Chapter 117: Fury

"Why?"

Viserys turned around, glancing at Oberyn who had rushed over upon hearing the news. At the moment, Viserys was wiping the blood off his hands. Viserys withdrew his gaze and spoke calmly.

"Naturally, it's to kill him."

Hearing the young king's words, the Dornishman's slender eyebrows furrowed slightly. He detected the murderous intent in Viserys' voice. While it made sense for opposing armies to want to kill each other, he felt that there was a deeper meaning behind Viserys' words.

"Do you have any longstanding grudge with this Dothraki horselord?"

Oberyn asked curiously.

"No."

Viserys shook his head.

Clearly, he wasn't telling the truth.

However, the only interaction between Viserys and Drogo thus far had been at the Pentos feast, and they had merely exchanged a glance without even speaking a word. It was hard to argue that there was any enmity between them.

"Is that so?"

Oberyn raised an eyebrow and nodded.

The guards, who had been moving around the tent, had now collected Qotho's severed head. The headless corpse was dragged out, leaving a clear trail of blood on the ground.

Other guards fetched a bucket of water, hurriedly cleaning Viserys' tent of the filth.

Watching as the young and refined-looking Viserys personally beheaded one of Drogo's bloodriders, not a hint of change in his delicate features, as if it were as mundane as eating or drinking.

The Dothraki translator who was still being held captive was nearly frightened to the point of wetting himself. It was fortunate that he had been sold to the Golden Company as a slave since childhood; otherwise, he would not have survived long in a Dothraki tribe.

"Your Grace."

"What should we do with this man..."

One of the guards holding the Dothraki captive asked.

"Hmm?"

Viserys handed the bloody handkerchief back to a nearby guard and looked at the trembling Dothraki translator.

He had almost forgotten about him.

However, to enrage Drogo, all that was needed was the head of his bloodrider. The translator was not essential, and there was no one in Viserys' army who spoke the Dothraki language. His skills might be useful.

"If he wants to live, give him a chance."

Viserys glanced at him and then spoke calmly.

Upon hearing that Viserys was willing to give him a chance to live, the Dothraki translator nodded vigorously.

"I am willing, I am willing."

Viserys waved his hand, and the translator was taken away by the guards.

Oberyn remained in place, stroking his soft chin beard, watching Viserys' retreating figure. He opened his mouth as if to ask something but ultimately didn't.

...

The next morning.

Several Andalosian knights, riding swift horses and carrying Qotho's head on the tips of their lances, arrived in front of the Dothraki's simple encampment.

.

Far away, the knights of Andalos reined in their steeds, shouting a few times before tossing Qotho's severed head onto the ground.

The distant Dothraki, seeing these "lamb men" audaciously riding forth on horseback to provoke them, were instantly enraged. Several short-tempered Dothraki warriors, bare-chested, mounted their horses and gave chase.

However, the knights of Andalos were already far away, slipping out of reach. The pursuing Dothraki learned from their mistake and didn't dare continue further, stopping where the knights had just stood. That's when they noticed the lone severed head on the ground.

"Stop."

As a bloodrider to a Khal, Qotho was naturally recognized by many members of the Khalasar. Seeing Qotho's head, the few pursuing Dothraki warriors felt that something was seriously wrong.

"This..."

Bloodriders were not only guards but also brothers and companions to their Khals, their bonds stronger than steel.

In a Khal's daily life, his bloodriders would always accompany him, the ancient Dothraki traditions demanding that they follow their Khal in death. If a Khal fell in battle, the bloodriders would dedicate the rest of their lives to avenging him, taking their own lives afterward.

Khals and their bloodriders could share everything except their mounts, even their wives, sleeping under the same tent and drinking from the same cup.

Now, Khal Drogo's "blood of my blood" had been decapitated and discarded, his body not even given a funeral pyre. This was a grave matter in Dothraki tradition, for it meant that Qotho's spirit would have nowhere to go.

Khal Drogo had to reclaim his blood brother's body, sewing Qotho's head back onto his corpse and giving him a funeral pyre so that his spirit could ascend to the heavens, becoming a rider among the fiery stars.

"Damn it…"

The Dothraki warriors exchanged uneasy glances, a chilling premonition settling over them. They sensed that terrible things were about to happen.

An enraged Khal Drogo might only be appeased by slaughtering all these "lamb men."

"Go. Tell the Khal."

This was urgent.

Without wasting any more time, a Dothraki warrior grabbed Qotho's head by the severed braid, hoisted the bloodrider's head, and climbed onto his horse.

He then urged his mount toward Khal Drogo's great tent.

...

Moments later.

"Blood of my blood…"

Inside Khal Drogo's golden-topped tent, the atmosphere was oppressively tense. Every ko of the Khalasar had rushed to the Khal's tent upon hearing the news.

Drogo's remaining two bloodriders—Cohollo, the older man who once saved Drogo's life, and the massive, silent Haggo—stood behind the Khal, their eyes filled with sorrow and fury.

They were all sworn brothers, having taken a blood oath to become Drogo's bloodriders, but now one of them was gone.

Khal Drogo himself sat on his throne, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his joints cracked.

He now knew who his enemy was.

He had nearly forgotten, but now he remembered the silver-haired youth he had met a year ago in Pentos, who had given him a faint sense of threat.

And now, that youth had killed one of his bloodriders, severing his head to humiliate Drogo.

"Beetles will chew your eyes."

Inside the tent, Khal Drogo's voice suddenly rang out, as if he were talking to himself. He then stood up and drew his arakh.

"Worms will crawl through your lungs."

All the Dothraki present couldn't help but shudder.

"Raindrops will fall on your rotting skin—"

"—until you are nothing but a pile of bones!"

Boom—

With that, Khal Drogo smashed the table in front of him with a single punch.

.