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Chapter 208: The Khal's Fear
🕑 Added 2025-03-15 13:33:23 +0000 UTCAfter assessing the situation, Fenya immediately realized this was a major opportunity. She quickly ordered her men to retrieve some weapons from the wagons and handed them to the Dothraki, offering them as a form of trade instead of gold.
The Dothraki inside the tent each took a scimitar, tested its weight and balance, and nodded in satisfaction. In return, they pulled out gold-cast seals from their belts and tossed them to Fenya.
The transaction proceeded smoothly. Fenya offloaded all the weapons she had originally intended to transport back to Myr, exchanging them for an assortment of Dothraki spoils. These included ornate jewelry and fine crafts—valued elsewhere but dismissed by the Dothraki—as well as a large quantity of tanned animal hides, raw gemstones, and numerous slaves whom the Dothraki saw little worth in.
“I will trade the Dothraki warhorses I captured for the old slaves you plan to kill,” Lynd said, stepping forward toward Khal Drogo as Fenya continued her negotiations.
“A coward is not worthy to speak to the blood of my blood!”
A short, stocky, slightly bald Dothraki shoved away the female slave in his lap. Wearing no trousers, he grabbed his arakh and stepped forward, pointing it at Lynd.
“A coward who hides in armor,” he sneered. “Look at me!”
Lynd, however, ignored the man completely. His gaze remained fixed on Khal Drogo, calm and unwavering.
Khal Drogo, in turn, put down his skull cup and met Lynd’s stare without expression. He neither agreed nor refused.
The Dothraki warrior, enraged by Lynd’s indifference, saw it as a grave insult. With a furious snarl, he raised his arakh and slashed at Lynd.
Lynd merely took a step back—casual, effortless—avoiding the strike entirely. At the same time, he threw a punch, striking the Dothraki squarely in the head and sending him crashing to the ground. The sheer force of the blow shattered his cheekbone, leaving an indented fist mark on his face.
Though it was a solid hit, the Dothraki was tough. The alcohol he had consumed was likely laced with a substance that dulled pain, allowing him to remain conscious. Though dazed, he struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily before regaining his balance.
He shook his head in an attempt to clear his dizziness. Then, with a glare filled with hatred and rage, he charged again—this time crouched low, aiming for Lynd’s lower body.
It was a strategic move, showing that he was no mere brawler but a seasoned warrior. He sought to exploit his shorter stature and target a potential weak spot in Lynd’s defenses.
Unfortunately, he was simply too slow.
Lynd had already anticipated his next move. As the arakh swung toward him, he sidestepped effortlessly, avoiding the blade. Before the Dothraki could react, Lynd’s foot lashed out, striking him square in the head.
The impact sent him flying.
Despite holding back some of his strength, Lynd’s kick was still devastating. The Dothraki’s body hurtled backward, crashing into several warriors who had been watching the fight unfold. But his momentum was still unchecked—he slammed hard into one of the wooden support poles of the tent before collapsing to the ground. The entire structure trembled violently for several moments before settling.
This time, he did not get back up.
He had finally lost consciousness, and the wound on his forehead bore the unmistakable imprint of a boot. Judging from the depth of the injury, the kick had fractured the bone. Even once healed, the mark would never fade. It would remain with him for the rest of his life—matching the fist-shaped indentation on the other side of his face.
...
Silence fell over the tent.
All movement ceased. The Dothraki warriors stared at Lynd, momentarily stunned. Then, one by one, they rose to their feet, their eyes burning with hostility, hands gripping the hilts of their weapons.
The man Lynd had just incapacitated was not an ordinary warrior. He had been one of Khal Drogo’s sworn Bloodriders since the days of Khal Bharbo. Years ago, he had even saved Khal Drogo’s life from a group of mercenaries. When Drogo ascended as Khal of his father’s tribe, this warrior had been the first to swear loyalty to him, gaining a position of special status within the khalasar.
For Lynd to grievously wound a Bloodrider was, to them, nothing short of an insult—a direct challenge.
Lynd glanced around at the Dothraki who had risen against him. A faint smile formed behind his mask as his hand rested on the hilt of his knight’s sword.
The air in the tent was thick with tension, teetering on the edge of violence.
But then, Khal Drogo poured himself another drink, downed it in one gulp, and gestured for his men to lower their weapons.
He turned to Lynd and, with the same expressionless tone, said, “You are worthy to do business with me.”
...
The gathered warriors exchanged looks of surprise. A Bloodrider had been attacked—yet Khal Drogo did not seem angry.
But soon, a few of them began to nod in understanding, as if the pieces had fallen into place.
Perhaps, they reasoned, Khal Drogo had intended for this to happen. That Bloodrider had long been a problem—arrogant, entitled, using his position to seize loot ahead of others and taking whatever he pleased. Many had wanted to put him in his place, but given his strength and status, no one had dared to act against him.
Now, however, Khal Drogo’s silence suggested he might have welcomed this outcome.
