Game of Thrones: I am Dothraki, not a barbarian

Chapter 165 Bathing
Bono's face was covered in blood, and his nose was crooked to one side. Zheko stepped forward, put the scimitar in his hand, and patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't forget, you are a Dothraki."

A clearing was quickly cleared in the center of the camp, and the Dothraki formed a large circle. Some punched their chests, while others shouted loudly, and a tense atmosphere filled the air.

Rahalo took off his shirt, revealing his strong physique, and shook his neck, the bells in his braids jingling. He took the scimitar that Lazar handed him, its blade gleaming coldly in the torchlight.

Margaret stood at the cave entrance with her arms crossed, looking down at the crowd below, her heart pounding, her gaze unable to leave Laharo for a long time.

"start!"

At Dzeko's command, Lajalo moved with lightning speed, his scimitar aimed straight for Bono's throat.

But just then, Bono suddenly threw his scimitar to the ground, and facing the astonished and disdainful gazes around him, he shouted:
"I surrender! I have no weapon, you can't kill me!"

The next moment, the blade rested silently on Bono's neck. Bono met Rahalo's gloomy gaze, and a bead of cold sweat trickled down his forehead.

In Dothraki tradition, killing an unarmed opponent in a duel is considered dishonorable.

Bono knew he was now disgraced, but at least he was alive.

"You think you're still alive?" Rahalo said sarcastically, then spat on the ground.

"You can't kill me, you dignified Khal of the Grass Sea, you value your honor more than your life, don't you?"

“Heh,” Rahalo slowly sheathed his scimitar. “I won’t kill you today.”

Bono's face was paler than a dead man's, but he secretly breathed a sigh of relief; at least he could leave alive today.

The next moment, Bono's face suddenly contorted as he looked down to see a blade tip protruding from his chest, blood dripping down and staining the ground crimson.

He opened his mouth a few times, but no sound came out, and then his body slowly collapsed to the ground.

All eyes turned to Bono's back, where Margaret stood, her eyes filled with terror, her hands gripping the hilt of her knife tightly, a few drops of blood splattering onto her pale face, mingling with glistening tears.

Her body trembled uncontrollably, and then she vomited with a loud "whoosh," tears and snot streaming down her face.

The entire camp fell into a deathly silence, followed by a deafening chorus of boos.

To be killed by a woman is, in the eyes of the Dothraki, more shameful than to admit defeat in a duel.

Rahalo looked at the swaying Margaret and helped her up. "I'll take you to clean up the bloodstains. In exchange, you eat your food, okay?"

Margaret felt his body temperature, and her fear subsided slightly. She nodded and said, "Okay."

Lahalo lifted Margaret onto his horse, and he mounted as well. The two of them rode slowly along the mountain path, with his guards following at a distance, keeping an arrow's length away.

Margaret unconsciously leaned against Rahalo's strong chest, the warmth of his body passing through her clothes and making her feel incredibly secure.

She thought of Lan Li, her heartless husband, who had never given her this feeling before. Every day she spent by his side made her tremble with fear.

“It’s just ahead.” Rahalo’s voice brought her back to reality.

They arrived at a secluded valley where the air was filled with the smell of sulfur, but it wasn't pungent. Amidst the rising steam, a hot spring came into view.

The rocks form a natural barrier, shimmering with pale yellow crystals. Hot water gushes from the ground, and wisps of steam float on the surface. The surrounding area is barren, yet it doesn't appear desolate; instead, it adds a touch of mysterious beauty.

Rahalo dismounted and then carried Margaret down with him.

“You can bathe as much as you want,” he said, pointing to the hot spring. “No one will bother you.” But he himself showed no intention of leaving, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed intently on her.

Margaret was both embarrassed and annoyed. "You've disturbed me!"

Rahalo chuckled, a smile playing on his lips: "In the Dothraki Sea, nobody cares about these details."

“I’m not a Dothraki, please turn around!” Margaret raised her chin and said stubbornly.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rahalo performed a haphazard knightly salute, turned around, and sat down behind a large rock.

Margaret secretly observed him for a while to make sure he wasn't peeking before quickly taking off the blood-stained dress.

A cool breeze brushed against her skin, and she couldn't help but shiver. She quickly slipped into the hot spring, where the warm water immediately enveloped her body, dispelling the cold and fear of the past few days.

She secretly turned her head to look at Rahalo again, and found that he still had his back to her. She breathed a sigh of relief and began to wash her body thoroughly.

The warm spring water gradually relaxed her tense nerves, and she unconsciously began to hum a song from High Court, her voice clear and melodious, like a lark in a secluded valley.

She couldn't help but lift one foot and gently sway it on the water's surface, rhythmically tapping out a beat.

It was a small, delicate foot with fair skin and toenails as translucent as pearls.

Much later, after Margaret finished her shower, she realized an embarrassing problem.

The clothes were already tattered and covered in bloodstains, emitting a strange smell; they were no longer wearable!
She panicked.

In High Court, servants always took care of everything for her, so she didn't have to worry about anything. But what could she do now? She could tolerate clothes without fragrance, but she couldn't stand them stained with blood!
After holding it in for a while, he finally couldn't help but shout, "Um, Laharo?"

"What's wrong?" Rahalo asked, peeking half his head out from behind the rock.

"I have no clean clothes left." She hugged her arms, huddled in the water, only her nose and above were visible, her big eyes looking pitifully at Rahalo.

Rahalo took off his own wolf pelt and threw it over. "Then you'll have to wear this. I'm sure it's the cleanest thing you've ever worn in Karasari."

Margaret waited for him to turn around again, then quickly climbed out of the hot spring and put on the wolf skin. The rough texture clung to her soft skin, still carrying Rahalo's body heat and strong masculine scent, but she didn't find it repulsive.

"Let's go!" She tidied her wet hair.

Rahalo turned around and looked her up and down with a keen gaze.

Margaret's petite figure was almost entirely wrapped in a large wolf pelt. Her slender neck and fair calves appeared exceptionally graceful against the contrast of the rough wolf pelt, like a delicate red rose in the snow.

They remounted their horses. A gentle night breeze blew, and although the wolf pelts were thick, they couldn't keep out the cold mountain winds. Margaret couldn't help but sneeze.

Margaret hesitated for a moment, then finally made up her mind, twisted her body, turned around, opened the wolf skin, and wrapped Laharlo in it as well.

She pressed herself against his strong chest, her eyes closed, her pretty face flushed crimson.
Rahalo paused for a moment, then reached out and held her slender waist, pulling her tightly into his arms.

Margaret finally mustered her courage, tilted her head back, and looked into Rahalo's obsidian-like eyes. He leaned down and gently kissed her lips.

Under the starry sky of the Crimson Mountains, two souls from different worlds forgot their identities and positions, with only the most primal passion burning within them.

The roses of the High Court bloom in unrestrained splendor, dancing tenderly with the eagles of the grasslands, composing a love song that transcends the mundane world.

(End of this chapter)