The two fishmongers crept closer, then threw themselves flat upon the ground. Trembling, they said:
"Glorious Khal Drogo, forgive our careless tongues."
The Dothraki had a fearsome reputation, and his men had just defiled nearly a hundred noblewomen. To expect these folk not to fear or hate him was folly. Yet Drogo was no petty ruler; he let their slip pass and went straight to the matter.
"Outside Syhorro, did Dothraki horsemen truly appear? To which khal do they belong?"
Drogo knew near every khal of the Dothraki Sea. He wished to know if those nearby were foe or ally.
The older fishmonger stammered:
"Outside Syhorro it was Khal Mors's khalasar. And Khal Zako rides close behind him, through the forests of Qohor. Some say he has been sighted upon the north shore of the Dagger Lake."
"Mors… Zako… those two."
Drogo mused. He knew them both, long-time khals of the Great Grass Sea.
Their relations were tense, complicated. In Vaes Dothrak, where bloodshed was forbidden, he had drunk with them both. Beyond the holy city, they were rivals.
Mors was near seventy, a hard old man, his swordplay and horsemanship still among the ten best of the khals. His riders were old like him, fewer each year. Drogo had not seen him in long years. If he still raided this far afield and kept his title, the old wolf still had bite.
Zako was a massive brute. Rarely did he leave the Grass Sea; when he did, it was most often to Qohor, his old patron among the Nine Free Cities. Give him a bag of gold and he would trot back east.
He was dull-witted, once rash enough to challenge Drogo in his prime. Drogo's arakh had slashed his chest deep to the bone, and half his khalasar had been swallowed. Since then he had skulked from Drogo's shadow, daring no more folly.
Now both he and Mors rode west toward Volantis, richest of the Free Cities.
Mors feared not death, but he was old. Zako had been maimed and grown timid. By rights neither should risk such raids now.
"Have they heard of Volantis's weakness, come to sip its blood? Do they not know I hold the city?"
Frowning, Drogo asked:
"Do Mors and Zako often enter Volantene lands?"
The fishmonger pressed his brow to the ground, not daring to meet Drogo's killing gaze:
"Only once in many years, Khal. They seldom come."
"That is strange," Drogo muttered. "Are they come to die?"
Aggo, eldest of his bloodriders, spoke:
"Blood of my blood, if they dare set foot here, we shall take their heads!"
Drogo nodded. "Aye, blood of my blood, well said."
One fishmonger, hesitant, added:
"Great Khal Drogo, Zako and Mors were driven here by Khal Jhaqo. The Grass Sea could no longer hold them. If rumor is true, they flee from him."
At the traitor's name, Drogo's rage flared. Still he listened.
Jhaqo—once his kos, now a turncloak—strutting in Drogo's cast-off glory. Disgraceful.
"Jhaqo! What worth has he? He dares! Has he come as well?"
The fishmonger, nervous, followed his words:
"No, Khal. The latest reports place Jhaqo at the headwaters of the Syhorro River, leading a khalasar fifty-thousand strong. Of them, thirty-thousand are mounted warriors."
At this, the bloodriders blanched. Jhaqo's strength now rivaled that of Khal Pono before his fall—enough to rule the Grass Sea outright.
Rakharo could not hold his tongue:
"Thirty-thousand riders! His power swells like Pono's once did!"
Drogo's killing fury blazed forth, his voice iron:
"He dares not cross my blade! He cowers far off, playing king where I am not. He fears to be cut down beneath my arakh!"
The bloodriders knew their khal boasted not. His host was fewer than in former days, but mightier in strength. Three dragons alone were worth an army.
"The harder he grows, the sweeter to break. One day he will taste a traitor's fate."
With those words, Drogo lashed his whip, heedless of the crowded street, and spurred toward the city hall.
His stallion thundered through the market, scattering men and beasts in terror. None dared curse aloud.
At the council hall he stormed the chamber, flinging wide the carved doors. He roared at Dofas, the old triarch, bent over papers:
"Mors and Zako have ridden into Volantis's lands. Why was this not told to me?"
The voice shook the room. Dofas waved, and the councillors slipped away.
Bowing low, the elder said with a placating smile:
"Khal Drogo, I beg pardon if my words offend. Truth is, any khal may be bought with gifts. So long as they stay clear of the city, they will depart. I was pressed with matters of state and failed to inform you. Forgive me."
Drogo judged the excuse fair. A ruler of a Free City had reason not to fret so long as no khal breached the walls.
So it had always been with the horselords. Himself included.
"Then I have made too much of it," Drogo allowed. His tone eased. He gave warning:
"Tomorrow I ride west again. I will meet these kin of mine outside Syhorro. Mark this: in rebuilding Volantis, do not entangle the Bay of Slaves. They are struck worse than you. When they rise again, Volantis and the bay must be each other's strongest shield."
Dofas bowed, murmuring agreement. Inwardly he sighed relief.
He had feared Drogo would abolish slavery at a stroke. Lately that dread had gnawed him, for slaves ploughed Volantis's fields, swept its streets, tutored its children, fed every need.
Inwardly he sneered: So this "Breaker of Chains" was but a whim. Now his true nature shows.
But he rejoiced too soon. Drogo felt no loyalty to Volantis, yet ending slavery was but a word upon his lips, and one day he would speak it.
"For know this—I, Drogo, am sworn to break the wheel of history. Wherever I ride, chains shall shatter. You know what must be done."
The words crushed Dofas's brief joy. His newfound vigor, the praises of his young bedmates—all drained away. Tonight's pleasures he abandoned at once.
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