Snowing_Melody
patreon
Chapter 7: The Red Waste
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:16:15 +0000 UTCUnlike the people of her past life who often stayed awake long past midnight, the Dothraki lived by the sun's rhythm, sleeping after dusk and rising before the dawn. By the time Daenerys had dressed and walked out of her tent, Drogo's khalasar was already a boiling cauldron of activity.
Women shouted at their children, warriors barked orders as tents were struck, and the ever-present horses stamped and whinnied in the cool morning air. A haze of gray-black smoke from a hundred cooking fires and the steam rising from iron pots obscured her vision. The smells of the morning—horse meat tumbling in boiling water, the fresh, warm dung of the mounts, and the sharp scent of crushed grass under thousands of hooves—mixed into a strange, vibrant perfume of nomadic life.
Judging by the yolk-red sun just cresting the horizon, Dany guessed it was not yet five in the morning. Not that she could be certain. She couldn't even figure out what season it was. The world of Ice and Fire had no fixed seasonal changes. The Stark motto, Winter is Coming, was not a simple turn of phrase, but the most severe of warnings. A single season could last for years, and if a fruitless, frozen winter stretched on for too long, those who didn't freeze would surely starve. In the North of Westeros, a 'Long Winter' could kill more than half the population. If the gods were truly cruel and a 'Long Night' fell, it was not unheard of for entire civilizations to be wiped out.
Breakfast was a rich mutton soup, stewed for over an hour with barley, onions, carrots, turnips, and seasoned with pepper and saffron. The red copper bowl was as large as a cafeteria tray, and Dany ate every last drop, sopping up the broth with a piece of barley bread. She herself was surprised by her appetite. Was it the pregnancy, or had the awakening of her dragon-mother physique and the soul-resonance from last night's dream ignited a new fire within her? She wasn't sure, but she woke feeling full of a boundless, vibrant energy.
Less than half an hour after breakfast, bathed in the golden-red morning light, the colossal khalasar began to move. It was like a dark cloud drifting slowly across the land, leaving a messy, trampled brown stain upon the green curtain of the plains. The direction of the Khal's horse was the direction of the khalasar.
Drogo, slumped on his great black steed, was far worse than he had been yesterday. He was so drowsy he hadn't even recognized her when she'd woken. He'd refused the mutton soup and drank little of the mare's milk. He was a mountain, slowly beginning to collapse.
By noon, the landscape had changed. The green grasslands and wheat fields vanished, replaced by low, rolling hills and yellow-brown gravel. The sun was a ruthless tyrant, beating down with a scorching, relentless heat. The air above the ground shimmered, twisting the view into a watery mirage. A trickle of sweat, like a slender stream, flowed down between Dany's breasts.
The world fell into a rhythmic silence, broken only by the steady clack-clack of thousands of hooves, the gentle tinkle of the bells in Drogo's hair, and the low murmur of conversations from the riders behind them.
Delirious, Drogo had lost his way. He had strayed from the valley of the Lhazar River, leading them deeper and deeper into the red wastelands to the south.
The Dothraki ate only twice a day, at morning and at night. When hunger gnawed at midday, they ate jerky on horseback. Dany chewed on a piece of the reddish-brown horse meat. The muscle fibers were clearly visible; it was pure, unadulterated food of a quality the wealthy in her old life could only dream of. But it was so tough it nearly cut the roof of her mouth. She had no choice but to take a mouthful of mare's milk and let the strip of meat soak in her cheek until it softened, eventually releasing a strange, sweet flavor.
The thudding of a fast-approaching horse broke the monotony. Aggo, her loyal guard, appeared in the distance, his horse kicking up a thin line of red-brown dust. He reined in sharply beside them.
"Khal, Khaleesi," he said, glancing hesitantly at the slumped figure of Drogo. "The land ahead is barren. There is no sign of habitation, and no danger, but… this direction seems wrong."
The scouts were the eyes of the khalasar, constantly fanning out to survey the land and watch for rival khalasars.
Dany urged her horse next to Drogo's, about to try and rouse him, but then she stopped. Her pupils contracted as she took in the vista around them. They were truly in the heart of a vast, dark-red Gobi-like desert. An idea, sudden and sharp, formed in her mind.
"Don't ask questions," she told Aggo, her voice firm. "Keep going. Ride ahead and find a suitable place for us to camp."
As Aggo galloped off, Dany looked with worry at the Khal. A swarm of bloodflies circled him, the buzzing of their wings a low hum at the edge of her hearing. As large as bees, they were a heavy, purplish, disgusting insect that lived in swamps and stagnant pools, feeding on the blood of men and horses and laying their eggs in carrion or on the flesh of the dying.
