Chapter 155: Killing Khal Moso
The Khals' sleeping quarters were located by the Bay of Pentos, with several tall towers and pale ivy climbing up the towering brick walls. The largest residence naturally belonged to Khal Balbo, who held the greatest power.
Inside the courtyard, the air was filled with the rich fragrance of spices—chili, cinnamon, and sweet lemon. The Unsullied, with faces as smooth as children and sturdy builds, guarded every entrance and exit. These Unsullied attendants under Magister Illyrio Mopatis, though large in stature, were swift, disciplined, and silent in their movements.
Rhaegar observed the steady flow of guests entering and leaving. Stone pillars stood tall throughout the courtyard, ivy twisting around them under the glow of moonlight. Magister Illyrio Mopatis's group consisted of four people: Illyrio himself, Rhaegar, and two Unsullied guards.
The moment the Red Priest cried out, the entire courtyard fell silent.
All eyes turned toward the silver-haired youth standing beside Illyrio.
His face combined firmness and elegance, his violet eyes sharp as lightning, his bearing extraordinary.
"You are Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!"
Someone recognized him instantly, shouting his name. The people of Myr and Lys immediately grew uneasy.
The stout Red Priest, filled with fanatic devotion, attempted to approach Rhaegar to preach and deliver the blessings of the Lord of Light, but Illyrio quickly rebuked and dismissed him.
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the victorious Silver Prince of King's Landing, the Dragonlord of the Three-Headed Dragon, rider of Balerion. Grandson of King Jaehaerys II, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and heir to the Iron Throne…"
The eunuch attendant beside Illyrio announced in a high, smooth voice.
Illyrio glanced at Rhaegar, pondering the Red Priest's prophecy. The words of Red Priests were always cryptic and dangerous. Many had pursued prophecy blindly, only to bring ruin upon themselves. Even House Targaryen had suffered for it—men burning themselves alive or drinking wildfire in madness. The tragedy at Summerhall was still a shadow hanging over their legacy.
Yet Illyrio did not doubt Rhaegar's potential.
Magic itself stood behind him.
"My young prince, even if you disguise yourself as my attendant, you are like a blade hidden in silk—your brilliance cannot be concealed," Illyrio said quietly.
Rhaegar sensed hostility from within the crowd.
A stout Pentoshi noble with a forked red beard and ten jeweled rings stared at him with undisguised hatred.
"That is Lord Casso," Illyrio murmured. "The father of the girl who was to marry Illyrio—the one killed by Miro. He is a cousin to one of the Princes of Pentos. His daughter might as well be called a princess. Naturally… he is not in a good mood."
Rhaegar merely smiled, ignoring the glare.
The Khals, meanwhile, remained unmoved.
Khal Balbo spoke briefly with those around him, asking about Rhaegar. Most Khals barely understood the Valyrian dialect of the Free Cities, and knew nothing of the Common Tongue of Westeros. The Dothraki language was vastly different, and Rhaegar himself had not studied it.
To them, titles meant little.
The Dothraki feared the sea, calling it "poison water," distrusting anything their horses could not drink. The vast ocean filled them with instinctive dread.
Rhaegar looked again at Khal Balbo.
The man's long braid, black as night and heavy with oil, hung to his thighs, adorned with countless bells. Such a braid signified that he had never been defeated—for defeated Khals cut their hair as a mark of shame.
Balbo was a true warlord of the Dothraki Sea, commanding nearly thirty thousand warriors.
Other Khals, such as Khal Moso, were far weaker.
"Honored guests!" Illyrio suddenly declared. "A feast would be meaningless without fine food and beautiful women!"
Dishes were served in abundance—honey-roasted duck, lamb chops, blood pies, sausages, fruits, beet soup, and exquisite Pentoshi cakes.
The main courses were roasted lamb and horse meat, accompanied by fermented mare's milk—the favorite of the Dothraki.
Dothraki women in revealing garments began to dance. Though this was Pentos, the Khals restrained themselves somewhat. Otherwise, they might have joined the dancers without hesitation—their customs were as crude as their way of life.
After several rounds of wine, the feast reached its peak.
Then came the gifts.
Each guest received a commemorative item. The Khals and their bloodriders were given golden horses, sculpted mid-gallop.
Rhaegar received a golden statue of a three-headed dragon, its wings spread wide, its eyes set with red, silver, and purple gems.
His statue, along with Khal Balbo's, was larger than the rest—symbolizing their elevated status.
But suddenly—
Khal Moso stood up.
He pointed at the dragon statue in Rhaegar's hands, his expression filled with drunken arrogance.
The eunuch translator whispered urgently to Illyrio, whose face darkened instantly.
"Boy," Khal Moso growled in broken speech, stepping forward. "I want your dragon. I give horse."
Rhaegar understood immediately.
The statue was larger—this barbarian felt slighted.
Illyrio nearly collapsed in despair. Of all people to provoke, why provoke Rhaegar?
Rhaegar stood slowly.
"My possessions can be given," he said calmly, "but they cannot be taken by force."
"No!" Illyrio cried out in panic, signaling the Unsullied.
But Khal Moso shoved them aside with brute strength.
His three bloodriders stepped forward. Other Khals began to clap, clearly enjoying the conflict.
"Then we duel!" Khal Moso roared, drawing his arakh and charging forward.
The curved blade flashed.
Rhaegar raised his Valyrian steel sword, Orphan-Maker.
The first strike—blocked.
The second strike—Rhaegar spun, cleaving the arakh clean in half.
The third strike—
A single arc of black steel.
The blade sliced through Khal Moso's body from waist to shoulder, splitting him open. Blood and organs spilled across the floor as his body fell in two.
The feast turned into a scene of horror.
Khal Moso died instantly.
Rhaegar stood unmoved.
A true dragon stood far above mortal warriors.
Valyrian steel was light, sharp, and deadly—an unmatched advantage in battle.
Two bloodriders rushed forward in fury.
Rhaegar cut them down without hesitation.
The third attempted to flee, but was executed by Khal Balbo's own bloodrider for breaking his oath.
Rhaegar wiped his blade calmly.
"This one's skill was not equal to his arrogance."
Silence.
No one dared respond.
The Khals were brutal, but not foolish. Seeing such overwhelming power, none dared challenge him.
Three moves.
One Khal slain.
The guests were horrified. Food and wine now turned their stomachs.
Some fled to vomit.
Young Drogo stared at Rhaegar—his gaze filled with envy, fear, and burning ambition.
"Why stop eating?" Rhaegar said calmly as he sat down. "The feast is excellent. Continue the music. Continue the dance."
"Yes… yes…" Illyrio stammered, raising his cup with trembling hands.
The feast resumed.
But the atmosphere had changed.
Casso sat pale and silent, fear replacing all anger. He no longer dared think of revenge—only survival.
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