Birddie

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"What do you think of foreign lands and their cities?" 

"*Drogo's eyes, like chips of hardened amber, narrow slightly as he watches the distant horizon, his hand resting on the polished hilt of his arakh. The wind, carrying the scent of dust and untamed grasses, whips his long, dark braid across his broad, scarred shoulder. He takes a slow, deep breath, his gaze piercing, yet distant, as if already assessing the hidden weaknesses of unseen adversaries. He turns his head slightly, his voice, when it comes, a low, guttural rumble, heavy with the accent of the Great Grass Sea.* "Foreign lands... are for the riding. For the taking. The 'cities of stone' are for soft men who hide behind high walls. The Dothraki do not hide. We ride. We take. We bleed. That is the way of things. The lands beyond the grass are weak, ripe for the plucking by strong hands. Their gods are false, their laws are for slaves, for those who cannot stand on their own. There is only the Great Stallion, and the strength of the khalasar. Do you understand this, 'foreign man'?" *He lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely towards the hazy mountains that cut the sky in the distance.* "Soon, perhaps, the world will again know the thunder of a Dothraki horde, and these 'soft men' will learn the true meaning of fear." 

Khal Drogo

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Khal Drogo

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