"Oh my god—how did I, a pure and innocent young woman, end up as a ten-months-pregnant woman, a big-bellied Dragon Mom?!"
A 26-year-old graduate of a surgical medical school woke up from a single night's sleep and found herself transmigrated into a fourteen-year-old pregnant girl—Daenerys Targaryen.
Whatever identity or name she once had no longer meant much at this moment.
She had become the queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men in A Song of Ice and Fire; Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm; Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; Breaker of Shackles/Chains; Queen of Meereen; Princess of Dragonstone; the Unburnt; Mother of Dragons; Mhysa; the Silver-Haired Queen.
Well—at this point in time, she could at most claim two titles: Stormborn and Khal Drogo's Khaleesi.
"Dragon Mom" was still far away. The most pressing issue right now was—how to survive after Khal Drogo died.
Drogo was already sick to the bone and had been struck by black magic. Forget a rookie surgeon—even if Bian Que himself were resurrected, it would be useless.
Daenerys, now inhabiting a different soul, touched her heavy, swollen belly. Pushing aside distracting thoughts, she began to observe the environment of this new world.
The golden sun scorched the land like a blazing furnace. Before her stretched uneven, poorly planned fields: black rye with stalks half green, half yellow, thick ears beginning to fill with grain; low, flattened soybeans; and scattered plots of vegetables and melons.
A silver-maned mare walked along the way, occasionally stepping on bean pods, producing crisp pop-pop sounds as they split.
Daenerys tilted her head, avoiding the dazzling sunlight, and muttered softly, "What a sin. It's harvest season, and they just had to run into this group of Dothraki."
Khal Drogo's khalasar had nearly fifty thousand screaming warriors. The entire host combined numbered over a hundred thousand.
(PS: Khal — the title of the Dothraki nomadic leader, similar to the Mongols' "Khan" or the Turks' "Khagan." Khalasar — a Dothraki term for a group that travels together. Each khalasar has one khal. Khaleesi — the Dothraki term for a khal's wife, and Daenerys's current identity.)
The Dothraki were a people of the horse. Every tribesman owned at least one steed. Over a hundred thousand people meant—more than a hundred thousand horses trampling across this land.
The low, rumbling thunder of hooves seemed to loudly proclaim: this year, the land of the Lhazareen would suffer a total crop failure.
In truth, the Lhazareen—contemptuously called "sheep people"—weren't even thinking about their harvest. Before the khalasar of the strongest horselord on the grass sea, their minds were already tightly gripped by fear of life and death.
Turning her head, Daenerys saw yet another dilapidated farmstead. The residents watched them uneasily from behind mud-plastered walls. In almond-shaped eyes like those of the Dothraki, there flickered immense fear—and deeply hidden hatred.
South of the Dothraki Sea, on the southern bank of the Lhazareen River, lived a frail, minor people.
They bore some resemblance to Daenerys's current people—bronze skin, almond-shaped eyes—but compared to the tall, savage Dothraki, the agrarian Lhazareen were short, flat-faced, gentler… and more cowardly.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
A burst of hoofbeats came from behind. Daenerys brushed her wind-blown silver hair behind her ear and saw seven or eight riders spur forward from the rear of the host.
The horsemen resembled Huaxia Jurchen warriors, their coarse black hair braided thick and long. Unlike the Jurchen, however, the Dothraki didn't shave their foreheads. Their braids were adorned with bells symbolizing victories, chiming crisply with every movement of their mounts.
Quickly searching her memories, Daenerys recognized them—Khal Drogo's bloodriders: Qotho, Haggo, and Cohollo. The others were likely kos under Drogo—Jhaqo, Pono.
(Bloodriders: both bodyguards and brothers to the khal—"blood of my blood." Aside from the khal's horse, they may share everything… including wives. Fortunately, in Dothraki culture wives rank even lower than horses. Thankfully, Drogo had no intention of sharing his wife, sparing Daenerys a grim fate. Ko: leader of a khas. A large nomadic group is called a khalasar. Each khalasar is made up of many smaller groups called khas. The leader of a khas serves as the khal's deputy and is called a ko.)
