Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

As soon as Viserys departed Tyrosh, the Horselord sent his own envoy to the city. Drogo dispatched his fiercest man, Ko Jhaqo, accompanied by twenty of the most capable warriors from his khalasar. Each of these warriors bore at least five silver bells in their braids, symbols of their participation in the massacre and plunder of at least five villages.

Jhaqo entered Tyrosh alongside the Unsullied and the Young Connigton. With no fewer than ten silver bells and three gold bells jingling in his hair, Jhaqo eyed the city greedily. The population of this single city was equivalent to half of his entire horse tribe. If they could plunder it, it would solve the tribe's current hardships.

The people of Tyrosh, intimidated by the sight of these horsemen with their large, ghostly tattoos, quickly stepped aside, avoiding them on the streets. This only fueled Jhaqo's arrogance. He felt like a wolf among sheep, his gaze causing them to tremble and retreat into corners.

He looked over at young Connington, who was leading the Unsullied, and felt nothing but disdain. "A milkman is a milkman—looks more like a woman than a man," he sneered to himself.

But... Jhaqo's eyes flicked to the Unsullied marching alongside him. To the Dothraki, the Unsullied were a bitter reminder of past humiliation.

Years ago, tens of thousands of Dothraki had been forced to cut off their braids in submission to these cold-blooded killing machines at Qohor. The fear had since turned into hatred. There was always someone in the khalasar dreaming of leading the Dothraki to defeat the Unsullied once and for all.

'As long as Drogo is with us, we'll tear these eggless bastards to pieces,' Jhaqo thought, as they approached the palace.

The sight of Tyrosh's palace was another revelation for him. The ground was paved with hard stone slabs, surrounded by exquisite sculptures and fountains. In the distance, the three-headed dragon banner fluttered atop the bell tower, making Jhaqo's mouth water with desire. The warriors around him couldn’t hide their greedy glances at the palace maids.

Jhaqo imagined how glorious it would be if all this belonged to him. The palace was even more magnificent than the nine towers manse in Pentos, which had been gifted to the Horselord by wealthy merchants.

Young Connington gestured ahead. "Lord Jhaqo, the throne hall is straight ahead."

Jhaqo glanced at the grand hall before him and barked, "Dango, Belo, you two come with me. The rest of you wait here." Without hesitation, he grabbed the reins and rode straight toward the throne hall. This was more than just a breach of etiquette—it was an outright provocation.

Young Connington quickly stepped forward, blocking Jhaqo’s path. "My lord, please walk with me."

But Jhaqo continued as if he hadn’t heard him, forcing Young Connington to raise his voice and stand his ground. "My lord, please walk with me!"

Jhaqo finally turned his gaze to the silver-haired boy, his tone dripping with mockery. "Young lord, for us Dothraki, horses are our legs. You want me to leave my legs behind? How can that be?"

Young Connington hesitated, unsure how to respond. Flushing slightly, he insisted, "You cannot ride into the throne room. It’s the rule here!"

Jhaqo's patience thinned. As the strongest Ko under Drogo, being blocked by a mere child would make him a laughingstock among his people. Even Drogo might no longer take him seriously—a humiliation he couldn’t tolerate. In the Dothraki camp, he would have whipped his horse and charged into a fight by now.

His voice was a low growl. "I’ll say this one last time: get out of my way!"

"No! My lord, please dismount," Young Connington repeated, standing firm.

Behind Jhaqo, the warriors he had left outside sensed the tension and instinctively placed their hands on the hilts of their curved swords. The situation was on the verge of exploding when Connington, the administrator of Tyrosh, rode up. He recognized that Jhaqo was likely here to provoke them, but with Viserys gone, he couldn’t afford a direct confrontation with the Dothraki. Tyrosh alone could not match their strength, and even the combined forces of the three Free Cities in the Disputed Lands struggled against Drogo’s khalasar.

Connington spoke loudly, offering a diplomatic solution. "My lord, I am the administrator of Tyrosh. If you’re unwilling to discuss matters in the throne hall, perhaps we could move to the palace garden instead?"

