Hoso's chest was caved in — clearly trampled by horses.
Drogo, who never missed a detail, instinctively felt a chill.
His bizarre dream was bleeding into reality!
For a moment, he was frozen in horror.
Flies swarmed around the corpse, but the face hadn't rotted beyond recognition.
Seeing this, Argo made his judgment:
"It seems Jhaqo's group camped here.
He must be heading to Vaes Dothrak, to report to the Great Stallion atop Mother Mountain, offer sacrifices to the heavens, and be formally crowned Khal.
The hoofprints and blood must come from them."
Jorah, Rakharo, and Jhogo fully agreed.
This was the best route toward the Dothraki Sea — open and flat, making it easy to spot any danger.
After Drogo's khalasar shattered, several kos had divided his wealth.
Jhaqo had taken the herds, not the slaves, so he had no reason to journey toward Slaver's Bay with Khal Pono.
Moreover, Hoso had been one of Jhaqo's sworn bloodriders —
to find him dead here was clear proof they had camped.
In Argo's view, treacherous Jhaqo would certainly have held a grand feast to win loyalty.
According to ancient Dothraki tradition, if no blood was spilled at such a gathering, it was seen as a bad omen, meaning the gods had turned away.
Thus, traces of blood were normal.
All the signs fit perfectly.
Drogo agreed with the first part — but not the second.
Drawing on the reasoning of both his lives, Drogo thought the bloodstains and hoofprints they saw were likely left by the wounded chestnut horse from his dream — not by Hoso's death or their group's stay.
The fog clouding his mind for days was finally beginning to lift —
yet that only made him feel more uneasy.
It was too strange.
Too unnatural.
He said nothing, choosing instead to urge his horse onward.
Sensing no immediate danger, Jorah and the others stopped searching carefully, simply following Drogo, keeping their eyes on the distant line where dry red soil finally gave way to green grass.
But Drogo was different.
He lowered his head, closely following the hoofprints and blood trails, holding his reins tight to keep his aging horse from wandering.
Before long, the horses began snorting excitedly.
They had reached the vast, mighty Dothraki Sea.
After chewing bitter, dry devil grass in the Red Waste for so long, the sight of fresh, lush pasture drove the horses wild with joy.
But the people were less excited.
Ahead lay the Rainbow Lands — feared even by the bravest.
Moreover, among them, one of their group had a fate that Drogo had not yet revealed.
The four men watched uneasily as Drogo dismounted and walked into a large, flattened patch of grass.
Wearing a heavy expression, Drogo crouched down, analyzing the scene with sharp eyes.
The depression matched the size of a grown horse lying down.
Examining the hoofprints pressed deep into the black soil, and following the trampled path leading far into the distance, he concluded:
the chestnut horse from his dream had lain here, struggling to rest.
Sweeping the moonlit ground, he quickly spotted some half-dead bronze grass, stained with dried blood, and a translucent piece of silver-patterned snake skin.
Drogo's heart jumped.
He bent down, plucked a bloodstained blade of grass, and sniffed it carefully.
He was a horse nomad — acutely sensitive to the difference between horse blood and human blood.
After a few breaths, he was certain:
"Mm. This is horse blood."
He tossed away the blade of grass, picked up the snake skin, and rolled it between his fingers.
Definitely the shed skin of a silver-patterned snake.
Everything he was seeing matched his dream perfectly.
It made Drogo question everything:
"Could that dream not have been a dream at all?
Could I have actually witnessed reality — even though my body lay in the Red Waste?"
His eyes had been exhausted back then.
Could it have been... the arrow?
The weirwood arrow that had pierced the chestnut horse's rump —
made from rare white wood found only in Westeros, with a sorrowful, weeping face carved into its shaft.
Among the Dothraki, arrows were common.
Drogo normally wouldn't have cared about a single arrow.
He had kept it only because Balbo insisted it was a relic from his unknown mother.
He didn't even know her name.
No one did.
Among the Dothraki, where passion was wild and lineage messy, few cared to ask.
Only because Balbo had no other sons had Drogo been named Khalakka — heir to the Khal.
As a hot-headed boy, he had impulsively fired the precious arrow into the horse's flank — and forgotten it.
Until now.
Until the strange dream forced him to remember.
In his past life, he would have stayed confused forever.
But reborn, and armed with knowledge from the books of Westeros, he could now solve the riddle.
He knew that certain rare humans — skinchangers — could enter animals' minds, see through their eyes, even control their actions.
And among them, the greatest — greenseers — could also connect to the sacred weirwood trees, seeing past, present, and even future.
He knew the names:
the three-eyed crow, Bran Stark.
Drogo realized his case was similar to Bran's —
except he had linked not to a direwolf, but to a weirwood arrow!
Bran needed a guide — a raven.
Drogo had done it through an inanimate object.
"Could I have greenseer potential?"
"But I'm a Dothraki!
Thousands of leagues from the haunted forests of the North!"
Traditionally, skinchangers came from Westeros' North, descendants of the First Men, worshippers of the Old Gods.
According to the three-eyed crow,
only one in a thousand was a skinchanger —
and only one in a thousand of those became a greenseer.
Rarer than dragons.
Yet Drogo had no northern blood.
No old gods.
And still, here he was.
Analyzing everything carefully, Drogo concluded:
The weirwood arrow was the anchor.
The weeping face was the "eye" he had seen through.
Completely drawn into the hidden world of the supernatural, Drogo sat — then lay flat on his back, staring up at the stars, dazed.
The Khal had clearly lost himself in thought.
Jorah and the others watched nervously but didn't dare disturb him.
Suddenly, Drogo's dark eyes lit up.
He sat up sharply.
He thought of something shocking about his bloodline.
Despite ruling the Dothraki, he preferred pale-skinned women like Daenerys.
Could it be —
his mother wasn't Dothraki?
Could she have northern blood?
If so, the blood of the First Men flowed in his veins.
It would explain everything.
But Balbo was missing.
There was no way to confirm it.
Drogo could only bury the question deep in his heart.
Still —
awakening a supernatural gift that could change the game of thrones —
Drogo felt more excitement than fear.
And if he wanted to block out the visions, the solution was simple:
Get drunk.
A method that fit him perfectly.
The gloom in his heart lifted.
Finally remembering his real mission, Drogo changed his plans.
Originally, he had intended to send a bloodrider to provoke a small khalasar, defeat them, and absorb their warriors.
Now, it was unnecessary.
Jhaqo had already sent Mago, leading two hundred elite riders, to capture Daenerys.
Former comrades, familiar enemies —
perfect.
"Let's go," Drogo ordered, leaping onto his horse.
"Follow me to the Rainbow Lands.
Our familiar enemies will arrive before noon tomorrow!"
Without looking back, he charged into the grasslands.
The others scrambled after him.
Argo hesitated, then shouted:
"Blood of my blood!
Weren't you going to assign someone another mission?"
Drogo didn't turn his head:
"No need.
Your only task now is to watch a phoenix snatch cubs from a lion's mouth!"
Phoenix?
None of the Dothraki had ever heard of such a creature.
Their minds filled with question marks as they rode after their Khal into the night.
.
.
.
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