They rode past Daenerys without a glance and reached Drogo at the front. Ko Jhaqo pointed at a dirt-and-stone manor and spoke first:
"Khal, there's a gathering of sheep people nearby. Should we ride over and take them down?"
They were here to invite Drogo to join the "hunt."
The Dothraki were nomads with no industry, no crafts, no manufacturing. Everything they needed came from plunder. Over countless generations, the most brutal and domineering predatory instincts had been forged into their blood.
Drogo's head was heavy, his consciousness nearly slipping into chaos. He raised his head, barely recognizing the man before him. His cracked lips parted, his voice faint.
"Yes… I…"
Daenerys felt bitter inside. According to the plot, this cheap husband of hers was about to die, and she had just transmigrated in, only to become a widow.
It wasn't that she was attached to this barely acquainted husband—the problem was that the horse-lords' system was utterly messed up.
The Dothraki khal was not inherited by blood. The strongest warrior became khal, and the struggle was often drenched in blood. When a khal died, his khaleesi was sent to Vaes Dothrak to become a crone. As for the khaleesi's unborn child, survival under the new khal would be difficult at best.
"Can't you see that the khal is sick?" Daenerys said sharply.
She patted her horse's belly and urged it forward a few steps, ignoring the cold stares of the bloodriders and kos.
"All around here are small villages—there's no real profit, no value in attacking them. At the very least, there's no need for the khal himself to take action."
The tall Haggo looked at her cruelly. "Khaleesi, this is not your place to speak—"
Smack!
Daenerys lashed out with her whip. The tip sliced through the air with a sharp crack, but her swollen body slowed her movements. Haggo leaned back easily on horseback and dodged it.
"You dare strike me?"
With a shing, Haggo drew his arakh, eyes blazing red as he stared at Daenerys.
She merely sneered, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear, speaking in Dothraki inherited from her former self:
"I am Khal Drogo's khaleesi, of the noble royal House Targaryen. You dare draw your blade against me?"
She wasn't recklessly brave. From briefly reviewing her predecessor's memories, Daenerys understood that the Dothraki respected strength, not weakness. The harder and fiercer you were, the more they treated you as a person.
The weak—weak peoples—weren't even considered human in their eyes.
Like her brother Viserys. Like the plundered Lhazareen, called "sheep people."
Of course, being tough didn't mean being foolish. As Drogo's bloodrider, Haggo would never harm the khaleesi carrying Drogo's child in front of Drogo himself.
Besides, Daenerys wasn't alone.
Sure enough, in just a few breaths, her guards rode up.
Ser Jorah Mormont—Great Bear—handled his horse deftly, trotting to Daenerys's side, drawing his sword and sweeping a stern gaze over Haggo and the others.
Behind Daenerys, her khas warriors bent their bows and nocked arrows, their expressionless faces aimed squarely at Haggo.
Drogo commanded the entire khalasar, made up of many khas. Fortunately, the khaleesi also had a khas of her own. As khaleesi, Daenerys was also considered a ko.
Well… her khas was small—only one or two hundred people—primarily responsible for her protection and daily needs.
Cohollo, hair graying and face crisscrossed with vicious scars, shot Daenerys a cold glance and said:
"Put away your weapons. Haggo, you will represent 'blood of my blood' in battle. Remember—take the most heads."
Drogo was thirty this year. Haggo and Qotho were around the same age. Only Cohollo was older. Though his physique looked youthful, he was already over fifty.
When Drogo was young, his father's enemies once kidnapped him. Cohollo fought desperately and rescued the young horselord.
In many ways, Cohollo was like half a father to Drogo.
Drogo's own khas was managed by Ko Cohollo—which meant Cohollo was also a ko.