His words provided an escape from the escalating tension, allowing both sides to step back without losing face.

Jhaqo laughed, "Hahaha, yes, we Dothraki don’t care for stone houses."

With that, Connington and Jhaqo rode their horses into the palace garden. The garden was a riot of color, filled with flowers and carefully planned paths, a stark contrast to the tension just moments before.

In the center of the garden was a small fountain, next to which stood a pavilion. As Jhaqo surveyed the well-kept grounds, a grin spread across his face. Without a second thought, he let his horse graze on the lush flowerbeds. The once-beautiful blooms were quickly reduced to red-stained mulch in the horse’s mouth, a crude display that could only be described as “a cow chewing peonies.”

Young Connington watched the scene unfold, gritting his teeth but remaining silent, adhering to the principle of not causing unnecessary trouble for Viserys.

The two men sat down, and a maid promptly brought them tea. Connington opened the conversation, "I’ve heard that the Lord has come to Tyrosh to make amends?"

"Yes, of course, we’re here to make amends. We deeply regret that some of our Dothraki raided your village out of hunger the other day," Jhaqo replied, though his face betrayed no hint of remorse, as if he were discussing something that didn’t concern him.

Connington, however, sneered inwardly. 'Hunger?' he thought. 'Is that what you call pillaging?' Since receiving reports of Dothraki harassment along the border, the number of civilians and caravans they had slaughtered had climbed into the hundreds. This wasn’t an isolated incident of desperation; it was a deliberate provocation.

Connington knew where this was headed. The next part of the conversation would have nothing to do with genuine reparations. The Dothraki were here to extort Tyrosh—just as they had done to others in the Disputed Lands before. Whether it was Tyrosh’s army, the Magisters of Myr, or the Princes of Lys, all had paid off the Dothraki to keep the peace. It was a common tactic, similar to what Pentos had to endure, though Pentos paid more dearly due to its unfortunate location.

Suddenly, Jhaqo changed the subject. "By the way, where is your Archon? I believe the one ruling Tyrosh is called Viserys or something..."

Connington’s expression remained neutral as he corrected, "Lord Jhaqo, there is no Archon in Tyrosh now. Prince Viserys is the Regent of Tyrosh."

Jhaqo chuckled, dismissing the titles. "Ha, you milkmen love to invent all sorts of confusing titles. So where is this Viserys now?"

"Prince Viserys is not in Tyrosh at the moment," Connington replied seriously. "It will likely be about a month before he returns."

Upon hearing this, Jhaqo’s demeanor shifted to one of impatience. "Then tell me, can you make decisions on what I’m about to propose?"

"You may speak first, and I will convey it," Connington replied calmly.

Jhaqo crossed his arms, his tone becoming more demanding. "No, you tell me first—can you decide or not?"

"That depends on the matter," Connington answered, holding his ground. "If it’s within my authority, there will be no problem. Before the Regent left, he granted me a great deal of autonomy."

Jhaqo studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, his golden earrings swaying and catching the light. "I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Red Waste is expanding, and the Great Grass Sea is slowly receding. The Horselord’s people have no choice but to take what they need. Khal Drogo sent me to ask for supplies to survive the drought."

Connington understood their true intentions now—they were here to take advantage of Tyrosh’s resources.

"So, how much does Khal Drogo intend to ‘borrow’?" Connington inquired, deliberately framing it as a loan rather than a gift.

Jhaqo, unfazed by the choice of words, shrugged. Whether it was borrowed or taken by force, whatever he could secure by his own strength was his to claim. "Khal Drogo has sent me to request 10,000 pounds of barley, 10,000 pounds of salt, 10,000 pounds of tea, 1,000 slaves, and 100,000 pounds of fodder."

Though Connington had no intention of fulfilling these demands, he couldn’t help but mentally calculate the value of the requested goods. The total came to around 400,000 gold dragons—a sum nearly equivalent to Tyrosh’s entire annual tax revenue, excluding the profits from tobacco. If he agreed to Jhaqo’s demands, Viserys would undoubtedly dismiss him upon his return.

