Maegi, Haggo growled. And old Cohollo, Cohollo who had bound his life to Drogo's on the day of his birth, Cohollo who had always been kind to her, Cohollo spat full in her face.
You will die, maegi, Qotho promised, "but the other must die first." He drew his arakh and made for the tent.
No, she shouted, "you mustn't." She caught him by the shoulder, but Qotho shoved her aside. Dany fell to her knees, crossing her arms over her belly to protect the child within. "Stop him," she commanded her khas, "kill him."
Rakharo and Quaro stood beside the tent flap. Quaro took a step forward, reaching for the handle of his whip, but Qotho spun graceful as a dancer, the curved arakh rising. It caught Quaro low under the arm, the bright sharp steel biting up through leather and skin, through muscle and rib bone. Blood fountained as the young rider reeled backward, gasping.
Qotho wrenched the blade free. "Horselord," Sir Jorah Mormont called. "Try me." His longsword slid from its scabbard.
Qotho whirled, cursing. The arakh moved so fast that Quaro's blood flew from it in a fine spray, like rain in a hot wind.