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Chapter 23: The Old Man's Gift
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 07:32:52 +0000 UTCJorah was right, and the cold logic of his words was undeniable. To follow Dany’s plan, the strong would suffer immensely to prolong the lives of the weak. Their rest time would be cut in half, their work under the scorching sun doubled.
"This is my khalasar," Dany insisted, her voice quiet but unyielding. "Whether they are old, weak, sick, or crippled, they are my people. I have a duty to protect every one of them."
"But what of your soldiers? They could die of exhaustion in the dust, searching for water for those who are already half-dead."
She hesitated for only a moment. "A soldier’s greatest honor," she said, her expression hardening, "is to die in service to their queen and her people."
Jorah stared at her. "Service to the people?" It was the first time he had ever heard such a sentiment. It sounded strangely noble, certainly more meaningful than two warriors hacking each other to death over a perceived slight. But he did not care about the honor of Dothraki warriors; he cared only for his princess.
He gritted his teeth and leaned closer, his voice a low, desperate whisper. "Your Grace, your water-finding method is brilliant. With just your eighty elite warriors, we could walk out of this wasteland unscathed. Why not…?" His eyes were dark, his voice cold. "We take the supplies and leave quietly while the others sleep. It is better for a hundred to survive than for all to perish. You have gold. We can reach a coastal city, buy a ship, find a quiet manor, and wait for the dragons to grow."
Dany shook her head, a deep sigh escaping her lips. "Ser Jorah. I am their Khaleesi. Never speak to me of such things again."
"Very well," he said, the tension leaving his shoulders as if he had given up completely. "But you must be prepared, Your Grace. People will begin to die soon. You are not a god. You cannot save them all."
"How much farther?" she asked, a knot of worry tightening in her stomach.
"We have crossed perhaps a quarter of this land," he said grimly. "A third at most. And that is assuming we have traveled in a straight line, which we have not."
The crisis was coming. She could feel it. The deeper they went, the scarcer the water became. Tomorrow, the limited supply would become no supply at all. We will have to kill the old horses soon, she decided. Then, a sudden, grim thought brought a humorless smile to her lips. And I have forgotten one of the most important water sources.
She looked at Jorah, a strange light in her eyes. In the most desperate times, a person can drink their own urine. It is disgusting, but it is life. Horse blood, too, holds water.
"What is it?" Jorah asked, a chill running down his spine at the look she was giving him.
"Nothing," she said, turning away. "I am going to train my dragons."
As she opened her tent flap, basket on her back, she saw Avanti riding toward her, his old horse kicking up dust. "Khaleesi! Watson is dying!" he cried in a panic. "He is going to die!"
"I see," Dany sighed, her heart heavy.
"Khaleesi, what are the arrangements for his passing?" Avanti asked, trotting alongside her.
She stopped. "He is Volantene. I do not know their customs. You must ask him."
"I did!" Avanti said quickly. "He wishes to be cremated, with burial goods. I cannot make such a decision, so I came to you."
Dany understood. In this barren land, firewood was more precious than gold. She carried her dragons on her back and followed the old herdsman to Watson's tent.
"The nobles of Volantis are of the blood of Old Valyria," the toothless old man rasped, his voice thin as paper. "Like your family, we practice cremation. I… I was only a slave, born by the river Rhoyne. I should have a river burial, but… cough, cough…" A look of desperate longing filled his ancient, blue eyes. "But my Hargo… he was a Khal. A great warrior, like Khal Drogo. He rode his fiery horse into the night lands. I wish… I wish to join him."
Dany’s heart ached with pity. "Say no more," she said softly. "I understand. I have broken your slave collar. You are one of my people now. I will see you buried by the customs of the Dothraki. The Horse God will accept you."
The old man was filled with both excitement and a new worry. He struggled to sit up, his spine arching with a spasm of pain. "Truly?" he pleaded, his gaze hopeful. "The Horse God will let me enter the night lands? But I…"
Dany’s mind raced. "You saw the comet in the sky, did you not? You understand its meaning?"
"I heard," the old man nodded weakly, "that it was Khal Drogo and his five hundred warriors, their blood staining the sky…"
His words sent a fresh pang of grief through her, but she pushed it down. She gave Avanti a sharp, warning glare. He must be the one spreading these sad tales.
"That is right," she said, her voice full of false confidence. "You will ride your own fiery horse to meet the Khal in the sky. And when we are safe, and the Khal leads his warriors into the true night lands, he will bring you with him. Drogo is the greatest of Khals; the Horse God will not deny his companion."
"Wonderful!" the old man gasped, slumping back onto his furs as if a great weight had been lifted. But a moment later, he shot up again, a look of panic on his face as he clutched her wrist. "But Khal Drogo does not know me! Will he accept me?"
"Of course," Dany said, thinking fast. "When you are cremated, I will shout to the sky and ask the Khal to take you in. He is watching over us. He will hear me."
"Oh, thank the gods," Watson whispered, his grip slackening.
Dany tried to stand, but he grabbed the leg of her sandsilk trousers, his grip surprisingly strong. "What is it?" she asked, crouching down again and taking his hand, which was as cold and dry as a dead branch.
"Khaleesi, you are a good woman," he wheezed. "I am leaving. I cannot repay your kindness. But I have something… my life's work…" He tilted his head, looking around the tent, and with a trembling hand, pointed to a dilapidated horse-skin bag in the corner. "There is a book… bound in parchment. It is all I have. I give it to you."
His life's work? Dany’s mind went blank with horror. She knew what his "work" was. The erotic arts of Old Valyria.
Seeing a chance to be useful, the oblivious Avanti hurried to the corner, retrieved the book, and brought it to her. It was as thick as a maester’s chronicle. His hands shook with reverence, and he dropped it with a heavy thud.
It fell open at her feet. She glanced down and saw exactly what she expected: a charcoal sketch of two bodies entwined in a position that would challenge a gymnast, accompanied by densely packed Valyrian text.
She quickly snapped the book shut with the toe of her sandal, coughed lightly, and said, "I accept your gift. Thank you, Watson."
The old man nodded, his cloudy eyes catching sight of the white dragon peeking out from the basket on her back. A final spark of light flared in their depths. "Khaleesi," he gasped. "This book… all my life… I only now see… it was born for you. Only you can make the best use of it."
This lecherous old man! Dany thought, a hot flush of anger and embarrassment rising in her cheeks.
"Wait," he rasped, his withered hand grabbing the strap of her sandal. "The sacrifices!"
"I have not forgotten," she promised hurriedly. "Your horse was disloyal and threw you. I will choose a more docile mount to be killed and burned with you. And a bag of gold, and a warrior's weapons, if you wish."
"Thank—" The word caught in his throat. He tilted his head, his hands fell away, and he was gone. The expression of happy, peaceful anticipation froze on his old, shriveled face.8