Connington began cautiously, "Lord Jhaqo, the quantity and value of these goods are immense. Tyrosh cannot provide them all at once."

Jhaqo's mouth curled into a sneer, the tattoos on his face twisting with his expression, reflecting his dissatisfaction. In truth, his demands far exceeded what Drogo had actually requested—Jhaqo was angling for a personal gain.

"So, how much can you give us now?" Jhaqo pressed. "But I'll warn you, if it's not enough, I won't be able to control my hungry warriors. They'll plunder as many villages as they please, and there won't be anything I can do to stop them."

The threat was as blatant as it was menacing. Even Young Connington, standing nearby, was shocked and angered by the barbarian's audacious demands. But Connington knew better than to escalate the situation. Jhaqo’s arrogance was bolstered by Drogo’s backing and the might of 50,000 fierce warriors.

Connington attempted to negotiate, "If we reduce the amount by half, we might consider assisting Khal Drogo..."

But Jhaqo cut him off. "What? Halve it again? Are you trying to starve us to death? Do you want the Horselord's people to perish?"

Connington sighed inwardly. "I’m sorry, Lord Jhaqo, but the supplies you’re asking for are far too large. I don’t have the authority to make that decision."

Jhaqo studied him for a moment before responding, "In that case, I have another request. By order of the Khal, I need you to send someone."

"Please, go on," Connington replied, unsure of what Drogo might want.

Jhaqo’s eyes gleamed with cunning. "If it’s just one person, then you should be able to decide, right?"

"If it’s just one person, I think I can help," Connington agreed, though he remained wary.

"Khal Drogo wants to marry your Regent, Prince Viserys’s sister, Daenerys. Their union will bring forth the stallion who mounts the world!" Jhaqo declared, his voice swelling with intoxication at the thought.

Connington, however, was deeply unsettled. Regardless of whether Viserys would agree to such a marriage, Connington was firmly against it. Viserys had spent the last two or three years navigating a treacherous path, striving to change his and Dany’s fate. The idea of sending Dany to a Horselord’s bed was unthinkable—it would be better to kill him now than to ask him to make that sacrifice.

From Connington’s perspective, marrying Dany to Drogo was a poor bargain. Dany’s marriage would be far more advantageous if it secured an alliance with Dorne or Highgarden, not with a barbarian horde. Even if Drogo commanded 50,000 warriors, what could they do? Could their horses swim across the Narrow Sea? Connington was skeptical of the Dothraki’s effectiveness in Westeros. While they excelled in open-field combat, Westeros was full of castles and fortresses, which would severely limit the Dothraki’s impact.

So Connington firmly refused to help. "What do you mean?" Jhaqo snapped. "If you don’t help us, are you saying you won’t even allow the Dothraki to save themselves?"

"Save yourselves?" Connington echoed, puzzled by the connection between marrying Dany and the Dothraki’s survival.

Jhaqo then explained the Dothraki prophecy. "Only the ‘stallion who mounts the world’ can save the Dothraki, and that stallion will be the child of Daenerys and Khal Drogo."

Connington was unimpressed. In fact, he found prophecies annoying. If Rhaegar hadn’t been so obsessed with the prophecy of the dragon with three heads, the Targaryens might still be on the Iron Throne. But Connington couldn’t simply dismiss Jhaqo outright, so he arranged for the Dothraki to stay in Tyrosh, explaining that the matter would have to wait until Viserys returned.

Though he knew this request was impossible, Jhaqo was confident that Viserys wouldn’t refuse an alliance with the most powerful Khal in history, especially when all it required was the marriage of one woman. Convinced that Viserys would agree, Jhaqo settled into Tyrosh with a carefree attitude.

Following Viserys's instructions, Connington "appeased" the Dothraki by treating them with hospitality, providing good food and drink, which kept Jhaqo and his men content. Viserys had been clear: they were to avoid provoking the Dothraki, show deference if necessary, and maintain the peace until he returned—or until Dany hatched her dragon and it was fully battle-ready.