Unlike many of his brethren, Jhogo had never been particularly uncomfortable with entering the cities that their Khal demanded tribute from.
Many of his fellow Dothraki in Khal Drogo's horde found them too confining, too narrow. Made them feel too much like the buildings would seek to envelop them and make them forget the freedom of the open plains, the delightfully wide-spread chaos of Vaes Dothrak.
Jhogo himself could not say that he cared over much if truth were to be told. So long as he knew he could leave, it did not matter where he may be was his feeling. Leave him his legs or his mount and it did not truly matter if he was on the narrow streets of the city the perfumed men called Pentos or the open plains close to the lake abutting the mountains his own people called the Womb of the World: he could be somewhere else as soon as the urge took him.
As they made their way to Khal Drogo's manse within the Pentos city limits, he smirked to himself as two of his brothers warily glanced around the crowded city streets and alternately fingered their curved arakhs that hung at their hips even as the rest of the ground walkers deferentially gave them as wide a berth as they might've a full caravan even whilst they determinedly avoided making any eye contact with the Dothraki themselves.
It was funny to him how frightened and easily cowed these people were.
Most Dothraki, if forced to leave their horse, would've walked with their back held straight and their dark eyes watching everything that happened with no fear for who might take it as a challenge. For more often than not it truly was an open challenge for any who thought themselves their better to try and prove it to be so.
That was the way of their people after all. The Great Stallion as well the Dosh Khaleen and the Great Khals who followed his will demanded that they trample all who stood before them under their mighty hooves so that their crushed spirits and ruined vanities might grow great grass for the Dothraki people and their mounts to feast upon.
They had near countless idols and statues decorating the plains surrounding Vaes Dothrak that proved the truth of that superiority. Silent testament to the destroyed places that existed most everywhere upon the land that the Dothraki called their own now.
Yet all but the dumbest of horses knew one did not eat out all of their fields at once. They did not devour all the grass in one go, not when returning from plain to plain could yield a so much steadier supply without needing to starve themselves or kill off more than it was necessary to kill.
The walled cities could've fallen within days to the great horde. In truth, the walled cities would've fallen within days to the great hordes no matter whether one as magnificent as Drogo or one as half-mad as Azhak were commanding them.
Their warriors were unmatched by the weak men who dwelt within the unfeeling walls. No matter how strong the fortifications were, they weren't the same as living men who could fight and resist and destroy any who came for them. Whether by spear or by arakh or by bow all Dothraki would've done as much for their people to all who came to challenge them.
But they did not hide behind such things. For they were a proud people: their skin bronzed by the sun, their hair dark as the night. They were at their greatest power riding their horses, the only true companion any man could have in this life. It was provided food, shelter, material, companionship and mobility. And so they also knew the value of raiding, of leaving something to recreate itself later so that they could take from it again.
The sheep worshipers, the grass gatherers, the caravans, they all paid tribute to the horde so long as they never let them grow truly complacent with their presence. And if that meant they sometimes had to ravage a town to keep their horde sharp even in the face of being given tribute, who were the weaker to protest? All deformed Dothraki babes were left by the roadside for the wild dogs and the natural world to purge after all.
How then was it their fault if those they took tribute from couldn't prove themselves worthy of the true superiority that was the Dothraki way of life?
But now wasn't the time for that. Not when one of the perfumed earth-trodders of Pentos had approached Khal Drogo about a possible wife.
The Khal had taken women as conquests before of course. No Dothraki worth the mount he rode would pass up the opportunity to prove he was man enough to bed a woman once he was man enough to wield a blade. But none of them had been what he could truthfully call a wife seeing as how none of them had any wish to remain in the Khalassar even when given the privilege of having the attentions of such a Khal among Khals as Drogo. Eventually he always grew bored of their cries and their weak weeping and so gave them to his Bloodriders for their personal use.
Jhogo didn't know much of what happened to the ones that went to Cohollo and Haggo after Drogo was done with them. Only that their fate was likely far kinder than the stories he heard about what happened to the ones unfortunate enough to be given to Qotho.
He idly wondered how long this one would last while simultaneously speculating what woman this perfumed fat man thought could possibly be worth Drogo at last marrying. Perhaps she was one of those of the dark-skin that lived upon a land beyond the poison water. Perhaps she was a particularly fetching slave that had been bought for a prince's ransom.
He snorted to himself as he immediately dismissed that possibility from mind. No, the pleasure women were trained for one thing alone. Yet even then they could not possibly be prepared for any single Dothraki man. Let alone one as demanding and powerful as Drogo.
