Chapter 272

The final day of marching was scorching and windy, yet Drogo felt far more at ease—because at last, he could see colors other than sand.

The warm wind never stopped. In the bare brown woodland, branches swayed in constant motion, and the reeds by the river bent low under the pressure.

Even dressed in the Dothraki’s light garb, Drogo could still feel the hot wind’s teeth biting at his skin.