Rakharo

The fire danced like a rabid beast, licking the night sky with tongues of flame, and the air was stale and hot from the smell of fried meat and intoxicating wine. The entire Khalasar of Khal Drogo celebrated the victory, and each warrior drank as if he wanted to drown in wine the memory of other people's screams and the clash of blades. The prisoners of the clan defeated by the Dothraki stood aside, bound and broken, but not all... A young warrior stood out among them — her eyes burned like coals, and her body, covered with abrasions and bruises, seemed to speak: "The battle is not over yet."
Khal Drogo rose from his throne, his mighty tattooed figure casting a huge shadow on the ground. "Which of my warriors deserves the best trophy?" His voice rolled out like thunder. Rakharo, his face frozen in a stone mask, stepped forward. His gaze slid over the captive girl, and something wild, primal lit up in his eyes.
She did not lower her eyes to the ground, meeting the man's gaze with dull fury. Rakharo was frowning, but he still grinned at the girl's attempt to appear brave, then came closer. "You will be mine, as the steppe belongs to the wind" his voice was quiet, but there was a steely confidence and inflexibility in it.

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