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Chapter 14: Drogo's Funeral
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:29:31 +0000 UTC"We have over two hundred people," Ser Jorah reported, his voice grim, "but fewer than a hundred who can truly fight. The only elite warriors are the sixty men of your own khas." He paused, a look of pain on his face. "It is foreseeable… on the long journey ahead, that we will lose half of the old, the weak, and the children."
"And supplies?" Dany asked, her brow furrowed.
"There is a horse for everyone," Rakharo answered. "But only two hundred cattle and sheep left for food. The stream is barely enough for us now that the main khalasar is gone, but it is a five-kilometer walk." He gestured to the desolate landscape. "There is some devil-grass in the rock crevices. It is tough, but it will feed the horses for a few more days. We cannot stay here long. The land is exhausted."
"Where should we go?" Dany asked, a thoughtful look in her eyes. She decided to test them. "What are your plans? If I were to form this remnant into a new khalasar, and ask the four of you to become my bloodriders, would you accept?"
The four Dothraki warriors looked deeply troubled. Quilo was the first to speak, shaking his head. "That is impossible, Khaleesi. To be a woman's bloodrider… it would bring me great shame. And there are only ever three."
Aggo lowered his eyes. "I cannot swear such an oath. Only a man may lead a khalasar."
"You are a Khaleesi, and only a Khaleesi," Rakharo added, his voice firm but not unkind. "I will ride with you to Vaes Dothrak. I will protect you from all dangers until you join the crones of the dosh khaleen. I cannot promise more than that."
Before her Jhogo could speak, Daenerys cut him off, a flash of anger in her eyes. "Enough. I understand. We will set that aside. Our first task is to send the great Khal Drogo to the night lands."
Suddenly, Ser Jorah pushed himself up from his cross-legged position. With a loud shing of steel, he drew his longsword, the sharp edge gleaming in the harsh sunlight. He took a step forward, then knelt on one knee, laying the blade at Daenerys’s feet. "I swear to serve you, my queen," he said, his voice ringing with a conviction that silenced the Dothraki. "To obey your commands and to protect you, with my life if need be." He glanced sideways at the four stunned horsemen. "By the sword in my hand and the bear of my House, I swear that no man will take you to Vaes Dothrak against your will."
The Dothraki exchanged uneasy looks, their dark almond eyes filled with confusion at this strange, foreign ritual. Dany, however, felt a surge of gratitude. Jorah’s loyalty might be complicated, but it was real.
"By Dothraki tradition," she announced, her voice strong again, "a Khal rides his steed into the fire to return to the Horse God. I command you to gather all the wood, dry grass, and vines you can find."
Hearing that the cremation was finally at hand, Qotho and Haggo, who had been brooding in the death-tent, began to prepare their own belongings for the journey.
"You may go," Daenerys said to her maids. "I wish to be alone with him."
When they were gone, she went to her husband's side. For four days he had not woken, his body a living corpse, half of his chest a black, rotted ruin. But he still breathed, a shallow, rattling sound. It was a torment for him, and a humiliation. A great warrior should not die helpless in his bed.
She took a soft feather pillow and pressed it gently over his face, holding it there until the faint breaths ceased. It was over in minutes. She cut away the dead flesh from his wound, cleaned the cavity of its foul pus, and filled it with a thick, herbal ointment.
She called the maids back. Irri and Jhiqui helped her clean his body and hair. Dany herself re-braided his magnificent, hip-length hair, carefully weaving in the gold, silver, and bronze bells that announced his victories. Then, Dorea dressed him in his horsehair leggings and high boots, and they fastened the heavy belt of golden medallions around his waist. Together, they slipped his favorite painted vest—old and faded, but his own—over the scar on his chest.
She had planned the cremation for that evening, but by sunset, they still lacked enough firewood. Her guard Jhogo had ridden the farthest, twenty kilometers north, back to the edge of the Lhazareen lands.
"They shot at me with arrows," he reported angrily. "The sheep-people do not welcome us." He then grew excited. "But I met the khalasar of Khal Odo. When they heard I was preparing for the Khal's funeral, they offered to raid a village to provide us with sacrifices."
Jorah pulled her aside after Jhogo left. "Odo is one of Drogo’s former captains," he warned. "He is likely waiting for you on Pono's orders. Your Grace, what are you thinking? You have tested your guards; they will not abandon their traditions. We are trapped."
"You will understand in two days," she said, giving him a calming look.
The next day at noon, Qotho returned, leading a party from Odo's khalasar. They escorted a hundred Lhazareen slaves, roped together and shuffling with despair, and a dozen wagons piled high with chopped firewood and skins of castor oil.
"These slaves will accompany the Khal on his journey into the night," Qotho said, his voice flat.
Dany, dressed in loose sandsilk trousers and a Dothraki vest that mirrored Drogo's, did not hesitate. "The Khal has you, his bloodriders, and five hundred of his most loyal warriors to ride with him. He has no need of these cowardly goat-slaves." She would have no human sacrifice at her fire.
"You—" Qotho raised his whip, his face a mask of rage.
"Be still," Dany said, her voice cold as ice. "I am in command here." Quilo and Jorah were at her side, and behind her, Aggo and Rakharo had their bows aimed squarely at Qotho’s chest. He backed down.
They worked all afternoon. Before sunset, the pyre was complete: a square platform, five meters long and four meters high, its hollow center filled with straw, shrubs, and hay. This was the Khal’s final bedchamber.
Upon it they laid his treasures: his blankets and painted vests, his saddle and bridle, the whip his father had given him, the arakh he had used to slay Khal Ogo, and his immense dragonbone longbow. When her guard Jhogo went to add the weapons the bloodriders had given her as wedding gifts, she stopped him. "Those are mine," she told him. "And I will keep them."
Then, she took her guards to the foot of the hill and had them dig. Beneath a layer of red soil were several large leather bags. She upended one, and a river of dazzling gold spilled out—medallions the size of a child’s palm. She had hidden three chests of real gold here, and filled the other chests she'd had "thrown out" with brass fakes. The Dothraki, for all their ferocity, had not conceived of such a trick.
This real gold was layered over the Khal’s treasures. Then, Qotho and Haggo carried Drogo’s body from the tent. They laid him on his silk quilts, his head facing northeast, toward the Mother of Mountains.
Rakharo brought Drogo’s crimson stallion. It was a magnificent, fierce beast, its coat the color of glowing coals. It was strangely calm today. Led to the pyre, it seemed to know its fate. It stretched its neck, licking Drogo's face one last time. Two thick, crystal tears dripped from its great dark eyes, moistening the dead Khal’s hair. It ate a shriveled apple from Dany’s hand, stomped its hooves, and then stood quietly. Facing the axe that Rakharo swung, it showed no fear.
Its body was placed on a platform of its own. Qotho and Haggo then built two smaller pyres for themselves, covering them with their own weapons and wealth. They brought their own mounts, fed them each a final apple, and cut off their heads with their own axes. They then laid down upon their pyres, their arakhs in hand, ready for the fire.
A final, long platform was built. Upon it, they stacked the five hundred heads of Cohollo's fallen warriors, their faces turned toward their Khal. Cohollo’s head was placed beside Drogo’s own. The pyre was complete, a monument of death and loyalty, waiting for the flame.
