"Oh my god, how did I, a young, unmarried woman, end up ten months pregnant, a big-bellied Mother of Dragons?"
A 26-year-old surgical resident woke up to find herself transmigrated into the body of a 14-year-old pregnant girl: Daenerys Targaryen.
Whatever her previous identity or name, it mattered little now.
She had become the Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men; Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm; Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; Breaker of Chains; Queen of Meereen; Princess of Dragonstone; The Unburnt; Mother of Dragons; Mhysa; and the Silver Queen.
Well, at the moment, she could at most claim the titles of Stormborn and Khaleesi to Khal Drogo.
The title "Mother of Dragons" was still a distant prospect. The most pressing concern was how to survive after Khal Drogo's death.
Drogo was already terminally ill, further afflicted by black magic. Even if she were a seasoned surgeon, let alone a rookie like herself, even the legendary physician Bian Que would be powerless.
With her mind now Daenerys's, she patted her heavy belly, cast aside distracting thoughts, and began to focus on her new world.
The golden sun blazed down like a molten furnace, scorching the earth. Before her stretched a patchwork of uneven, haphazardly arranged fields. Some were planted with rye, its stalks half green and half yellow, with thick ears of grain beginning to fill with milk. Others held low-lying, flattened soybean plants, interspersed with small plots of vegetables and fruits.
The silver-maned mare trotted along, the crisp *pop* of crushed bean pods crunching under her hooves.
Daenerys tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, and muttered under her breath, "What a disaster. It's harvest time, and we've run into these Dothraki."
Khal Drogo's khalasar numbered nearly fifty thousand roaring warriors, with the entire host exceeding one hundred thousand souls.
(PS: Khal: The title of a Dothraki tribal leader, akin to the Mongol "Khan" or Turkic "Qaghan."
Khalasar: A Dothraki term for a mobile tribe, each led by a Khal.
Khaleesi: The Dothraki term for a Khal's wife, which is Daenerys's current status.)
The Dothraki were a people born to the saddle. Every member owned at least one fine horse, meaning that over one hundred thousand souls translated to over one hundred thousand horses trampling this land.
The low, rumbling thunder of hooves seemed to loudly declare that this year, the Lhazareen lands would yield absolutely nothing.
In truth, the Lhazareen, contemptuously called 'Sheepmen' by the Dothraki, hadn't even considered the state of their harvest. Before the mighty *khalasar* of the grasslands, their minds were gripped by the primal fear of death.
Turning her head, Daenerys saw for the nth time a dilapidated farmhouse. Its residents stood nervously on the mud-brick courtyard walls, their almond-shaped eyes—identical to the Dothraki's—shimmering with terror and deeply hidden hatred.
South of the Dothraki Sea, on the southern bank of the Lhazar River, lived a small, weak people.
They bore some resemblance to Daenerys's current people: bronze skin and almond-shaped eyes. But compared to the taller, more barbaric Dothraki, the Lhazareen, primarily farmers, were shorter, with flatter faces and gentler, more cowardly temperaments.
*Clip-clop-clip-clop*
A sound of hooves approached from behind. Daenerys tucked a silver strand of hair, fluttering in the wind, behind her ear as seven or eight knights broke from the rear of the procession.
The Horsemen rode like Jurchen warriors of China, their long, thick, black braids flowing behind them. Unlike the Dothraki, they wore no moon-shaped shaved patch on their foreheads, and their braids were adorned with strings of victory bells that jingled merrily with each horse's stride.
Quickly scanning her memories, Daenerys recognized their identities: Khal Drogo's Bloodriders—Cohollo, Haggo, and Qotho. The remaining few must be among Drogo's Khas—Jhogo and Bonno.
**Bloodriders:** They are not merely the Khal's personal guards, but his companions and brothers, the blood of his blood. Apart from the Khal's horse, they may share everything with him—even his wife. *In Dothraki culture, wives are valued less than horses. Fortunately, Drogo had no intention of sharing his wife, and Daenerys Targaryen escaped that fate.*
**Khas:** The head of a Khas.
A vast nomadic tribe is called a *khalasar*, and a *khalasar* is often composed of many smaller tribes, each called a *khas*. The leader of a *khas* serves as the Khal's deputy and is known as a *khas*.
