Chapter 212: Jhaqo’s Revenge

When Jhaqo finally arrived at his camp, the sky had already turned as black as velvet. He had chosen a slope for his camp, strategically positioning it to provide shelter from the wind. The surrounding area was flat, and during the day, the guards at the top of the slope would have an unobstructed view, turning the slope into a natural watchtower. Nearly 3,000 of his men were spread across the hillside, like a large pancake. Confident in their reliance on scouts, the Dothraki hadn't bothered to set up any barricades, certain that they would detect any approaching enemy long before they posed a threat. If the enemy was weak, they would pounce like wolves; if stronger, they would flee, leaving behind a trail of horse manure.

Jhaqo's return caused a stir in his Khalasar, and the Dothraki chieftains who had received word of his arrival rushed out to meet him. As he entered the camp, the familiar scent of horse manure gave him a sense of security after the long, grueling journey. The Dothraki were a people closely intertwined with their horses, and despite their nomadic lifestyle, the air in their camp was tolerable, a mix of animal and human scents. After raiding several villages and towns, the camp wasn't just filled with horse manure—it was also teeming with women and children taken captive. Hearing the cries of the women and the lewd laughter of the Dothraki warriors, Jhaqo felt a surge of excitement.

As he passed through the camp, the Dothraki warriors bowed to him, slightly easing the sting of the humiliation he had suffered in Tyrosh. However, many of the warriors, under the cover of night, hadn't yet noticed that their "Ko" had lost his nose.

"Before midnight—ho—before midnight, have all centurions in my tent!" Jhaqo ordered in a hoarse voice, struggling to adjust to speaking without his nose. The air he breathed felt dry, lacking the moisture his nasal passages once provided.

...

Meanwhile, Caggo, himself a Dothraki, was well-acquainted with the habits of the Dothraki mercenaries. With the aid of the "whistling crows," they had managed to detect the Dothraki scouts in advance, allowing him and Viserys's 1,500 light cavalry to approach Jhaqo's camp unnoticed. To maintain their secrecy, they had to eliminate at least 40 Dothraki scouts along the way, nearly half of whom were killed by Viserys himself. In Caggo's eyes, Viserys was the "Khal" he was destined to follow. As far as he knew, no Khal in Dothraki history had shown more power than Viserys.

"Prince, the hill ahead is Jhaqo's camp," Caggo warned, though he didn't know that Viserys's golden eagle had already scouted it.

"Send a raven to Conwyra. Have him block the western exit," Viserys ordered.

"Yes!"

Viserys was determined. He intended to take 3,000 Dothraki heads, not only to send a strong message to the Four Free Cities but also to cement his authority within the confederation.

In Jhaqo's tent, 20 centurions had gathered. Unaware of what had transpired in Tyrosh, they believed Jhaqo would soon lead them on another raid.

...

"Done."

"These milkmen women are too fragile. I barely had any fun before they died."

"Try their men—they're no different from the women."

"Better be cautious. We could sell them in Slaver's Bay instead."

To the Dothraki, the people of the Two Lakes were nothing more than lambs for the slaughter. These villagers weren't protected by the Three Free Cities; they were left to fend for themselves, abandoned to the whims of the Dothraki. The Archon of Tyrosh, the Prince of Lys, and the Lord of Myr sent nothing but tax collectors, as if the people were born to bear heavy taxes and suffer Dothraki raids.

The civilians captured by the Dothraki, penned like livestock, had long since grown numb. Suddenly, someone whispered, "Ko is coming," and the Dothraki centurions, who had been speaking loudly, fell silent. But they quickly noticed something unusual—Jhaqo had donned a golden mask. It was newly made, a bit rough around the edges, but it gave him the semblance of a nose.

With his limited understanding, Jhaqo couldn't fathom why the golden nose didn't feel as good as the one he'd lost. But he had no choice; the two bloody holes in his face had destroyed his image. To preserve his dignity, he had ordered the creation of the gold mask on the spot.

He glared at his centurions with murderous intent and declared, "The damned milkman rejected the Khal's generosity! Not only did he refuse to support the people of the noble horse god, but he also refused to marry his sister to the Khal. We will make that arrogant fool taste our curved swords!"

Jhaqo's words immediately ignited the fury of the Dothraki in the tent. As the most powerful Khal in history, Drogo held an almost divine status among them. To some, he was nearly the embodiment of the "Horse God." Viserys's defiance was seen as an unforgivable insult.

"Yes! Let's show him!"

"How dare he reject Khal Drogo's kindness! I'll carve the flesh from his bones!"

Jhaqo continued, "I have sent word to the great Khal Drogo that I will create the greatest carpet of milkmaids' blood before his army arrives! Kill them all!"

"Kill them all!" the Dothraki roared in unison.

For a moment, their cries seemed to shake the very walls of Jhaqo's tent. In recent days, they had nearly exhausted the loot and supplies they had plundered. Restlessness had begun to spread, with nearly half the Dothraki growing impatient. Now, not only could they continue their spree of looting and killing, but they also had an even stronger reason to do so.

As they reveled in the anticipation of a new round of bloodshed, a faint tremor suddenly rippled beneath their feet. The tent, which had been like a pot of boiling water, quickly cooled as if doused with a bucket of ice. The Dothraki, raised alongside their horses, recognized the sensation immediately—it was the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves. And judging by the intensity of the vibrations, there were at least a thousand riders approaching!