Khal Drogo rose, spat out a dozen words in Dothraki, faster than Dany could understand, and pointed. "Khal Drogo says your place is not on the high bench," Sir Jorah translated for her brother. "Khal Drogo says your place is there."
Viserys glanced where the khal was pointing. At the back of the long hall, in a corner by the wall, deep in shadow so better men would not need to look on them, sat the lowest of the low; raw unblooded boys, old men withclouded eyes and stiff joints, the dim-witted and the maimed. Far from the meat, and farther from honor. "Thatis no place for a king," her brother declared.
Is place, Khal Drogo answered, in the Common Tongue that Dany had taught him, "for Sorefoot King." He clapped his hands together. "A cart! Bring cart for Khal Rhaggat!"
Five thousand Dothraki began to laugh and shout. Sir Jorah was standing beside Viserys, screaming in his ear, but the roar in the hall was so thunderous that Dany could not hear what he was saying. Her brother shouted back and the two men grappled, until Mormont knocked Viserys bodily to the floor.
Her brother drew his sword.