They rode past Daenerys as if she were invisible, approaching Drogo ahead. Jhogo pointed to a mud-brick and stone manor and spoke first: "Khal, there's a settlement of sheep-herders nearby. Should we go down and take it?"
They had come to find Drogo for the "hunt."
The Dothraki were a nomadic people, lacking industry, crafts, or manufacturing. Everything they needed was acquired through plunder, and over countless generations, they had evolved the most savage and formidable genes for raiding.
Drogo's head swam, his consciousness teetering on the brink of chaos. He lifted his head, struggling to recognize the person before him. His cracked lips parted, and he rasped, his voice barely audible, "I... I can..."
Daenerys' heart sank. According to the plot, her cheap husband was dying, and she, having just arrived, was about to become a widow.
She wasn't sentimental about this husband she'd barely met. The problem was the Horsemen's system—it was utterly barbaric.
The Dothraki Khal was not inherited by blood. The position went to the strongest warrior in the tribe, and the struggle for the title was often brutally bloody. Upon the Khal's death, the Khaleesi was forced to become a priestess in Vaes Dothrak. As for the Khaleesi's posthumous child, survival under the new Khal would be a slim hope.
"Can't you see the Khal is ill?" Daenerys said, patting the horse's flank and striding forward. Ignoring the cold glares of the Bloodriders and Khas, she called out, "These surrounding villages are small and offer little plunder—hardly worth attacking. At least, not worth the Khal's personal attention."
The towering Haggo glared cruelly at Daenerys. "Khaleesi, you have no right to speak here—"
*Crack!*
Daenerys raised her whip and struck. The tip sliced through the air with a sharp, ringing sound, but her bulky frame made her movements too slow. Haggo leaned back easily on his horse and dodged the blow.
"You dare strike me?"
*Shing!* Haggo drew his arakh from his waist, his eyes blazing crimson as he glared at Daenerys.
Daenerys merely sneered, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. In the Dothraki language she had inherited from her predecessor, she declared, "I am the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo, a royal of the noble House Targaryen. Do you dare draw your blade against me?"
She wasn't being foolishly bold. Through a brief glimpse into her predecessor's memories, Daenerys had learned that the Dothraki respected strength, not weakness. The more forceful and ruthless you were, the more they would treat you as an equal.
*Hmm, the weak and the feeble, in the eyes of the Horsemen, are not even considered human.*
Take Viserys, Daenerys's brother, for instance. Or the Lhazareen, who were plundered at will and called "Sheep People."
Of course, being forceful didn't mean being reckless. As Haggo was a Bloodrider of Drogo, he would never harm the Khaleesi, who carried Drogo's child, in the Khal's presence.
Moreover, Daenerys was not alone.
Before a few sentences had passed, her guards came galloping to her side.
Jorah Mormont skillfully maneuvered his horse, galloping a few strides to reach Daenerys's side. He drew his sword and swept a stern gaze over Haggo and his men.
Behind Daenerys, her *khas* bent their bows, nocking arrows and pointing them expressionlessly at Haggo.
Drogo commanded the entire *khalasar*, a vast confederation of *khas* tribes. Fortunately, the Khaleesi also had her own *khas*, making Daenerys, as the Khaleesi, a *khas* in her own right.
Her *khas* was small, only one or two hundred people, primarily serving as her personal guards and attending to her daily needs.
Cohollo, his hair streaked with gray and his face crisscrossed with intricate, savage scars, glanced coldly at Daenerys. "Sheathe your weapons. Haggo, you will fight as my blood's blood. Remember, you must claim the most heads."
Drogo was thirty years old, and Haggo and Kosso were of similar age. Only Cohollo was older; though his muscular physique and youthful appearance belied his age, he was already over fifty.
When Drogo was a child, his father's enemies had stolen him away. Cohollo had fought desperately to rescue the young *Khal Drogo*.
In essence, Cohollo was almost a second father to Drogo.
Cohollo helped manage Drogo's own *khas*, making him a *khas* in his own right. This is why his status and authority among the Bloodriders were paramount.
Hearing Cohollo's words, Haggo's face flushed crimson. He spat bitterly on the ground in anger, turned his horse, and trotted away.
Qotho and the other Khas cast wolfish glances at Daenerys before spurring their horses after Haggo.