If that was the case, then this armored stranger had merely done what the Khal himself could not.
Lynd cast Khal Drogo a knowing glance before nodding and turning to leave.
He had a trade to complete.
“What is your name, armored man?” Khal Drogo suddenly asked.
“Lion Knight Ornstein.” Lynd stopped in his tracks, turned to glance at Khal Drogo, then stepped out of the tent.
“Lion Knight Ornstein,” Khal Drogo repeated, rolling the name on his tongue as he poured himself another cup of wine and drank it in one gulp.
The surrounding Dothraki took this as a sign that the matter had passed. None of them stepped forward to stir up further trouble. Instead, they dragged the unconscious Bloodrider aside and resumed their interrupted activities.
But if any of them had been observant, they might have noticed something unusual—something shocking.
For a fleeting moment, the undefeated Khal Drogo, the warrior they revered as an embodiment of war itself, had a glint of fear in his eyes. His hand, the one holding his cup, trembled ever so slightly.
They did not know that Khal Drogo’s hesitation had nothing to do with reluctance to avenge his Bloodrider.
It was fear.
...
From the moment Lynd had stepped into the tent, Drogo had felt something unfamiliar—an overwhelming sense of danger. It was not like the instinctive caution he felt before a battle, nor the wariness that came when facing a strong opponent. This was something else, something deeper.
And when Lynd knocked out his Bloodrider in front of him, and his warriors rose to surround the armored man, that feeling of danger spiked into something absolute.
For a brief instant, he felt as if he were staring into the eyes of a monster, something beyond human, something utterly terrifying. And in that moment, he knew—if he attacked, he would die.
But it wasn’t just his own instinct warning him.
There was something else. Something unseen. A force beyond his understanding.
It was as if the gods themselves whispered a prophecy of doom into his ear.
...
Under these circumstances, he realized that even if he cast aside his fear and fought, he would not win. His fighting spirit had already been shattered. If he forced himself into battle, he would never be able to bring out his full strength. And from the way Lynd had dispatched his Bloodrider, it was clear—the armored man was far beyond him.
Victory was impossible. Survival, unlikely.
Khal Drogo had built his name on fearlessness, but he was no fool. Only an idiot charged into a fight he knew he would lose.
And so, as Lynd walked away, Khal Drogo forced himself back to normal. But even as he steadied his breath, he gave no order to attack. Because in that moment, the fear Lynd had placed in his heart had not faded.
If he ever wanted to rid himself of that fear, he would have to defeat Lynd in combat himself. If he ordered his men to swarm the armored man now, it would only deepen the fear inside him—fear that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
...
Outside the tent, Lynd turned back, casting one last glance toward Khal Drogo. A strange expression crossed his face.
Khal Drogo’s decision to let things go had not just saved himself.
It had saved Lynd as well.
If Drogo had chosen to avenge his Bloodrider, if he had given the order to attack, Lynd would have responded with full force. And he would not have hesitated to kill everyone inside that tent.
Before entering, he had already prepared for every possible outcome, including the possibility of a direct confrontation with Drogo.
He had even considered what he would do if the conflict became inevitable—killing Drogo, his Bloodriders, and his key warriors. He had weighed the idea of trying to seize control of the khalasar himself. And if that failed, scattering the Dothraki forces would still serve his purposes by keeping the region unstable.
...
In truth, the moment he learned that this khalasar belonged to Khal Drogo, he had known that the Dothraki infighting would not last much longer.
Drogo was too strong. Unless the other Khals banded together against him, he would pick them off one by one. Eventually, this senseless Dothraki war would come to an end.
And that was not what Lynd wanted.
He needed the Dothraki as a force of chaos, something to keep the three great city-states of the Disputed Lands on edge. If Drogo consolidated his power too soon, the threat of the Dothraki would fade, and the city-states might not turn against each other the way Lynd needed them to.
If that happened, his plans would become far more complicated.
Weaken Drogo. That had been his goal from the moment he stepped into the tent. Even when he struck the Bloodrider, there had been a deliberate undercurrent of provocation.
Yet to his surprise, Drogo had not taken the bait.
And what shocked him even more was what he saw when his killing intent flared against Drogo.
His special vision revealed something unexpected—a surge of ancient and mysterious magic radiating from the Dothraki Khal.
It was not powerful magic, not in the way sorcery could be. But it carried an unmistakable aura of something old, something sacred. It reminded him of the energy he had sensed from Garth Greenhand.
The realization struck him immediately.
Drogo, like Willas, was marked—touched by something ancient. A chosen warrior of some forgotten force.
Killing him would not be simple.
Killing him would bring consequences.
...
Lynd exhaled slowly.
For now, Lynd lacked the power to resist the malice of those ancient beings, so when Khal Drogo chose not to hold him accountable for killing a bloodrider, he couldn't help but feel relieved.
