Jorah was right. Daenerys's "Three-Stage Water Retrieval" mission would require the knights involved in the first and second phases to exert several times their usual physical effort.
Whether digging deep pits in the hard, sandy ground or transporting water back to KaLS, the knights' rest time would be drastically reduced, while their time spent working under the scorching sun would be pushed to the limit.
"This is my tribe," Daenerys insisted. "Every one of them, young or old, strong or weak, is my subject. I have the responsibility and duty to protect the life of each and every one."
"But what about your warriors? They might die of exhaustion searching for water."
Daenerys hesitated for only a moment before regaining her solemn expression. "For a warrior to die in service to the people is the most glorious and noble end."
"Service to the people?"
Jorah blinked. He had never heard this phrase before, yet it seemed reasonable enough—at least more meaningful than two fools stuffing themselves to death and then hacking each other to pieces with knives.
He cared little for the lives or honor of the Horsemen; his only concern was making the best plans for his princess.
Gritting his teeth, Jorah whispered, "Your Highness, your water retrieval method is excellent. If it were just you and those eighty elite warriors, we could surely cross the Red Waste unscathed. Why not..."
His eyes were dark and inscrutable, his voice carrying an indescribable chill. "Why don't we take the supplies while they sleep and slip away quietly? It's better to have a hundred survivors than to let KaLS collapse entirely.
You have gold, Your Highness. When we reach a coastal city, you can buy a ship to any of the free trade city-states, or quietly acquire a manor and wait for the dragons to grow.
Daenerys shook her head and sighed. "Ser Jorah, I am their Khaleesi. Don't speak like that again."
"Ah, very well," Ser Jorah replied, his stern expression softening into one of weary resignation. "Your Highness, you must prepare yourself. The people will likely begin to die one by one soon. You are not a god; you cannot save them all."
"How much further do you think we have left?" Daenerys asked, her voice filled with concern.
"Three-quarters, at least two-thirds. That's assuming we've been walking in a straight line, but the riverbed forced us to take a detour," Jorah said uncertainly.
At that moment, Daenerys understood that the crisis was imminent.
The deeper they ventured into the Red Waste, the more the water sources diminished in a geometric progression. Today, the water supply was stretched to its absolute limit. Tomorrow...
"We'll have to abandon some of the old horses," Daenerys declared.
Suddenly, an idea struck her, and she smiled. "I almost forgot the most important water source."
"Where?" Jorah asked in surprise.
"Never mind, it's not time yet," she said, waving her hand and smiling with pursed lips.
*Urine, of course!*
Bear Grylls had drunk urine countless times.
For that man who stood at the apex of the food chain, drinking urine was child's play. The most extreme instance she remembered was when he forced himself to drink sea turtle blood until he was gagging.
*Sea turtle blood is too fishy and foul-smelling; it makes you vomit. But the large intestine can absorb the water from the blood.*
Though a little disgusting, it was nothing compared to saving one's life.
If it came to that, she'd definitely try the horse-rectum-enema method. After all, as the Khaleesi, Daenerys would never be the one to run out of water.
With this thought, her gaze towards Jorah turned peculiar.
"What's wrong?" The Great Bear instinctively felt a chill crawl from the nape of his neck to his tailbone.
"Nothing," Daenerys said, turning away and walking toward her tent. "I'm going to train the dragons."
As soon as Daenerys lifted the leather flap of her tent with the bamboo basket on her back, she saw Avanti stop his old horse with a clatter before it.
"Khaleesi! Watson's not doing well! He's dying!" he shouted urgently.
"Ah, I know," Daenerys sighed, preparing to leave.
Avanti hurried to ask, "Khaleesi, how should we arrange Watson's funeral?"
Daenerys paused, puzzled. "He's from Volantis. I don't know their customs. Why don't you ask him?"
"He wants cremation and a burial with grave goods. I couldn't decide, so I came to ask for your guidance," Avanti replied quickly.
Now Daenerys understood. In this resource-scarce plain, charcoal was precious, primarily used for purifying wastewater. Even the roasted horse meat was cooked in large communal pots to conserve firewood.
And as for the grave goods...
With her three dragons on her back, Daenerys followed Avanti to his ten-man tent.
Though small, the Horsemen's tents housed three or four people each, with minimal furnishings—just enough space for blankets, straw mats, and sleeping bags.
When they saw Daenerys approach, the two elders greeted her and quietly withdrew, leaving them alone.
Hearing Daenerys's questions about the funeral rites, the Toothless Old Man spoke with difficulty. "Volanti nobles trace their lineage to the ancient Valyrian Freehold. Like your Targaryen family, they practice cremation. I was born a slave by the Rhoyne, so I should technically choose river burial or earth burial, but... *cough, cough, cough*."
The old man coughed for a moment, his weathered face clouding with longing. "But my Haggo was a Kao, like Khal Drogo. He was a great Horseman warrior, and in the end, he rode his fiery steed into the Nightlands of the Horse God. I think... *cough, cough, cough*."
