Chapter 23 - Chapter 22: The Bleeding Star and the Child of Prophecy

"After all," Avanti said with a scoff, "he is not a pure horseman, blessed by the old woman beneath the Holy Mother Mountain. Blue-Eye Haggo may match any great khal in martial skill, but he lacks the courage that marks a true khal."The elder's voice carried disdain. His weathered face twisted as he shook his head. "Just as those soft stone-dwellers excel in poison and treachery, so too has Haggo inherited his father Watson's blood—cunning and shameless. He stoops to tricks unworthy of a Dothraki. What horse-lord kidnaps his enemy's child in the night? For thousands of years, disputes in the Great Grass Sea have been settled on horseback, with arakhs flashing in the sun, not with skulking cowards in the dark."Dany frowned at his words, pity and curiosity mingling. Truly, Blue-Eye Haggo was ill-fated. If his father had mastered not the secret cries of passion, but the strategies of war—if he had known the arts of Guiguzi or the Thirty-Six Stratagems—then perhaps Haggo's shameless cunning might have forged not disgrace, but greatness. With intellect, ruthlessness, and guile, he could have founded a Golden Family, a dynasty strong enough to rival the mightiest khals. Instead, his legacy was tainted by ridicule.The small party rode onward, speaking in low tones as they pushed to rejoin the khalasar. The desert winds rose, hot and bitter, lifting clouds of red sand that blurred the horizon. Behind them, the storm erased the khalasar's trail, but not swiftly enough—hoofprints still scarred the gravel and crimson dust like the bed of a shallow river.The setting sun burned the sky, its light caught by the great comet that blazed across heaven. The Dothraki called it the Bleeding Star. Its crimson glow seemed to drip across the firmament, a wound carved into the very sky. To Dany, each step her silver mare took was bathed in its light.The riders watched uneasily. At last, Avanti's courage swelled, and he spoke words none had dared before. "Khaleesi, forgive me. The star helps us at night, true—its red fire lights the road. But its color, the color of blood, is an ill-omen. Especially here, in this burning land of red sand and empty sky, the comet feels like the torch of hell itself. Surely, Khaleesi, it warns us of some terrible fate to come.""Yes, yes," muttered another elder in Avanti's ten-man. Even her bloodriders shifted uneasily in their saddles.Dany's fury flared hot. How dare this old man spread fear in front of her khalasar? She fixed him with a glare that could have burned hotter than the Red Waste itself. "Answer me," she demanded, her voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Did the comet appear before Khal Drogo was burned upon the pyre?"Startled, the old man stammered, "No.""Then tell me—is the Bleeding Star not a symbol of Khal Drogo?""Yes," he admitted reluctantly."Was his great steed not black as coal, red as blood when the fire took him?""Yes.""Did he not ride to the Night Lands with five hundred of his bravest warriors, who perished in battle at his side?""Yes."Dany's voice rose, carrying to every ear around her. "Then listen, and understand! The comet is no doom. It is Drogo himself, astride his flaming steed, his five hundred bloodriders behind him. See how the red streak trails across the heavens? That is their life's blood, shed in his service, still following where he leads. They ride above us, protecting us still."She raised her arm and pointed skyward. "He knows our struggle—how we march by night, rest by day, fighting against this accursed Waste. That is why he lingers in the sky. Only when we are safe will Khal Drogo depart fully into the Night Lands."Her words fell like rain on parched ground. Murmurs rose, not of fear but of wonder. The horsemen's gazes shifted, awe dawning in their eyes. They nodded, voices breaking into cries of agreement.Even Avanti, chastened, bowed his head. "Khaleesi, you are as wise as the crone of Vaes Dothrak," he breathed.Dany stiffened. The title stung. She did not wish to be likened to a dosh khaleen, trapped in age and widowhood. She was no broken woman, bound to wait in shadows for death. She was fire, and fire was not meant to be caged."Avanti," she said coldly, "Watson cannot drink. Give him your share of mare's milk tonight."The old man's jaw dropped. "But Khaleesi, I am old too, and weak. I need—"She spurred her silver forward without so much as a glance. Her decision was final.By the