Myr Fortress rose before the Dothraki like an unbridgeable abyss.
High stone walls and rammed earth fortifications stretched outward, cold and unyielding beneath the sun. For the horse lords of the grass sea—masters of open plains and thunderous cavalry charges—such defenses were anathema. The Dothraki lived and died in motion. Stone walls mocked them.
From a raised vantage point, Gendry studied the distant Khalasar. Khal Drogo's host resembled a rolling black cloud, thick and oppressive, stretching as far as the eye could see. Fifty thousand riders, roaring and restless, their presence alone enough to crush the morale of lesser armies.
Strategically, Gendry disdained the Dothraki's recklessness. Tactically, however, he could not afford to underestimate them.
"That position of Khal," Oberyn Martell said calmly, his eyes fixed on the horizon, "is one of the most fragile titles in the world."
"The Dothraki do not inherit power the way Westerosi lords do. Hereditary Khals are rare—almost impossible to maintain."
Gendry nodded.
"The moment Khal Drogo dies," Oberyn continued, "his Khalasar will fracture."
The Dothraki power structure was brutally simple. There were no ancient houses, no enduring bloodlines, no castles passed down through centuries. A Khal ruled because he was strong—because no man could best him in battle or challenge his authority while he still rode.
Once a Khal could no longer mount a horse, he lost his right to lead.
And succession was even bloodier.
The heir to a Khal was a Khaleesi, but the Dothraki would never follow an underage woman. Upon a Khal's death, the Kos—his captains—would turn on one another, each attempting to seize control. The young Khaleesi would be killed before she could become a rallying symbol.
That Drogo had inherited his Khalasar smoothly was the exception, not the rule.
"As long as Drogo dies," Gendry said quietly, "this vast force will vanish like smoke."
He was confident in this assessment. Khal Drogo appeared invincible—huge, powerful, undefeated—but even the strongest warrior could fall to a sudden wound or disease. Brute strength had limits.
"As long as Drogo becomes trapped in the quagmire of Myr Fortress," Jorah Mormont added, "he will not escape death."
Jorah's voice carried experience. Once a knight of Westeros, now a commander hardened by exile, he understood both worlds—the honor-bound armies of the Seven Kingdoms and the savage efficiency of Essos.
"War is breaking out on both continents," Oberyn said thoughtfully. "The war in the East will end first. The real storm is gathering in the West."
Everyone present understood what he meant.
Though they fought in Essos, Westeros was the true prize.
Yet the Dornish prince knew how reluctant his homeland was to bleed again. Ever since their crushing defeat in Robert's Rebellion, Prince Doran Martell had been cautious—almost paralyzed by caution. Dorne's population was too small to sustain reckless war.
"We must finish Drogo before the Westerosi conflict fully ignites," Gendry said. "Fighting on two fronts would be disastrous."
Defeating the Dothraki would not be easy. But only by crushing them could the Two Cities be fully secured. Only then would there be enough strength to intervene in Westeros—enough to demonstrate power to allies and terrify enemies.
"The main conflict in Westeros is between House Tully and House Lannister," Oberyn said. "And House Tully will suffer."
He spoke without emotion.
"Their only hope lies with the North and the Vale."
Gendry agreed. Edmure Tully lacked Jaime Lannister's brilliance, and the Riverlands' forces were scattered and poorly disciplined. Against the Westerlands' professional armies, defeat was inevitable—it was only a matter of time.
"If House Tully falls," Jorah said, "their authority over the Riverlords will collapse."
The Tullys had always ruled precariously—lords of Riverrun commanding more powerful vassals through marriage and circumstance rather than sheer strength.
"But Lord Hoster still has two powerful sons-in-law," Anguy objected. "Would Stark and Arryn really abandon him?"
"Stark will move," Gendry said. "And when he does, the war will become unstoppable."
"And others will follow," Oberyn added. "The Stormlands. The Reach."
"And the Iron Islands," Jorah said grimly.
"King Balon will rebel again the moment he smells chaos."
Oberyn snorted. "A fanatical fool. The older he gets, the more stubborn he becomes."
Gendry almost laughed.
Balon Greyjoy had always lacked strategic sense. He had rebelled after Robert's Rebellion had already ended—when the realm stood united. His defeat had been inevitable.
Now, once more, he waited for opportunity.
"Whether willingly or not," Oberyn concluded, "we are entering an age where only the victorious families will survive."
Gendry said nothing.
Pyke
The Iron Islands were bleak beyond words.
Harsh winds, jagged cliffs, black stone, and endless waves shaped the land. Pyke itself looked less like a castle and more like a ruin clawing stubbornly at existence.
Asha Greyjoy stood on the shore, staring at her home.
Every return reopened old wounds.
Robert Baratheon's catapults had scarred Pyke forever. The southern tower, rebuilt in pale stone, still lacked lichen—a permanent reminder of defeat. It was there that Robert had smashed through the walls with his warhammer, Eddard Stark fighting at his side.
Her father's ship, the Great Kraken, lay moored at the dock, its massive iron ram shaped like a kraken's head. Once feared across the seas, it now felt like a relic—much like its master.
"Captain," her sailors asked, "shouldn't we stop for ale?"
"Your ale tastes like horse piss," Asha replied.
She wore a quilted coat, wool breeches, and salt-stained boots. She looked every inch an Ironborn raider.
After dismissing her crew, she crossed the bridges to the Sea Tower alone.
The final bridge swayed wildly, ropes creaking like living things, but Asha crossed without fear. She had done so all her life.
The Sea Tower rose like a broken sword from the rock. Salt crusted its base; lichen smothered its upper walls. At the top burned a watchfire that never went out.
King Balon awaited her.
Once a fearsome reaver, he was now gaunt and skeletal, his flesh boiled away by time and sea. His black eyes remained sharp.
"Have you seen her?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"Is she the same?"
"The cough is better."
Balon dismissed his wife without regret.
"Forget Theon," he said sharply. "He is no Ironborn."
"But he is still my brother."
"Your brothers died," Balon snapped. "Theon reeks of wolves."
Asha fell silent.
War was coming.
Balon felt it in his bones.
"When the time comes," he said, "we will pay the iron price."
"Yes, Father."
His will was iron.
And iron would soon taste blood.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)