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Chapter 22: The Weeping Star
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 07:30:16 +0000 UTC"He was not a pure horseman, you see," old Avanti continued, his voice a dry rasp. "Blue-Eyed Haggo had the strength of any great Khal, but he lacked their courage. He was tainted by his father's blood, and like those who live in stone houses, he was accustomed to using poison and shameless tricks."
The old man shook his head, his face a mask of disgust. "To send men to sneak into another's camp and steal a Khal's son… such a thing had never been done in a thousand years on the Great Grass Sea. Everyone knows we Dothraki solve our problems with strong horses and the steel in our hands."
Daenerys listened, a thought flashing through her mind. That blue-eyed Haggo was not dishonorable; he was simply unlucky. If his father had taught him true strategy instead of just the arts of the bedchamber, a man with such a flexible mind could have forged an empire.
As they spoke, the small group slowly caught up with the main column. The scorching wind could scour the red desert clean, but it would take a day or two to erase the tracks of two hundred people. Illuminated by the eerie, bloody light of the comet, the fine traces of their passage were like a shallow river flowing across the sand, exceptionally easy to follow.
"Khaleesi," Avanti said, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "The comet in the sky… it is a convenience for our night travel, yes, but its color… like the blood of a god. It is an ill omen." His fear was a palpable thing, and it began to spread. "In this purgatory, with the red sand and the sky stained red by this weeping star, it feels as if something terrible is happening in some faraway hell, and we are caught in its glow."
"Yes, I feel it too," another of the old men muttered, and soon even Dany’s bloodriders were shifting uneasily in their saddles.
How dare this old fool speak such poison and spread fear among my people? Dany’s patience snapped. She reined in her horse and fixed him with a hard stare. "I ask you, Avanti. Did the comet appear before Khal Drogo was buried?"
The old man, startled by her harsh tone, stammered, "N-no, Khaleesi."
"I ask you again. Is the Weeping Star a symbol of Khal Drogo?"
"Yes…"
"Was his steed as red as burning coal?" she demanded, her voice ringing with power.
"Yes…"
"And was he not accompanied into the fire by five hundred warriors who died bravely in battle?"
"Yes, Khaleesi."
By now, the surrounding Dothraki had turned from panic to bewilderment, their faces slowly filling with a dawning understanding.
Daenerys rose in her stirrups, her voice soaring over the crowd. "Our Khal rode his great red steed into the kingdom of night! That comet is Drogo, and the bloody trail he leaves across the sky is the river of blood from his five hundred warriors, following their Khal in death as they did in life!" She glared at Avanti. "Their heads were all cut off. How could they not stain the sky red?"
She let her words sink in, then delivered the final stroke. "Drogo knows we struggle in this red waste. He refuses to leave us. He and his warriors stand guard in the sky, watching over us. Only when we are safe will he truly enter the night lands."
Her words were a perfect, irrefutable fusion of their beliefs and their reality. The Dothraki, who had been on the verge of panic, were now filled with a renewed sense of awe and purpose. Avanti, the old herdsman, was utterly convinced.
"Khaleesi," he said, his voice filled with reverence, "you are as wise as the crones in Vaes Dothrak."
Dany did not like the comparison. She had no intention of ever becoming one of them. She dismissed the old man coolly. "Avanti, the man Watson is sick and cannot drink. Let him have your ration of mare's milk." Without waiting for a reply, she spurred her horse and rode on, leaving him with his mouth hanging open in aggrieved protest.
Her interpretation of the Weeping Star spread through the khalasar like wildfire, transforming the omen of fear into a symbol of divine protection. The superstitious horse-people were reassured, their confidence restored. They did not know that across the world, kings and lords, priests and pirates were all looking up at the same bloody streak in the sky and forging prophecies of their own.
On the third day of their march south, they had traveled nearly three hundred kilometers in total. Food was not the issue; they had horse meat in abundance. The problem was water, and the crushing, soul-sapping heat.
"Khaleesi," Quilo reported, his face grim. "The number of bitter pools we found today was less than half of yesterday's. Many of our waterskins are empty."
Dany wiped the sweat from her face, trying to gather her strength. They had just made their third camp, building another low, curved wall to provide some shade. As the eastern sky began to pale with the coming dawn, she knew she had to find a new solution, or they would all die.
"There must be no shortage of water for the men or the horses," she said, her voice heavy with the weight of command. "Quilo, gather a dozen warriors. I will teach you a new way to find it."
She led them to a high piece of ground and pointed down at the plain below. "Have you noticed? Some places are thick with devil-grass, while others are barren. If you look to the horizon, you can see that the thickest patches of grass form a line." Her voice grew with excitement. "Perhaps there is an underground river there. Or perhaps it was once a river, now long dry."
The hint of a path was all she had. Her new method was simple, and brutal. "The team will divide in two. The strongest warriors will ride ahead, for a hundred kilometers if they must. Follow the lines of grass, and dig pits along the way." She looked at their questioning faces. "Dig until the sand is moist. A pit deep enough will seep with groundwater. If not, the damp sand itself can be used. A second team will follow to collect it and filter it."
To prove her point, she had them scoop the sludge from the bottom of a nearby bitter pool and pour it into a cloth bag. Drops of foul water dripped out, but the hole they had dug in the pool bed began to slowly, miraculously, seep with new, cleaner water.
Seeing this, the horsemen let out a joyous cheer, as if they had already conquered the terrible red waste.
But as they celebrated, Jorah pulled her aside, his face etched with a grim, pragmatic concern. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low whisper. "You are sacrificing the energy and the lives of your strongest warriors… to keep the useless old and weak alive."
