Game of Thrones: I am Dothraki, not a barbarian

Chapter 161 He picked up Margaret and left

Lahalo had seen this face in person at the High Court last time, and once seen, he would never forget it.

"So it's Miss Margaret, how interesting!"

Lahalo couldn't help but smirk. "Heh, trying to fool people by pretending to be a maid? Too bad, your demeanor gave you away."

Margaret looked up suddenly, her beautiful face streaked with tears. She turned around quickly, trying to escape from behind, but before she could take a step, Rahalo grabbed her by the collar.

"let me go!"

She began to struggle, punching and kicking Rahalo, but the girl's small fists were no different from tickling her.

"Please, don't hurt me..." Seeing that there was no way to escape, the voice gradually faded.

“How could I hurt you! You’re worth more than your brother Garan!” Rahalo couldn’t help but laugh. “Why do you Tyrells always like to use me as a hostage?”

He hoisted Margaret onto his shoulder with ease, as if she were a lamb. Her little legs kicked and her little hands scratched and clawed, making cries for help, but they were quickly drowned out by the chaos.

"Smack!" Rahalo slapped her on the butt, sending a ripple through the air. "Scream again, and I'll gag you with my socks!"

Margaret blushed and immediately shut her mouth. Rahalo lifted the tent flap and let out a few sharp eagle cries.

In an instant, the bloody slaughter came to an abrupt halt. Dothraki cavalry surged in from all directions like a tide, protecting Rahalo as he mounted his horse, and then retreated from the camp like a tide, leaving behind only corpses and a raging inferno.

In the camp, the few survivors stared in disbelief at the Dothraki who came and went, and what shocked them even more was that their queen was carried away on the shoulders of the enemy leader!
Several knights gave chase, and just as they mounted their horses, they were riddled with arrows by the archers at the rear.

Margaret was held tightly in front of Rahalo's strong arms, her hair was ruffled by the wind, and the scenery around her rushed past. She was both ashamed and angry, but there was nothing she could do.

"What use is it for you to arrest me? The High Court's 80,000-strong army is nearby, they will definitely kill you!" Margaret said, trying to appear calm.

"Don't try to scare me. I'm asking you, are you afraid of me, or are you afraid I'll be killed?"

"I……"

Margaret stared wide-eyed, trembling like a frightened fawn. A strong masculine scent filled her nostrils, her cheeks burned, and her thoughts raced. For a moment, she was at a loss for words.

...

Three days later, Rahalo and Dzeko met at the Prince's Pass.

Cheers and roars echoed through the valley as thousands of Slarks on horseback, raising their blood-stained scimitars, called out the name of Rahalo. The voices grew louder and louder as they approached, eventually merging into a deafening roar.

"Rahalo!"

"Rahalo!"

"Rahalo!"

Some people began to strike the saddle with their scabbards, and the horses, caught up in the atmosphere, paced restlessly, their front hooves occasionally rising high and neighing.

Riding a black warhorse, Rahalo slowly made his way through the crowd with Margaret in tow. A victor's smile graced his young, handsome face, and the bells on his black braids jingled softly.

He was both showing off his trophy, Margaret, and accepting the respect of the warriors.

Margaret's brown curly hair was disheveled by the wind, and a few strands of hair were soaked with sweat and clung to her somewhat pale cheeks.

Rahalo's hand gripping the reins pressed tightly against her lower abdomen, his arm like an iron hoop encircling her slender waist, his broad chest almost enveloping half of her body.

Her small hands gripped the horse's mane tightly, her body rising and falling with the horse's swaying.

Along the way, she had long since exhausted herself, and if Rahalo hadn't been holding her, she probably would have fallen off the horse long ago.

Surrounded by ferocious Dothraki warriors, their faces painted with all sorts of battle markings, their eyes filled with bloodthirsty intent, she felt a chill run down her spine and instinctively shrank into Rahalo's arms, as if only here could she find a sliver of safety. Rahalo looked down at her; her neck was long and slender, her skin so white that you could almost see the veins beneath, and she exuded a faint floral fragrance. Her body heat seeped through the thin fabric, soft yet fiery.

“Don’t be afraid, I won’t let them hurt you.” Rahalo lowered his head slightly, his lips almost touching her earlobe, and his hot breath immediately gave her goosebumps.

“Because you’re my cash cow!” Rahalo added, then burst into laughter.

The first sentence reassured Margaret somewhat, but the second sentence sounded like something out of a human voice.

She pursed her lips, remained silent, and turned her head as if to express her dissatisfaction, only to find herself face to face with Lahalo.

In an instant, their faces were touching, noses to nose, and they could hear each other's breaths.

Margaret hurriedly turned her face away, a blush rising on her cheeks.

"Where are you taking me?"

"We're on our way to Dorn."

"And then? Take a boat to Essos?"

“Hmm, I haven’t decided yet.” Rahalo shrugged. “If I use you as bait to set a trap, do you think your king husband would fall right into it?”

Upon hearing the name "Lanley," Margaret tensed up, her disappointment evident. This reaction was keenly sensed by Rahalo.

"What?" Rahalo asked in surprise, "You don't believe your king husband will come to your rescue?" Then he added, "Wouldn't I be at a huge loss?"

"You!" Margaret gritted her teeth, mustering her courage to say, "Can you please stop making sarcastic remarks?"

...

Lan Li rode at breakneck speed, his body covered in cold sweat. A gust of wind made him shiver.

The knights behind him looked solemn, as if they had foreseen an ominous end, and no one dared to utter a single word.

When they finally returned to the camp, the sight before them made everyone gasp in shock.

Finished!

The once magnificent camp had been reduced to ashes. Only a few charred wooden stakes remained of the green silk tent, still emitting wisps of smoke. Corpses lay scattered haphazardly on the ground, their remains burned beyond recognition, making it impossible to distinguish between people and horses. The air was thick with the stench of burning, enough to make one want to vomit.

"Search!" Renly jumped off his horse, his voice hoarse. "Find the Queen!"

The knights scattered and carefully searched the ruins, digging through the rubble, turning over corpses, and even digging three feet into the ground, but they couldn't find a single survivor, let alone Her Majesty the Queen.

Lanley's magnificent green velvet coat was soaked with sweat, and the crowned stag embroidered with gold thread was covered in grime. He staggered through the ruins, his handsome face contorted beyond recognition, a mixture of fear, anger, and a hint of despair.

"Your Majesty!" Brienne strode over, holding a half-burnt piece of blue velvet fabric, from which gold-threaded roses could still be faintly seen. "This...this is the Queen's dress?"

Lanley grabbed the cloth. "Find her!" he roared. "Alive or dead!"

The knights looked at each other, their suspicions almost certain, but none dared to voice them.

If the Dothraki were to take the queen away, she might face a fate worse than death; it would be better for her to die.

Renly is still a long way from the Iron Throne, and he has already lost his queen after just starting his rebellion. If this gets out, he will probably become a laughing stock in the Seven Kingdoms. How can he still have the face to call himself king?

It would be better to die on the battlefield and salvage our honor!

(End of this chapter)