Savage Blood

Chapter 3

The Great Grass Sea did not forgive weakness.

Laena learned that before the second sunrise.

The khalasar moved like a living storm — thousands of hooves pounding the earth, braids snapping in the wind, bells clashing in rhythm with war songs. Dust coated her skin. Sweat soaked through leather and linen. No palace walls. No marble floors.

Only sky.

Only strength.

Her silver hair had been braided tight against her scalp at dawn by one of the older Dothraki women. Not gently. Not kindly.

A test.

Laena had not flinched.

Now she rode at Khal Drogo's side on the pale silver mare gifted to her at the wedding. The horse responded to her hands as if it recognized something wild in her touch.

Drogo watched.

He had said little since the wedding night. But he observed everything.

So did the khalasar.

The khaleesi must prove herself.

By midday, they stopped near a shallow river that carved through the grasslands like a scar. The warriors dismounted first. The women and slaves followed.

Laena swung down from her horse without assistance.

A bloodrider stepped forward — broad-shouldered, scarred, his braid thick with bells.

Qotho.

His dark eyes swept over her with open skepticism.

He spoke sharply in Dothraki.

She did not know every word yet, but she understood enough.

He questioned her strength. Her usefulness. Whether she would slow the khal.

Whether she was worth the blood price.

A small circle formed.

Drogo said nothing.

He wanted to see.

Laena stepped closer to Qotho until only a breath separated them.

"Repeat it," she said coolly in Valyrian.

He didn't understand the words — but he understood challenge.

He barked something harsher this time.

Laughter rippled from a few nearby riders.

Laena moved before anyone expected it.

In one swift motion, she grabbed the dagger from Qotho's belt — not to stab, not to kill — but to press the blade flat against his throat.

Gasps cut through the riverbank.

Her movements were precise. Efficient. Controlled.

She leaned in slightly, her voice soft enough that only he would hear the tone.

"I do not need your respect," she murmured. "Only your obedience."

Qotho's eyes burned — but he did not move.

He could not.

Drogo finally spoke.

One word.

Low. Commanding.

Laena held Qotho's gaze a moment longer.

Then she released him — and tossed the dagger back into his chest hard enough that he had to catch it.