Only after the warhorses' whinnying faded did Cohollo say calmly, "As the leader of the khalasar, the Khal must charge into battle first and be the first to scale the walls of the sheep-men's city. This is his duty and his glory."
Daenerys felt a surge of gratitude, understanding that the old Cohollo was explaining the Dothraki ways to her.
Among Drogo's three Bloodriders, only Cohollo treated her with kindness—or rather, only he saw her as Drogo's wife. The other Dothraki merely viewed her as a noble breeding tool that Drogo had purchased from Illyrio.
The titles of "Princess of Dragonstone" and "Stormborn Targaryen" meant nothing to the Horsemen.
Daenerys forced a stiff smile. "With the Khal acting like this, I worry..."
Cohollo raised a hand to interrupt her. "You should worry about the other Khas beginning their raids without the Khal's permission. Though your worry is useless."
Daenerys watched him ride away with a bitter expression.
Soon, the warriors' war cries and the sheep-men's wails mingled with the stench of blood and fire, reaching Daenerys's ears.
Standing on the hill, the tall wild grass brushed against her calf-high leg wraps, tickling her soft skin like an infant's caress.
Spinning around, Daenerys could see columns of smoke rising from the burning fires, like fingers stabbing into the sky from the nearby Dothraki estates.
Holding her swollen belly, she closed her eyes in sorrow, forcing herself not to think of how many pregnant women like herself might be slaughtered today, or how many children and women would be plundered and enslaved by Drogo's Khalasar.
"This is truly a cruel world."
Daenerys's small Khas bustled with activity. Some were leveling the hilly terrain to make way for stakes and tents, while others stood atop the wagons, unloading large chests filled with Drogo and Daenerys's blankets and belongings.
Kao's camp was at the center of the entire Khalasar, with the hill Daenerys had chosen as its focal point. Yurts sprang up like mushrooms after a rain, suddenly filling the fields in every direction.
The Horsemen refused to dwell in stone houses, preferring their tents.
The sight of over a hundred thousand people working together, full of life and energy, brought a flicker of interest to Daenerys, who had been feeling depressed since arriving in this strange new world.
"Ser Jorah, will you walk with me?"
Jorah Mormont, nicknamed "The Great Bear," was a man from the North of Westeros, the son of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch from Bear Island. He was also the uncle of the little girl from Bear Island in *Game of Thrones*.
Because he had sold slaves, he was sentenced to be beheaded by Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. He fled across the Narrow Sea to Essos.
When Daenerys married Drogo, he had sworn allegiance to Viserys.
After Drogo placed the Golden Crown on Viserys's head (by pouring molten gold over his skull), The Great Bear became Daenerys's sworn knight.
When he first joined Drogo's retinue, The Great Bear still wore the standard attire of a Westerosi knight: wool tunic, wool trousers, undergarments, leather armor, and plate armor.
After living on the Great Grass Sea for nearly a year, he began to adapt to the Horseman's clothing: leather sandals, braided mane leg wraps, Dothraki sleeveless painted leather vests, and bronze-medallion belts.
"Khaleesi, won't you check on Drogo's injuries?" Jorah rode alongside Daenerys's mare, followed by four young Dothraki knights.
"More than a dozen of the hairless ones are gathered around him. It's too crowded. Wait until they leave, and then you can inspect him with me."
In the Khalasar, there were two types of healers: infertile women and eunuch slaves. The herbalists healed wounds with potions and charms, while the eunuchs used sharp knives, needles, and searing fire. Among the Horsemen, they were collectively known as "hairless ones."
Among the tents that nearly covered the earth, slaves and women carried firewood, the wails of slaughtered livestock echoed, and people hauled buckets of water from the well and river. Some retrieved grinding stones to meticulously sharpen the curved blades of warriors fresh from battle, while long-haired Dothraki warriors barked orders. Barefoot children chased each other through the crowd, their laughter mingling with the stench of sweat, horse dung, and blood, all overlaid with the aroma of roasting meat, assaulting Daenerys's nostrils.
Rounding a yurt, they came upon a clearing where a group of knights were crudely molesting a dozen naked women, their raucous laughter echoing. Even after spotting Daenerys on her silver mare, they showed no inclination to cover themselves.