As they came to the house of nine towers, the perfumed fat-man greeted Drogo at the head of the procession. The other Dothraki were grumbling after having trodden through these restrictive streets just to get here. Jhogo knew that was more to do with knowing the fat man would've provided liberal amounts of food for them to devour as he had on the other rare occasions that their Khal had returned to this city.
They spoke briefly to each other, Drogo's guttural voice a sharp contrast to the perfumed fat-man's barely audible responses even as they both spoke Dothraki while the members of the horde who had accompanied their Khal into the city shifted from foot to foot, eyes looking everywhere but at the two speakers as they waited for their Khal's signal to go inside.
Jhogo dismounted and led his horse forward as at last the men ceased speaking and Drogo called them to enter the nine-spired house. The men cheered, eager to taste the delicacies that would be afforded to them now.
The inside of the house was spacious but virtually unused; the sandy looking stone a contrast to the colorful silken tapestries that hung everywhere and the fires that crackled merrily in the braziers in greeting. Obviously the servants had been keeping things up as they should for their masters. Jhogo debated whether he should take another one upon his cock as he had before. Perhaps if they were comely enough. But he didn't hold high hopes of them doing much more of grunting as he rode them to completion and saying nothing to him afterward. He didn't want them to and they could never mistake his taking satisfaction for any kind of affection for a lesser girl that could've been given to a true Dothraki woman.
The great draw was of course the feast laid out before their eager eyes and hands. The others of Drogo's horde charged forward, taking the food they could reach before the others. Jhogo waited a few moments before he came to the table for his own share. The others could charge forward to take what they wanted and risk getting a stabbed hand via knife as he had the first few times.
Sure he was second to claim the food but most who went first were so occupied with claiming the food for themselves that they often didn't have the time needed to make sure they were claiming what they wanted.
All around the hall were dotted the non-men soldiers that the earth-trodders called Unsullied. Jhogo would only admit this under pain of death, but he had always felt uneasy around them. Not just because they had lived their entire lives without ever becoming men as Dothraki understood them but because he knew the story behind the braids of hair that decorated their spear shafts.
Long ago a Khal had foolishly decided he must conquer one of these walled cities. He had stormed through many others until he reached the one that created these things that were called Unsullied. For two days the Khalessar had charged fruitlessly against the shielded spearmen. By the end, the once great horde was reduced to less than half its original strength. With the Khal and his bloodriders dead, it fell to those who remained to make their decision. And their decision was to each come before those who had so soundly defeated them and one by one cut their braids before throwing them at the feet of their enemy: as any Dothraki who lived through a loss was expected to do.
It was something the Dothraki as a whole had never forgiven the walled cities for even as they respected them for it. Though if they truly wanted such sub-humans to defend them from men it would cut no hair from their horse's tails.
Soon enough there was commotion and noise enough to almost make Jhogo forget that they weren't in Vaes Dothrak as the Khalessar feasted around him. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of silvery gold in the air. Turning his head slightly to the left as another morsel of roasted meat found its way to his mouth, he observed a boy and a girl. The boy was slightly older; a thin frame that had obviously never seen blood in his life let alone a true fight. Even though he was almost as tall as the other Dothraki, he was willowy and almost as feminine as the girl who stood beside him.
He wondered if they had both inherited their girlish features from the same place their silvery gold hair came from. As they moved past the Unsullied guards toward the rest of the feasting Khalessar, Jhogo saw that the girl was wide-eyed at the sight of so many Dothraki in one place. He snorted to himself as he turned back to his meal.
He sincerely hoped the fat man didn't think that little thing would satisfy Drogo as a wife. Sure, she had nice enough teats and her hips had the potential to grow once Drogo fucked a son into her. But that didn't make up for the fact that she was easily the shortest person there and looked about ready to bolt out the door at any moment. Like a frightened little lamb that had just come upon a den of wolves.
He'd seen the easily cowed, frightened little things like her come before. They might whimper and cry and beg. Yet when all is said and done they always go. Whether they were still alive when they left was immaterial. There was no way such a pathetic looking little thing would satisfy a man like Drogo. But it was no hair of his horse's tail.
He took another bite of the meat, savoring the explosion of flavors across his tongue.
A/N: My apologies to all of you for taking as long as it has to get back to this story. Quite a lot has been going on in my private life at the moment. These things include but are not limited to: medication change, burned hand, job change and loss of family pet. That being said, I realize that this is not my best chapter by a long shot. All I have to offer in my defense is that Dothraki are really really damn hard to write for and that I hope the extra effort I put in to post the next two chapters concurrently makes up for the long radio silence.