Game of Thrones Iron Stark

On the Dothraki sea, Khal Drogo was remaking his people.

He had started with the braids. Long hair was a curse on the open grass. Men dropped from heatstroke under the sun, braids heavy and hot against their backs. Drogo ordered every man to cut his hair short. No more long ropes of pride swinging behind them.

Some resisted at first. Then Drogo spoke.

"We are horse people," he told them. "Horses get their manes cut when they grow too long. If a horse can lose its hair, so can we. Anyone who keeps the braid is a traitor to the new way."

That shut most of them up. Power, once taken, was easy to use.

Next came the armor.

Dothraki had always fought bare-chested or in painted vests, trusting speed and the arakh. One khalasar of ten thousand had been bloodied by eight hundred Unsullied because they had no protection. Drogo changed that. From now on, every warrior would wear half-plate—front only. The back stayed open.

"Wounds to the back only happen when you run," he said. "We do not run."

A few still complained. Drogo brought in two hired swords wearing proper armor and matched them against two of his own men. The mercenaries lived. The Dothraki died with arakhs that could not bite through steel. After that, the grumbling stopped.

Drogo rode at the head of his growing horde, swallowing smaller khalasars one by one.

A scout came galloping back through the dust.

"Khal, another khalasar ahead. Kono's men."

Drogo grinned, blood still drying on his blade from the last fight.

"Good. We take them."

He led the charge himself, forty thousand riders thundering behind him in a wall of dust and iron.

The battle was short and ugly. When it was over, Khal Kono was dragged before Drogo, leg bleeding, arakh still in his hand.

Kono spat on the ground. "You've gone mad, Drogo. Cutting your hair. Wearing steel like some soft Westerner. The white-haired woman has bewitched you. Tell me where she is and I'll cut her throat. Then maybe you'll remember who you are."

Drogo's eyes went cold.

He tossed Kono a fresh blade.

"Stand up. I'll give you an honorable death."

Kono pushed himself upright, favoring the wounded leg. He knew he was finished. If he was going to die, he would die trying to take the big khal with him. He charged with a raw scream.

Drogo sighed once, almost bored, and took his head off with a single clean cut.

The body dropped. The head rolled.

"Your leg slowed you," Drogo said quietly to the corpse. "And your mouth moved faster than your blade. I killed you for Daenerys. She carries my son. Pray to whatever gods you still believe in that she births him strong."

He wiped his blade and looked south, toward the lands where his khaleesi waited.

---

In the Lhazareen sheep village, a group of Dothraki sat in the grass chewing on dry grass cakes and biscuits. They had been eating nothing else for days.

One of them groaned and spat out a mouthful. "I want meat. Boar. Duck. Rabbit. Anything with blood in it. This grass shit is going to kill me."

Another Dothraki elbowed him. "We are horse people. Horses eat grass. So do we."

A small sheep in a blue hat with a tiny metal airplane stuck on top wandered over, ears twitching.

"You horse people really believe that?" the sheep asked. "We sheep eat what sheep eat. You horse people eat what horses eat. That's how it works here."

The Dothraki stared at him.

"Still," one said, "we want something that doesn't taste like dirt. You got anything else?"

The sheep with the airplane hat brightened. "We have flowers. Qiq i flowers. Want to try?"

The Dothraki perked up. Flowers could be turned into honey. Honey was sweet. Sweet was better than grass.

"Take us."

The sheep led them to a wide, fenced field. The Qiq i flowers grew in neat rows, bright and strange, separated from every other plant by wide strips of bare earth. Nothing else grew near them.

"Why so far apart?" one Dothraki asked.

"Village Chief's orders," the sheep said. "These flowers don't spread. They stay right here. Safe."

The Dothraki didn't care about farming. They waded in and started picking.

One warrior bit into a fat blue blossom and froze.

His eyes went wide.

"Seven hells… it's sweet. Really sweet. Like honey and fruit and something else."

He shoved the rest into his mouth and reached for another.

The others followed fast. Soon the whole group was stuffing flowers into their faces, juice running down their chins, laughing like children.

The sheep with the airplane hat watched them, smiling.

"See? Much better than grass."