The setting sun spilled like blood across the horizon, staining the distant rolling hills. A thin wind stirred the dark green sea of grass, yet the air still hung heavy and scorching, each breath dragging fire into the lungs.
In the midst of an endless marching camp, flames leapt high at a sacrificial fire. A circle of Dothraki stood grim-faced, their anger sharp as steel.
"Even the mightiest Khal must bow before the wisdom and authority of the Doshi Khaleen," a eunuch intoned, chanting reverence for the crones' supremacy. His bloodstained hands smeared crimson across the flanks of a horse, tracing strange, twisting runes in gore.
The flames roared wild, leaping into the wind, devouring all in their path. The horse screamed its last, and the ritual ended in a curtain of ash and death.
"Eunuch," came the contemptuous curse.
The Dothraki spat in disgust at the servant of the crones.
"Tell me the result," growled their leader, his voice as rough as hooves on stone, his eyes black with a killing fire.
This was Khal Drogo, the undefeated, who led the greatest khalasar of the Dothraki Sea. Once four-and-twenty thousand strong, his riders had swelled by conquests, guided by the eunuch's prophecies.
Drogo was a mountain of a man, bronze-skinned, black-haired, with a beard thick as a horse's mane and dark eyes burning beneath bold black brows. But it was his braid—hung with bells and long enough to brush his thigh—that spoke the loudest: Drogo had never been defeated, never cut his hair.
"Great Khal Drogo, you must ride southwest without delay. Your prey awaits," the eunuch urged.
Drogo cared little for why the crones sought to strangle prophecy in its cradle. But a Khal must honor the Doshi Khaleen, must respect their auguries. And more than that, he yearned always to test himself against the strongest. To conquer the one foretold to "mount the world," Drogo would prove himself the mightiest Khal of all time.
Far to the north, by the headwaters of the Selhoru, Möngke's council gathered.
"Have you ever watched how wolves hunt? Or how we Dothraki tame wild horses?" Möngke asked suddenly, bronze dagger dancing in his hand. His fingers moved with the grace of wolves through brush, with the restlessness of wild stallions.
His question baffled them all. On the eve of battle, why speak of wolves and horses?
Yet he went on, ignoring their stares.
"Wolves hunt as men wage war—clever, fierce, ready for death. Their strength lies in their endless variations: scouting, luring, harrying, encircling. Always patient, never rash. As for horses—our people do not break them with whips. We leap upon their backs. They buck, they twist, they run in circles—but we cling fast, ride them until they tire, until they yield, and carry their master home."
Kosoro's eyes flicked to the map hanging in the tent. Calm, yet stirred, he spoke only two words:
"Hills. Valleys."
The council frowned, but Ofor's eyes lit up.
"The valley where we hunted—yes, perfect for hiding an army. The high ground would favor our charge."
He traced the map with his hand.
"Like wolves, we draw them in. Like horses, we drive them round and round, until their spirit breaks."
The others began to nod, murmuring agreement. Even Bas-Polt, usually skeptical, tapped his chin in thought.
Möngke smiled thinly.
"I know the ways of the Dothraki well. Their assaults are storms, but storms burn themselves out. Their weakness is plain—reckless, impatient, blind to endurance. Already they carry the seed of defeat braided in their hair. Soon, the gods will bind it fast."
The words steadied every heart, and the tense air lightened.
Then Möngke struck his dagger down upon the map.
"Tonight, we march south along the upper Vhalana. At dawn we divide. Ofor, Bas-Polt—you will take ten thousand screamers west, to the ruins of Sa-Mel where the Vhalana joins the Rhoyne. There, amidst swamp and ruin, raise defenses. Arm every woman, elder, and child. In the marsh, enemy horses cannot charge. Hold them. Bleed them. Wait for relief."
His dagger slid further across the parchment.
"Kosoro, you ride with me and thirty thousand south. We will threaten Volantis itself, force their hosts behind their walls. Then, with ten thousand under you, turn east along the Summer Sea, take the Valyrian road north, and vanish into the hills. There, in the hunting valley, you will spring the trap."
He looked hard at his captain.
"I cannot command you further. Communication may falter. If it does, keep calm, trust your instincts. If we slip the enemy's grasp, we will crush them in the valley. If not, we strike their rear together, to save our kin in the marsh."
At last he turned to Ofor and Bas-Polt. His voice softened.
"Thirty thousand will ride near Volantis, buying you time to raise your walls. When we turn back, the enemy's pursuit will still shadow us, keeping Volantis cowed behind stone. Yet one truth remains—I cannot say if Drogo will divide his forces or throw all against your camp. Whatever comes, hold fast. Endure."
The maester and the steward exchanged a grave look. Then, like knights swearing fealty, they bowed in silence, their oaths etched deeper than words.