Zako and Mors's khalasars had already drawn the eye of the ever-rising Jhaqo. Too weak to resist him alone, they had no choice but to turn to Drogo—the only khal left in the Dothraki Sea strong enough to shield them.
Drogo had understood as much during his earlier exchange with the two old khals.
Scum he would not gather—even the mightiest sellswords, the Golden Company, he had discarded. But screamers? The more the better. Riders were always welcome, for they were the spine of his power, and for their strength he had both recognition and respect.
Together the two khalasars numbered over ten thousand. Managing so many new riders might have daunted another, but Drogo found it simple.
"Mors, from now on you are my bloodrider. Your men, and Zako's as well, will follow your command."
The old khal's bloody mouth split in a grin as he pounded his chest. "Yes, Khal!"
With one old warlord to mold them, Drogo was confident these new riders would swiftly take their place within his ranks.
The sky was still young. Drogo resolved to wait until nightfall to give Khal Zako and his steed the honor of fire, so they might ride the night lands guided by the stars.
The gates of Saehol swung open with a creak. The elephant soldiers upon the wall had read the winds well.
Quyvo Noghas, the port-master, marched out at the head of his officials, clad in turtle-helms that left their heads poking out comically. Behind them came musicians, drums and pipes blaring in ostentation.
Misled by the raven sent from Volantis, they mistook Drogo's arrival for mere pomp. Trailing behind the band was a line of carefully chosen noble girls—faces pale, eyes brimming with tears, much like those paraded within the Black Walls.
Drogo frowned, unimpressed, while his khalasar stirred with anticipation.
They knew their khal well—save for his queen, he would not touch other women. Any "gifts" offered him were bound to pass straight into their hands.
What they did not know was that Drogo had already taken a Naathi girl to his bed; their faith in his constancy was misplaced.
Still, with Zako and Mors now bound beneath his banner, Quyvo Noghas and his officials relaxed. Protected by Drogo's alliance with Volantis, they passed without fear through the heart of the khalasar, masks of servility fixed upon their faces.
Before the mighty, they groveled. Before the weak, they strutted. That was their way.
Drawing near, the port-master bowed low. "We welcome the great Khal Drogo to Saehol!"
Drogo crooked a finger, and Quyvo scurried to his stirrup with a smile plastered on his lips.
Drogo gestured toward Zako's corpse. "Prepare the pyre. He was a khal—he shall have the funeral of a king."
Volantis overflowed with wealth; Quyvo did not hesitate. "As you command, Khal. It shall be done."
For every request of the western host, Volantis would pay. He felt no pain in his purse.
Then Drogo's gaze fell on the trembling girls. His tone turned cold. "Strip your men of arms and raiment. Give all to the women."
The port-master blanched. Did Drogo mean to slaughter them, shorn like swine before the knife?
Falling to the ground, he begged, "Khal, have mercy! If we have given offense, forgive us!"
Drogo's words cut like ice. "I will not stomach women… being shamed."
Realization dawned. Quyvo whipped around and barked, "You heard him! Strip! Give everything to the girls—now!"
Drogo tapped his helm with Dragon's Spirit. "You as well."
"Yes!" Quyvo stammered, tearing away his finery until he too looked like some wild rustic.
The riders muttered in disappointment, thinking their khal's "mercy" too soft-hearted. But only Drogo knew the truth: an alliance once forged must be kept steady. He was no saint.
"All khalasars, make camp here. Bloodriders, with me."
With that he entered the town at Quyvo's side.
Saehol had been dressed for festival—sheepskin lanterns dangled from palings, casting bright colors even by day. Crowds thronged the streets, cheering. Most bore tattoos upon their faces, proof they had once been slaves, newly freed.
Drogo silently praised the port-master's cunning. The Breaker of Chains name clung more tightly to him now.
Many snickered at the sight of officials stripped to rustic garb. Their shame would spread far and wide.
Yet what the crowd truly yearned to glimpse was not Drogo but his dragons—or the silver-haired queen. Few dared risk the walls, but the roars of dragonfire were enough to set hearts aflame.
"The Father of Dragons is magnificent!" women whispered, eyes glittering with stars.
The procession wound to a broad square.
On Drogo's left kneeled tiger-cloaked soldiers, executioners standing grim behind them. To the right rose a temple of red stone, its flames leaping skyward—the Lord of Light's house, everywhere present, chilling Drogo's spine.
But no red priests lingered. Likely they had fled or been driven out by the elephant guard.
Quyvo lifted his hand. "Prepare for execution!"
Plainly staged for Drogo's benefit. The Tiger faction had fallen, their men doomed. Yet Drogo sought to claim them.
"Wait."
The hand froze. The blades did not fall. Perhaps the khal wished to swing them himself?
Drogo urged his steed forward, glaring down at the kneeling soldiers. "Do you wish to die?"
What need to ask? In one voice they wailed: "Great lord, we do not!"
Drogo turned to the port-master. "Release them. From this day they are my wife Daenerys's guard."
Quyvo blinked in shock, but obeyed.
The tigers wept in gratitude. "We will remember your mercy, lord!"
The port-master hesitated. "Khal… to make rebels into the queen's guard—might this not…"
Drogo cut him off in thought alone. I've not spared them. I've only given them another way to die.
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