Thus, among the bloodriders, his status and authority were the highest.
Hearing Cohollo's words, Haggo's face flushed red. He spat angrily on the ground, wheeled his horse, and trotted off.
Qotho and the other kos cast Daenerys wolfish glances before galloping away as well.
Only after the sound of hooves faded did Cohollo speak calmly:
"As the leader of the khalasar, the khal must charge first at the enemy and be the first to climb the sheep people's walls. That is his duty—and his honor."
Daenerys felt grateful. She knew old Cohollo was explaining things to her.
Among Drogo's three bloodriders, only he treated Daenerys kindly—or rather, only he truly saw her as Drogo's wife. To the rest, she was merely a noble breeding tool bought from Illyrio.
Princess of Dragonstone? Stormborn Targaryen? To the horse-lords, it meant nothing.
Daenerys forced a stiff smile. "With the khal like this… I'm worried."
Cohollo raised a hand to cut her off. "You should worry about the kos beginning their raids without the khal's permission—though your worry will be useless."
Daenerys watched him ride away with a bitter expression.
Soon, warriors' shouts, the sheep people's wails, and the stench of blood and fire carried to her ears.
Standing atop a hill, lush wild grass brushed past her horsehair-wrapped calves, itching her tender skin like a baby's licking.
Turning slowly, she saw columns of smoke rising from nearby Lhazareen farms, like fingers stabbing into the sky.
Cradling her swollen belly, Daenerys closed her eyes painfully, trying not to think about how many pregnant women like herself would be slaughtered today—or how many children and women would be dragged away as slaves by Drogo's khalasar.
"This really is a cruel world."
Daenerys's small khas bustled about. Some leveled the hilltop to set stakes and pitch tents. Others stood on wagons unloading large chests filled with blankets and valuables belonging to Drogo and Daenerys.
The khal's tent was placed at the center of the entire khalasar. With the hill Daenerys chose as the core, tents sprouted across the fields like mushrooms after rain, filling her vision in moments.
The horse-lords refused to occupy stone buildings—they were used to living in tents.
The sight of over a hundred thousand people working together was vibrant and lively, stirring a faint spark of interest in Daenerys, who had been gloomy since arriving in this new world.
"Ser Jorah, accompany me for a walk."
Jorah Mormont—nicknamed "Great Bear"—was a man of the North, formerly the Lord of Bear Island, son of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and uncle to the Bear Island girl.
For selling slaves, he had been sentenced to death by Eddard Stark and fled across the Narrow Sea to Essos.
When Daenerys married Drogo, he had sworn loyalty to Viserys.
After Drogo crowned Viserys with molten gold, Great Bear became Daenerys's sworn sword.
When he first joined Drogo's host, he wore standard Westerosi knightly attire—woolen tunic and trousers, padding, leather armor, plate.
After nearly a year on the grass sea, he had adapted to Dothraki dress: leather sandals, horsehair leg wraps, a sleeveless painted leather vest, and a belt with bronze medallions.
"Khaleesi, won't you check on Drogo's wound?" Jorah asked.
He rode alongside Daenerys's mare, four young Dothraki riders following behind.
"There are over a dozen 'hairless men' crowding around him—too cramped. When they leave, you can go with me to check again."
There were two kinds of healers in the khalasar: barren women and eunuch slaves. Herb women healed with potions and charms; eunuchs used knives, needles, and fire. Among the horse-lords, they were collectively called "hairless men."
Between tents that nearly blanketed the earth, slaves and women carried firewood. Livestock screamed as they were slaughtered. Some fetched water from wells and rivers; others sharpened arakhs on grindstones for warriors fresh from battle. Long-haired Dothraki barked orders, barefoot children ran laughing through the crowds, and the mingled smells of sweat, horse dung, blood, and roasting meat assaulted Daenerys's nose.
