Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Volume 1: The Pact of the Grasslands
[Volume 1: The Pact of the Grasslands]
Chapter 1: I Woke Up, on a Matchmaking Journey
(Khalasar: a Dothraki nomadic tribal group. The leader of a khalasar is called a "Khal." A refresher for readers who've forgotten the plot — and a primer for anyone who hasn't seen Game of Thrones.)
When Zhang Wen opened his eyes, he was staring at a green sea.
Grass. Endless grass, rolling like waves in the wind. Hoofbeats thundered in his ears. The black horse beneath him was running full tilt, mane whipping, the world on both sides blurring into streaks as it hurtled past.
The horse was running like mad, four hooves barely kissing the ground. He could only grip the reins and hold on, letting the animal carry him in a wild gallop across the open plain.
He looked down at himself. Bare chest. Bronze skin. Eight-pack abs. A curved blade hanging at his waist.
He looked up. On either side of him rode a brawny, braided man, shouting at him in a language he could understand but had never spoken in his life.
"Khal Drogo, there's a merchant caravan ahead. Want to raid them?"
Khal Drogo.
He struggled to think. Wasn't I just doing partner yoga with my junior sister? How am I on a horse, raiding a caravan? What is happening? Did I fall asleep from training too hard and start dreaming...
Then a wall of unfamiliar memories slammed into his skull. His vision went white, the road ahead dissolving into nothing.
Dothraki. Khalasar. Khal Drogo.
I am Khal Drogo?
Holy shit. I transmigrated.
Straight into the horse-lord who had the most badass entrance in the show and the most pointless death.
When his vision cleared, he placed himself: on the road to Pentos. To marry the Dragon Mother. Though that part hadn't happened yet.
"Khal?" The brawny man on his left called out again. A bloodrider. Cohollo.
Drogo's memories told Zhang Wen that raiding caravans was just what their band did. His modern conscience said robbery was wrong. But Drogo's memories also made it clear: if they passed a caravan and took nothing, the Dothraki would think their Khal had gone soft.
Soft. The one word the Dothraki had no tolerance for.
He opened his mouth, and Dothraki came out on its own. "Strip them bare."
The bloodrider on his right was Qotho. He moved the instant the words landed, raising his curved blade and letting out a sharp, piercing howl.
That howl lit the khalasar like a torch. Warriors drew their blades in unison, war cries rising and crashing into each other, building into one wild, roaring wave.
Zhang Wen — no. Drogo. Before he could even finish the thought, Am I really going to kill someone? his body had already squeezed the horse's flanks. He was charging, right behind Qotho and Cohollo, before his mind caught up.
Wind poured into his mouth, into his ears, into every scattered modern thought rattling around in his head.
He could only ride.
The caravan was about a mile out. A dozen wagons pulled into a rough circle, drivers and hired swords scrambling for their weapons. Too slow. Dothraki horses moved like wind. From the moment the guards spotted them to the first arrow dropping was no more than a few breaths.
Drogo watched Cohollo rise to his feet on the horse's back, curved blade sweeping a wide arc through the air. A mercenary bracing a spear had half his head sheared off. Red and white matter splattered across the wagon boards.
Drogo's stomach lurched. He nearly vomited.
He held it down.
He drove his black horse straight through the gap between two wagons. The hooves caught a fat man scrambling backward. The man screamed and rolled under the wheels. The crack of breaking bone cut through the surrounding chaos like it was right next to his ear.
Ahead, a man in leather armor came at him with a raised sword, face twisted into something between terror and fury.
Drogo's mind was still asking, should I cut him? His hand had already moved.
The curved blade came up from below. The tip traced across the man's chin, cheek, eye socket. The feeling was strange, like cutting through half-frozen meat, a little tough, a little resistant. Then the blade cleared the body, and the blood came, hot and sudden, spraying across his bare chest.
The man went down with his eyes still open. Mouth slack. Throat making a low, wet rasp. His limbs twitched twice and stopped.
Drogo looked at his hand. The blade was still dripping. Blood ran down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs.
All around him: the sounds of slaughter. Dothraki war cries. The screams of caravan guards. The heavy crash of wagons going over.
"Khal!" Cohollo shouted from nearby, blade leveled at a merchant in silk robes. "Fat one over here. Looks rich!"
Drogo looked.
The man was on his knees, shaking from head to foot, holding up a coin pouch with both hands and waving it desperately. Begging out loud.
The merchant's eyes found Drogo's.
Fear in those eyes. Pleading. And the wet shine of tears.
Drogo's blade dropped. He ran through the Dothraki approach to surrendering merchants.
Kill them, or drag the living ones back as slaves. There was no rule that said you let someone go because they begged. That concept didn't exist.
"Keep him alive. Put him on a wagon and load up all the goods."
Cohollo slapped the merchant across the back with the flat of his blade and roared at him: "The Khal spares your worthless life. Get up and work."
Drogo turned his horse and rode on toward Pentos. Behind him: overturned wagons, bodies scattered across the grass, Dothraki picking through the spoils.
He sat straight in the saddle. A smile found his lips without him meaning it to.
This body was tall, handsome, and fierce as a lion on the open plain. The finest rider the Dothraki had ever produced. An archer who didn't miss — birds couldn't even spread their wings before his arrows found them.
And beneath the reins he held was the most powerful khalasar on the Dothraki Sea. Over 40,000 warriors rode at his word. Wherever they passed, the grasslands bent and the tribes knelt. Undefeated in battle. Unstoppable in conquest.
The three bloodriders finished with their spoils and spurred their horses to catch up. Qotho pulled alongside Drogo, turned his head, and spoke with open disapproval.
"Our khalasar has plenty of strong women. Big tits, round asses. They can ride and they can bear children. Why does the Khal need to marry some outsider?"
Cohollo nodded from the other side, his graying braid swaying in the wind. "I've heard the people over there have skin white as a dead fish's belly. Frail. Sickly. Can't take the sun. Start panting after two steps."
Drogo listened. He knew this was just how the Dothraki thought. "You both know the magisters of the Free Cities treat us well. This woman was recommended to me by Magister Illyrio of Pentos. What's the harm in taking a look?"
Qotho looked ready to push back. Cohollo stopped him with a glance.
"The Khal is right," Cohollo said, dipping his head. "No harm in looking."
Haggo rode behind them in silence, as he always did. Not a word.
The four of them rode on. Ahead, the sea of grass rolled and shifted in the wind. The road to Pentos was still long.