time they rejoined the main khalasar, her words about the comet had already begun to spread. In whispers and retellings, the tale grew: Drogo bleeding in grief for his son, Drogo's warriors cutting down enemies until the heavens themselves turned red, Drogo riding eternally to watch over his Khaleesi.The superstition that once gnawed at the khalasar's heart faded. Instead, the people looked at her with newfound reverence.Yet beyond the Red Waste, the comet's meaning was debated in every land under the sun.In King's Landing, the priests of the Faith called it the Red Messenger, herald of a new king. Yet whispers in the streets named it the Red Sword, punishment from the gods for Queen Cersei's incest and for the cruelty of her bastard son Joffrey, who now wore Robert's crown. Famine and unrest made the omen sharper than any blade.In the Whispering Wood, the Greatjon pointed to the fiery streak and roared with laughter. "The Old Gods have hung their banner in the sky, Robb! A flaming sword of vengeance for Eddard Stark!"Edmure Tully, young and impressionable, gazed upon it with awe and swore it was the leaping trout of House Tully, painted in fire upon the firmament.In the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy declared it the torch of the Drowned God, raised once more from the sea to call the Ironborn to conquest. "The high tide comes," he proclaimed. "Now we strike with fire and sword, as in the days of old!"On Dragonstone, the comet burned above the black fortress like a crown. Melisandre of Asshai, the Red Woman, fell to her knees and cried out, "It is the dragon's breath, the bleeding star! The prophecy is upon us!"Before Lord Stannis Baratheon, she spoke the words of the ancient riddle that shaped all futures:"After the long summer, the stars shall bleed, and the darkness shall gather. In that hour, a hero shall draw from the fire a burning sword. That blade is Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. With it shall the warrior drive back the night."She raised her scarlet eyes to him. "The long summer ends. The bleeding star has come. Azor Ahai is reborn, in smoke and salt, to wake dragons from stone. You, my lord, are that man."Stannis ground his teeth. "Why me? I never sought crowns nor prophecy. I wanted only to serve my king, to be a good brother. And yet they would make me savior of the world!"But prophecy does not bend to the will of men.Across the realms, in Dorne and Storm's End, in the Eyrie and the Wall, lords and smallfolk alike gazed upward and whispered their own truths. Some saw vengeance, some saw glory, some saw ruin.And far away, Daenerys Stormborn, last of her house, slept beneath its crimson glow, her unborn destiny burning brighter with every passing night.The khalasar pressed on. By the third day of their southward trek across the Red Waste, they had traveled more than three hundred miles. Meat was plentiful; every rider had a horse to butcher if need be. The true enemy was thirst.That evening, weary and dust-caked, Ser Jorah drew her aside. "Khaleesi, the waterskins are failing. The pits we find are fewer each day. Many skins are dry already."Dany lifted her face to the faint breeze. Her throat burned, her lips cracked, but she forced herself to stand tall. "Then we will find water another way."She led Quaro and a dozen riders to a ridge overlooking the plain. With one arm she pointed to the horizon. "See there—patches where weeds grow thick, while others lie bare. Look closer: the devilweed grows in a line, as if tracing something hidden."An underground river. Or what had once been.She ordered the khalasar divided: the strongest warriors to ride ahead, following the devilweed for leagues, digging pits as they went. If water did not pool, the damp soil itself could be pressed, yielding precious drops. The second party would return, carrying skins to fill.She herself demonstrated the method. Before the eyes of the khalasar, she filled a bag with damp earth, tied it taut, and let it drip into a skin. Drop by drop, water fell—brown and bitter, but life all the same.The horsemen erupted in cheers. For the first time, they felt they had struck back against the cruel Waste itself.Yet Jorah's face remained dark. He drew close, his voice low so none but she could hear. "Princess, you are asking strong men to sacrifice their strength, their very lives, so that the weak and the old may endure. Is that wise?"His question hung heavy, unspoken judgment in his eyes.(End of Chapter)---