Daenerys said with pity, "You don't need to say more. I understand. I've already removed your slave collar. You are no longer a slave, but a Horseman. I will bury you according to the customs of the Horsemen, and the Horse God will welcome you."
Hearing this, the old man grew both excited and anxious.
His spine arched as if in a convulsion. He struggled to sit up, his blue eyes filled with hope as he looked at Daenerys. He asked urgently, "Is it true? Can it really be? Will the Horse God let me enter the Nightlands? But I..."
Daenerys's eyes darted, and she said gravely, "You've seen the comet in the sky, haven't you? You understand what it signifies?"
The old man nodded reluctantly, his brow furrowed. "I've heard of it. It's Khal Drogo and his Bloodriders leading five hundred warriors... and your Little Khal, with the sky stained crimson."
*Go fuck yourself with the sky stained crimson,* Daenerys thought, her mood souring instantly. But she couldn't harbor resentment toward the dying old man before her.
She glared fiercely at Avanti beside her, mentally adding his name to her little black book. *He's definitely the one spreading these heretical lies.*
"Here's what we'll do," Daenerys said, making it up as she went. "You ride the Fiery Warhorse and meet the Kao in the sky. Once we're out of danger, when the Kao leads the warriors into the Nightlands, he'll take you along too. Drogo is the greatest Kao of all; the Horse God would never obstruct his followers."
"Wonderful!" The old man sighed, as if a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and slumped back onto the grass mat.
Just as Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief, Old Watson shot up as if resurrected, clutching her wrist. "But Khal Drogo doesn't know me," he said uncertainly. "Will he accept me?"
Daenerys grimaced, thinking hard. Then, she brightened. "Don't worry! When we burn you, I'll shout to the Kao in the sky and beg him to take you in. He's watching us; he'll definitely hear."
"Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, releasing her wrist and lying back down.
Daenerys placed her hands on her knees and slowly straightened her back, but couldn't fully stand up.
The old man seemed too weak to sit up, so he clung tightly to Daenerys's pants, his grip like a vise.
"What's wrong?" Daenerys knelt down, taking his withered, twig-like hand in hers.
"Khaleesi, you are a kind soul. I must leave now, unable to serve you further to repay your kindness. All I have is my life's work, recorded in..." Old Watson tilted his head, looking around before slowly raising his right hand to point at a worn brown horsehide pouch in the corner of the tent. "There is a sheepskin-bound manuscript there, containing my life's work. I give it to you, Khaleesi."
*His life's work?*
Daenerys hadn't forgotten his profession. While the five Springsong Arts, passed down from Ancient Valyria, could be considered a cultural heritage—in medieval Europe, exquisite erotica was often passed down through generations as heirlooms.
But she was the Mother of Dragons, with a bright future ahead. She had no desire to promote such a peculiar art!
Meanwhile, Avanti, who had inexplicably earned a glare from the Khaleesi earlier, was still anxious, pondering what he had done wrong or how he could have done better.
Seeing an opportunity to impress, Avatar immediately scurried to a corner and, without waiting for the Khaleesi's command, quickly unfastened his leather pouch and pulled out a gray sheepskin book the size of an A4 sheet and as thick as a New Chinese Dictionary.
Glaring at the "treasure" handed to her, Daenerys shot Avatar a venomous look.
Startled, Avatar's hand trembled, and the thick book fell to the floor with a *thud*.
His eyes widened, and he seemed on the verge of despair.
The book landed at Daenerys's feet, its pages flipping open. She leaned down to look and immediately saw a provocative illustration.
It was a colored drawing, a charcoal sketch.
The image depicted a gymnastics move that would challenge even elite athletes. Beside it, dense Valyrian text explained the technique in meticulous detail.
Quickly closing the book with a *snap*, Daenerys cleared her throat and said, "I accept your gift. Thank you."
Old Watson nodded, his cloudy eyes flickering with a spark as he noticed the White Dragon climbing onto Daenerys's ear from the bamboo basket. Panting, he said, "Khaleesi, this book represents over sixty years of my life's work. I originally intended... But now I see it was created for you alone, and only you can truly utilize its potential."
Daenerys was mortified and furious. In any other situation, she would have punched the old man senseless.
*That wicked old fool! How dare he think of me that way!*
She couldn't bear to stay a moment longer. After mumbling a few perfunctory words, she picked up the thick sheepskin book and stood to leave.
"Hey, wait a moment," the blue-eyed old man's withered hand, like a gnarled claw, gripped the strap of Daenerys's sandal. "Khaleesi, I almost forgot—the sacrifice!"
"I haven't forgotten," Daenerys replied quickly. "Your horse was unruly and threw you. I'll help you choose a more docile one to slaughter as your burial companion. If you wish, I'll also prepare a bag of gold medals and a warrior's curved sword and bow."
"Thank—" The old man didn't finish the word. His head lolled to the side, his grip loosened, and he died.
The look of joy and anticipation froze on his shriveled, sweet-potato-like face.
-----------------------
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(End of Chapter)