Drogo's Khalasar was not solely composed of bronze-skinned Dothraki. Beyond the warriors, there were more slaves serving them. White people like Daenerys, even paler than her, were common. Red-skinned eunuchs, black-skinned people from the Summer Isles, and dark-skinned Asshai from the Shadow Lands were also present. With only fragmented memories to guide her, Daenerys struggled to distinguish their races.
Even among the Dothraki themselves, there was no uniformity.
The Horsemen roamed the continent of Essos, plundering countless peoples for slaves. With no concept of marriage and driven by base desires, their bloodlines had long been mixed.
One thing remained constant: all Dothraki had almond-shaped eyes.
"Khaleesi, has something changed?"
Since the afternoon, Jorah had sensed something amiss with Daenerys. Now, seeing her fail to intervene as she usually would when the Horsemen forced themselves on the women of Razah, he grew increasingly suspicious.
*The original Daenerys was a kind-hearted girl. The first time she witnessed Dothraki warriors gang-raping captured women, she had rushed forward with compassion to stop them, even suggesting the warriors marry the women.*
*This violated Dothraki tradition.*
*Dothraki warriors had the right to do as they pleased with their captured slaves—keep them, kill them, or sell them. Not even the Kao could interfere with this right.*
*Moreover, ordinary Dothraki had no concept of marriage. The Horse King taking a wife was merely an exception.*
"I understand what you mean," Daenerys murmured, her gaze lowered. "But even if I try to stop them, without Drogo's backing, who will listen to me?"
Jorah, truly the Dragon Queen's most devoted sycophant, proved remarkably perceptive. After all, ever since her arrival that afternoon, she had remained mostly silent, observing and diligently mimicking the original owner's behavior.
"Khaleesi, if you command it, I will kill them all!" the young Horseman Aggo shouted, brandishing his longbow.
Drogo, however, was rather fond of his wife. Though the Khas he had gifted Daenerys was small, it housed a group of exceptional young warriors. Aggo, Quarro, Jhogo, and Rakharo even had the potential to become Bloodriders.
Bloodriders were one-in-ten-thousand warriors, nearly equivalent to the *tumen* commanders in Genghis Khan's army.
Ser Jorah's pupils constricted. "This is another Khas tribe's territory. If you attack, you'll die." He knew the Dothraki's temperament—they acted decisively, without hesitation.
"I fear no death," Aggo retorted, his dark, almond-shaped eyes blazing with unwavering intensity.
"None of us fear death!" the remaining warriors roared in unison.
"Causing unrest could endanger the Khaleesi," Jorah warned, gesturing toward Daenerys's swollen belly.
The topic was awkward. Daenerys glanced around, then suddenly raised her whip and pointed at a stout Black man. "You, stop."
The Black man, in his forties, had a round, bald head glistening with sweat. He smiled humbly and asked, "Khaleesi, what is your command?"
"Gaa-gaa-gaa!" A large white goose flapped its wings, struggling in his thick fingers and pecking at his calloused arm with its yellow beak.
"I want this goose," Daenerys said.
The Dothraki subsisted primarily on horse meat, considering it the finest food in the world. But after recalling the original owner's memories, Daenerys felt nauseated at the mere thought of it.
Changing the subject was one reason, but improving their diet was another.
The beads of sweat on the Black man's bald head grew denser. His face pleaded as he reluctantly refused, "Khaleesi, I am Lord Jorah's cook. Lady Lilith cannot stomach horse meat, and I barely managed to find a few geese at the Sheepmen's Estate this afternoon. I have no authority to grant your request!"
*Crack!*
"Aaaah—"
Aggo, enraged by this defiance, struck the man across the cheek with his whip without hesitation. The blow ripped open the flesh, leaving a centipede-like gash. "Insolent dog! Even Lord Jorah himself could not refuse the Khaleesi's command."
The portly chef clutched his face, squatting on the ground and whimpering piteously. The white goose he'd been holding squawked and fled, its wings flapping wildly. He was in no state to respond.
The entire sequence of events happened in a flash. Before Daenerys could even open her mouth to speak, her whip had already struck. There was no time to stop her.
"Who dares steal my goose?!" a furious shout erupted from the sky-blue tent nearby.