories without a care.
In the center of the tent, two bodies lay sprawled on the ground. Judging by their clothing, they had belonged to this very khalasar. They had likely been slain in a duel held purely for entertainment.
For the Dothraki, a victory feast without the taste of fresh blood was an incomplete celebration. This was exactly as it should be.
At the head of the tent, draped over the seat of honor, was the pelt of a massive beast. Its species was unclear, but its formidable claws made one thing certain—it had been a predator.
A towering Dothraki sat on the animal hide, drinking deeply from a cup made from the skull of an enemy.
He was young, likely in his early twenties, and exceptionally tall. Lynd estimated that he was about the same height as Nymeria. His physique was imposing—his muscles coiled and powerful, resembling a panther's. His skin gleamed with a rich, coppery hue. His thick beard had been braided, adorned with jeweled pendants, while his long, jet-black hair was slicked with oil and woven into a single, massive braid that draped over his shoulder, trailing down his chest to the ground. The golden and copper bells tied to its end chimed melodically with every movement.
As Lynd surveyed the occupants of the tent, the tribal Khal seated in the place of honor was studying him in return. Unlike the other Dothraki, who had regarded Lynd's full suit of armor with open disdain, this Khal reacted differently. The moment Lynd entered, he straightened, his gaze sharpening with keen focus—like a predator assessing a rival.
And in truth, that was exactly what he felt. From the instant he laid eyes on Lynd, the Dothraki Khal was struck by an overwhelming sense of danger—something he had never experienced before.
At that moment, the Dothraki who had led them into the tent stepped forward and whispered a few words to the Khal before gesturing toward Lynd. The Khal gave a slight nod and made a subtle hand motion to his men.
"My master, Khal Drogo, the undefeated stallion who rides the Dothraki Sea," the Dothraki warrior announced, introducing the Khal of this mighty khalasar.
At the mention of Khal Drogo's name, both Lynd and Fenya visibly reacted. Fenya's surprise was immediate—she had heard of Khal Drogo's fearsome reputation. As his title suggested, he was truly undefeated. From the moment he had first appeared in the Dothraki Sea, he had spent the past few years relentlessly conquering and absorbing other khalasars, seven in total. Under his command, there were tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors, not to mention the countless servants and slaves he had claimed.
It was said that the Magisters of Pentos, fearing his wrath, had even planned to offer him a grand palace in exchange for sparing their city. They were reportedly prepared to pay him vast sums of gold and silver every month to keep his attention elsewhere.
Since Khal Drogo had primarily operated in the north and rarely ventured south, Fenya had not expected to encounter him here. The realization left her stunned.
Lynd, however, was shocked for an entirely different reason—he had not anticipated meeting this legendary Dothraki warlord so soon. He had expected that, if he was lucky, he might cross paths with Khal Drogo in Pentos. But fate had clearly decided to move ahead of schedule.
...
As the two of them absorbed this revelation, the Dothraki warrior explained the reason for their summons.
Khal Drogo had been in the Disputed Lands for several days. In that time, he had already crushed three other khalasars, absorbing their warriors and horses and amassing an enormous amount of loot.
However, the sheer volume of plunder had become a logistical burden. He had originally planned to send a detachment to Myr to offload the excess goods. But now that a merchant from Myr had arrived, there was no need for such an effort—he could simply sell it directly to Fenya.