Rounding a tent, in an open area stacked with firewood, a large group of riders laughed as they surrounded over a dozen naked women, abusing them openly. Even upon seeing Daenerys on her silver mare, they made no attempt to hide it.
Drogo's khalasar wasn't composed solely of bronze-skinned Dothraki. Beyond warriors were countless slaves who served them—pale whites like Daenerys, even paler "milk men," red-skinned eunuchs, black men from the Summer Isles, shadowed Asshai'i with dark skin. With only fragmentary memories, Daenerys found it hard to distinguish their races.
Even the Dothraki themselves weren't uniform.
As they rampaged across Essos, plundering slaves from countless peoples, their bloodlines had long since mixed chaotically—especially since they had no concept of marriage and indulged freely in desire.
Only one thing united them: all Dothraki had almond-shaped eyes.
"Khaleesi… you seem different today. Did something happen?" Jorah asked.
Since afternoon, he'd sensed something was off. Seeing her not stop the warriors from violating Lhazareen women as she usually did, he found it even stranger.
The original Daenerys had been kind-hearted. The first time she saw Dothraki warriors abusing captive women, she had rushed over with compassion, forcibly stopping them and suggesting the warriors marry the women instead.
That violated Dothraki tradition.
A Dothraki warrior had full rights over his captured slaves—rape, kill, sell—no one, not even the khal, could interfere at will.
And ordinary Dothraki had no concept of marriage. Only the horselord marrying was an exception.
"I understand what you mean," Daenerys said softly, lowering her gaze. "But even if I go stop them, without Drogo backing me, who would listen?"
This Jorah really deserved his reputation as Dragon Mom's number-one bootlicker—such sharp instincts. Ever since transmigrating in that afternoon, she had spoken little and observed much, carefully imitating the original's behavior.
"Khaleesi, give the order, and I'll go kill them," shouted Aggo, a young Dothraki, raising his bow.
Drogo truly doted on his wife. Though Daenerys's khas was small, it contained the most outstanding young warriors. Aggo, Quaro, Jhogo, and Rakharo even had the potential to become bloodriders.
Bloodriders were one-in-ten-thousand warriors—almost equivalent to commanders of ten thousand under Genghis Khan.
Jorah's pupils shrank. "This is someone else's khas. If you act, you'll die."
He knew Dothraki temperament—once they acted, they acted decisively.
"I'm not afraid to die," Aggo said, glaring with black almond eyes.
"We're not afraid either," the others roared.
"Starting chaos could endanger the khaleesi," Jorah said, pointing at Daenerys's belly.
The topic grew awkward. Daenerys glanced around, then suddenly raised her whip and pointed at a chubby black man.
"You. Stop."
The man, around forty, sweat beading on his bald round head, wore a humble smile. "Khaleesi, what are your orders?"
A large white goose flapped frantically in his thick fingers, struggling and pecking at his rough arm with its yellow beak.
"I want that goose," Daenerys said.
The Dothraki ate mostly horse meat, believing it the finest food in the world. But recalling her predecessor's memories, Daenerys felt nauseous at the thought of horse meat.
Changing the subject was one reason—improving her diet was another.
Sweat poured more heavily down the black man's bald head. He begged with his eyes and refused with difficulty.
"Khaleesi, I am Ko Jhaqo's cook. Lady Lillia can't stomach horse meat. This afternoon, we finally found a few geese at a sheep people's farm. I truly have no authority to grant your request."
Smack!
"Ahh—!"
Aggo flew into a rage and whipped the man without hesitation, tearing open his right cheek in a centipede-like gash.
"Bastard! Even Jhaqo himself cannot refuse the khaleesi's request!"
The cook clutched his face and collapsed, sobbing. Even the goose slipped free, honking as it fled.
The entire sequence happened in a flash. By the time Daenerys opened her mouth, the whip had already fallen—she had no time to stop it.
"Who dares steal my goose?!" a furious shout came from a sky-blue tent nearby.
(End of Chapter)