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Chapter 17: My Khalasar
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:40:53 +0000 UTCWhen the last of the ash had cooled and the sun was high in the sky, Daenerys gathered her people. She had been washed clean, and now she sat astride her silver filly, a dragonling cradled in her arms, another perched on each shoulder. The horse walked slowly through the crowd as she looked down at the faces of the outcasts and survivors who were now her entire world.
"From this moment," she shouted, her voice ringing with a power she hadn't known she possessed, "my khas is a khalasar! I will not go to Vaes Dothrak to sit with the crones of the dosh khaleen! I will not! I ask you now: will you follow me, into a future that ‘everyone does not know’?"
A chaotic, passionate roar answered her.
"I will!"
"We will!"
"Yes, Khaleesi!"
A satisfied smile touched her lips. "Good!" she cried. "Jhogo! Aggo! Rakharo!"
The three young warriors pushed their way to the front. Their faces, which had before shown only hesitant loyalty, were now alight with an unconcealable, joyous excitement. Behind them, Quilo’s face fell, a mask of ash-grey disappointment. He hated, in that moment, the ancient tradition that said there could be only three bloodriders.
Daenerys dismounted. She walked to the three young men and unhooked the long, silver-handled whip from her saddle. "This whip was a gift to me at my wedding," she said, holding it out to Jhogo. "Now, I give it to you. I name you ko, and I ask you to swear to be the blood of my blood. To live with me, die with me, and fight by my side."
Jhogo took the whip with a solemn reverence. With a sharp rasp of steel, he drew his arakh, knelt on one knee, and held the blade level with his forehead.
"Blood of my blood," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion.
Daenerys took the curved blade from him, helped him to his feet, and slid the arakh back into its sheath. "Blood of my blood," she promised in turn.
Next came Aggo, to whom she presented a great dragonbone longbow, and then Rakharo, who received a magnificent, gold-plated arakh. Each weapon had been a gift to her from one of Drogo’s now-dead bloodriders. A year ago, it seemed a lifetime ago.
The three new bloodriders took their places behind her. Daenerys then turned to the crestfallen Quilo. "Quilo," she said, her voice softer. "I have a mission of great importance for you." She deliberately held up the pale, cream-colored dragon in her arms. It flapped its translucent wings clumsily. "Did you see my dragons? One day, they will be strong enough to command the world. But right now, they are fragile. They cannot even fly. I need a loyal and brave captain for my Dragon Guard. Will you be that man?"
"It would be my honor, Khaleesi!" Quilo swore, his face transformed with joy as he drew his own blade in salute.
Finally, she looked to the knight who had returned to his Dothraki leathers. "Ser Jorah, you have sworn your oath to me. One day, you will receive a gift from me in return: a sword like no other, forged of Valyrian steel." Jorah simply nodded, his eyes full of a grave understanding.
"It is noon, and the heat is unbearable," Dany declared. "Rest in your tents. We ride this evening."
"Where do we ride, Khaleesi?" Aggo asked.
Dany paused. The stories said her ancestor, the first Daenerys, had followed a comet. But that was a fool's errand. A comet was a wanderer in the sky; to follow it was to walk in circles. That must have been a brutal journey, she thought, a culling of the weak that left only the strongest survivors. The memory of her handmaiden Dorea, dead in the wasteland in that other life she remembered, flashed in her mind. I must find a better way.
She looked at the faces of her council. "First, tell me where we cannot go."
"North," Ser Jorah said immediately. "Khal Odo waits for us, to say nothing of Pono and Jhogo. If we enter the Dothraki Sea, the first khalasar we meet will swallow us whole. The warriors will be slaughtered, the rest enslaved." He shook his head. "And we cannot go into the lands of the Lhazareen. Your khalasar is too weak to fight even a nation of sheep-farmers. And they hate the Dothraki. They would show us no mercy. We could follow the river southeast, toward the ports of Slaver's Bay."
"No," Rakharo warned. "Martin told me Khal Pono drives thousands of slaves that way. He means to sell them in Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor." Martin was a warrior who had left with Odo but had returned, awed by the birth of the dragons. The Dothraki were already whispering her new names: the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons.
"Those slaves were Drogo’s," Aggo added. "Pono would not welcome us."
"Then there is only one way," Dany said, her gaze turning to the vast, shimmering expanse to the south. "Through the red waste." She saw their dignified, worried faces and sighed. "We must find the sea. From there, we can find a new home. A place with rich earth, where we can farm."
"Farm?" Jorah looked baffled.
"My dragons are too small," Dany mumbled. She was a hero for the end of the story. For now, she had to lie low, to grow strong in secret.
Dorea, who stood behind her, spoke up, her voice trembling with fear. "Khaleesi, that is the red waste! A desolate and terrible place! The sailors in Lys told stories of it—a land haunted by demons and creatures from hell."
"I am not afraid of demons," Dany said gently. She took the girl's hand and placed it on the back of the dragon in her arms. The creature’s skin was as hot as iron left in the sun, but it was a living heat. "And with me, you have no reason to fear them either."
When the girl was calm, Dany turned back to her council. "Our khalasar is small, but it must be organized. What is the most important thing for an army?"
"Courage," said Aggo. "To fight without fear."
"The strongest Khal," said Rakharo. "Khal Drogo conquered the Great Grass Sea because he was the strongest."
"Horses and warriors," said Jhogo. "A great khalasar has many of both."
Their answers were simple, born of a warrior’s wisdom.
"Skills," Ser Jorah said earnestly. "Tactics. In Westeros, a knight trains his entire life in the sword, the lance, and the bow. Maesters teach the young lords arithmetic, history, and strategy. An army is more than a mob of brave men."
"Have you ever commanded a large force?" Dany asked him curiously.
"I have commanded two thousand men, Your Grace," he said, and his face clouded over. "It was when…"
"When you fought with Eddard Stark to overthrow my father’s dynasty," she finished for him, her voice without accusation.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," he said, lowering his head.
"There is nothing to forgive. You were loyal to your lord." She waved it away. "You are all right, but I believe the most important thing for an army is a sound system."
"System?" Aggo asked, confused.
"First," Dany began, a smile playing on her lips as she looked at their puzzled faces, "we will have a single banner: the dragon. Second, any man who has seen fourteen winters is a warrior of the khalasar." She was fourteen. Her bloodriders were her age. It was a necessity. "Ten warriors will form a squad, with the strongest as captain. Five squads will form a company, with a leader chosen from the captains for his valor. Five companies…" She trailed off, seeing the looks of utter bewilderment on their faces. They looked as if she were speaking in tongues.
"Is there a problem?" she asked.
Aggo frowned, wringing his thick fingers as he tried to do the math. "Khaleesi," he asked, completely serious, "how many fighters is five teams of five teams?"