Outside the tent, Fenya and the others had no idea they had nearly been dragged into a life-and-death battle by Lynd. At the moment, they were all focused on organizing the goods, carefully sorting and packing each type before stacking them neatly onto the carts.
When Fenya saw Lynd emerge from the tent, she was about to approach him, but noticing that he was speaking with the Dothraki who had led them inside, she hesitated and stopped. Moments later, she saw the Dothraki call out to the surrounding people and select the 300 finest warhorses from Lynd’s herd, leading them away.
Not long after, another group of Dothraki arrived, escorting over a thousand elderly slaves with white hair. The Dothraki gestured toward Lynd, saying something, and in response, the slaves knelt before him, calling him their master.
“Does your tribe have any spare wagons? I’ll trade warhorses for them,” Lynd asked.
“No need. They’re a gift to you,” the Dothraki replied.
The Dothraki held deep respect for strength. Although they initially looked down on Lynd for wearing armor, the ease with which he had slain Khal Drogo’s Bloodrider inside the tent had proven his prowess. That display of strength erased any contempt they had for him.
Besides, wagons held little value to the Dothraki. Just as they scorned armor, they saw carriages as symbols of weakness. Among them, only the disabled, eunuchs, the elderly, pregnant women, and women in general were permitted to ride in wagons.
This disdain was even more pronounced in Khal Drogo’s khalasar—so much so that even children and non-pregnant women refrained from using wagons. They kept only a few for the disabled and the elderly, while any other captured wagons were burned as firewood at night. Giving them away to Lynd was of no consequence.
Before long, more than a hundred wagons were delivered to Lynd. He had the elderly prisoners harness them themselves and allowed them to choose one to ride.
Lynd had chosen to exchange warhorses for these elderly captives because he had noticed that many of them were skilled craftsmen—tanners, blacksmiths, jewelers, and more—precisely the kind of talent Summerhall needed.
Though these men were old and frail, their wealth of experience and mastery of their crafts were invaluable. If they could pass down their knowledge to the apprentices in his domain, Lynd would no longer face a shortage of skilled labor.
With the transactions completed, night had already begun to fall.
Initially, Fenya had planned for them to rest in the abandoned village and set off again the next day. However, now that the Dothraki had taken over the settlement, she felt it was risky to linger. While their hosts remained civil for now, there was no telling when that might change, and if it did, they had no means to resist.
So she asked Lynd if they could depart immediately. With his approval, she drove the fully loaded carts out of the Dothraki camp. Lynd followed with his newly acquired slaves, wagons, and warhorses.
...
After Lynd’s departure, several Dothraki emerged from their tents, selecting about thirty riders who swiftly galloped out of the camp.
Fenya, Lynd, and the others traveled for another two or three hours before finding a suitable grassy area beside the road where they could set up camp for the night before continuing onward the next day.
While Fenya oversaw the camp’s preparations, Lynd briefly left. When he returned, he had several dozen more Dothraki warhorses with him.
Seeing this, Fenya grew uneasy, wondering whether they should keep moving. However, Lynd reassured her that there was no one pursuing them.
Accepting his word for the time being, Fenya relaxed slightly, though she still arranged for extra guards to keep watch through the night, wary of any potential danger.
The elderly slaves Lynd had acquired also volunteered to take up sentry duty. They had believed themselves doomed, yet Lynd had purchased their freedom with 300 warhorses. This unexpected salvation made them treasure their lives all the more, and their gratitude toward Lynd deepened. Naturally, they wished to ensure his safety.
Eager to prove their usefulness, they took on whatever tasks they could manage. Standing watch through the night suited them well—especially since many of them struggled with insomnia.
The night passed without incident, and at dawn, the caravan resumed its journey.
...
After five days of travel, they finally reached Myr.
Along the way, they encountered four or five Dothraki raiding parties, each consisting of around 300 to 400 riders from different khalasars. Judging by their numbers, they were likely vanguard scouts.
Upon seeing Fenya’s caravan and Lynd’s large herd of horses and wagons, greed overcame them. However, their attempts to seize Lynd’s possessions all ended the same way—becoming part of his growing spoils of war.
By the time they arrived outside Myr’s city walls, the number of warhorses surrounding Lynd had grown into the thousands. From a distance, his group looked like a formidable Dothraki cavalry force.
Unsurprisingly, the sight sent the city into alarm. The Unsullied and Golden Company soldiers stationed on the walls immediately took up defensive positions, and the gates were shut tight. The civilians waiting to enter the city panicked, scattering in search of shelter to avoid being caught in a potential battle.
The commotion lasted until Fenya entered the city to explain the situation, gradually easing tensions. Even so, the guards remained wary, only opening a narrow side gate—one that could be quickly closed if necessary.
It was clear that the Magister of Myr still harbored doubts about Fenya’s claims. While he permitted her caravan to enter, Lynd and his growing entourage were directed to a designated open area outside the city, a space reserved for visiting Dothraki to set up camp.