Drogo had always hated them. He used to snatch them from the air with lightning speed, never missing. He would hold the buzzing fly in his giant palm, feeling it struggle, before squeezing his fist shut. When he opened it, there would be nothing but a red smear on his skin.
Now, he was oblivious. A fly crawled on his mount's rump, and the great steed flicked its tail in irritation. Others flitted around Drogo's head, getting closer and closer, but the Khal did not react. His eyes were fixed on the brown hills in the distance, the reins hanging limp from his hand. One fly landed on his bare shoulder. Another landed on his neck and began crawling toward his mouth.
Khal Drogo swayed slightly in his saddle, the bells in his hair tinkling softly.
Then, he began to lean. Slowly, inexorably, he tilted to the side. Dany, who had been watching his every move, spurred her filly forward. Just as he was about to topple, her hand shot out like a striking snake, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright.
The swarm of bloodflies scattered for a heartbeat, then returned.
But the moment had been seen. The whispers from the riders behind them erupted into a wave of shocked, noisy chatter.
"The Khal nearly fell from his horse!"
"A Khal who falls from his horse…"
A Dothraki who cannot ride is not a man. A Khal who cannot ride is nothing.
"Be silent!" Dany twisted in her saddle, her voice ringing with an authority that surprised even herself. "The Khal is still on his horse!" She released Drogo's arm. The jolt seemed to wake him. For the first time in days, a flicker of consciousness returned to his eyes.
"Moon of My Life," he rasped.
Daenerys felt a pang of something—pity, embarrassment. She searched her memory for the correct response. "My Sun and Stars," she replied, her voice softer. "Do you wish to stop and rest?"
At that moment, the bloodriders galloped up, their faces grim. "Blood of my blood," Qotho called out.
Before Drogo could respond, Daenerys seized the moment. "The Khal has given an order," she announced loudly. "It is late. We will make camp here for the night."
"Here?" Haggo looked up at the sun, still high in the sky—it was only mid-afternoon. He scanned the dry, desolate landscape. His ferocious, triangular eyes narrowed. "We cannot camp here."
"A woman does not give the order to halt," Qotho added, his hand on the hilt of his arakh. "Not even a Khaleesi."
"It is an order from Khal Drogo," Dany repeated, her chin high.
The old bloodrider, Cohollo, gave her a long, deep look. Then he nodded slowly and turned to his companions. "Find the nearest water source. We will make an oval camp between the water and the Khal's tent." Qotho and Haggo, though clearly displeased, wheeled their horses and rode off to obey.
Soon, the news came back that a stream had been found. The main body of the khalasar began to move past her, heading toward the water. As a creaking wooden cart rumbled by, a thin, weak cry for help drifted out. "Help me… water… I want to drink water…"
The voice was faint, but Dany recognized it. It was Lyra.
She was lying alone in the back of the jolting cart. The blood that dripped from between her legs had soaked her dress a dark crimson. One of her golden sandals was gone, and her pale, lifeless calf swayed with every bump.
"Wait," Daenerys called out, stopping the slave woman driving the cart. She covered her nose against the pungent, coppery smell of blood. "What has happened to her? Why is no one helping her? Did you not hear her ask for water?"
"Khaleesi," the black slave woman said, her eyes downcast. "The lady Lyra fell from her horse."
Dany felt a jolt. Because of what I said? she thought. Did she really try to ride? Even the strongest Dothraki women did not ride so close to their time. A pregnant woman in a cart was not shamed.
Seeing Dany's silence, the woman continued, her voice low. "Because of… inappropriate words… Jhogo has stripped her of her status. She is a slave now, like me. A slave has no maids, and the hairless ones will not heal a slave."
"What did she say?" Dany asked, though she already had a sinking feeling she knew.
Before the woman could answer, Lyra began to moan from the cart, her mind lost in a delirious fever. "My child… the son of Jhogo Khal… save him… He is the future Khal… I am the Khaleesi… help me…"
Dany was stunned by the woman's foolishness. Had she no sense at all?
The slave woman immediately fell to her knees, her face a mask of terror. "Forgive me, Khaleesi! I will drag her out and feed her to the dogs, as I was told!"
"Feed her to the dogs?" Dany asked, horrified.
"Jhogo commanded it," the woman stammered.
"Is he mad? She carries his child!"
"She cannot give birth," the slave woman explained, pointing a trembling finger at Lyra's still body. "She fell from the horse this morning. Jhogo sent a healer, but she kept bleeding. The healer said she could not be saved. But she will not die, and she keeps saying… these dangerous things."
