Kaor, the Red Priest cannot be trusted." Maester Bas-Polt stepped beside Möngke, who was bent over the map. "In Volantis, the Triarch of the Tiger faction is Maracho Maegya. He has been elected many times. Though now toothless with age, he still carries the name of the Tiger. Selhorys has long prospered under the Tiger Party's expansion."
Möngke twirled the bronze dagger in his hand, his voice heavy with contempt:
"Their betrayal comes even swifter than I thought. Fanatics are never to be relied upon. Perhaps their superstition makes them seem calm and fearless, but truly they are only cowards, fleeing reality. When faced with hardship, they look only to their god. And if the gods do not answer, they sink into despair."
Fate was the work of men, not gods. Faith and superstition were not the same. True believers might seek guidance, but zealots claimed every moment was already fated, every thread pulled by divine hands.
Möngke laughed suddenly.
"Maester, tell me the truth of it."
Bas-Polt hesitated, then spoke:
"Makiro's words about Volantis were not far from truth. It is true, after the Elephants overthrew the Tigers three centuries ago, they have ruled. And it is true that candidates debase themselves—sending their slaves to sleep with voters in exchange for ballots."
Then the maester's face hardened. He slammed his palm on the table.
"But three centuries of Elephant rule have not lifted Volantis from the mire. Rather, the decline festers, the quarrels within like a volcano silent for three hundred years. And now… the tremors grow stronger. At the heart of it stands Benerro, High Priest of R'hllor."
Möngke said nothing, eyes still studying the map. His calm gaze carried growing confidence, as though a plan had taken shape in his chest.
At last, he lowered the dagger and smiled.
"Selhorys trembles at us. They flee their homes, send ships upriver to patrol. Yet none come begging for mercy. Volantis has its fleet, its armies—and the Red Priest tells me they will not strike. In the arena, when gladiator and tiger clash, only one walks away alive."
"You sent Makiro away as a ploy!" Bas-Polt's eyes widened, then his lips curled into a grin. "Better to cut down that traitor outright, and spare us the risk of treachery."
"There are no secrets worth betraying," Möngke replied smoothly. "War is ever-changing, like water with no shape. Who can predict tomorrow? Better to let him go—to give Volantis one more firebrand tossed upon the embers, perhaps to rouse their quarrels early. All to our gain."
The maester laughed aloud, pulling out parchment and ink.
Though Möngke had little love for books, he enjoyed stories, and his counselors—Ofor, well-read in history and trade, and Bas-Polt, who had wandered Essos twenty years—fed him well.
From them he knew Volantis' history: once the "City of Flowers and Fountains," now a swamp of stagnant waters. From them he knew that noble candidates must prove an unbroken bloodline to Valyria, that only free landholders could vote, that even women of high birth could cast ballots, and that long ago one woman had even been triarch.
But none of this aided the Red Priest. The faith of R'hllor lived among the lowly, the slaves, the poor. Benerro might roar from the plaza, his zeal igniting riots between cults, yet no noble triarch would stoop to him. If Makiro truly sought Benerro's aid, the result could only be more chaos. Indeed, the triarchs may already long for the day they could purge the Red God's flock.
The Tiger Cloaks—half of them R'hllor's faithful—stood ready, and in the temple burned a thousand men sworn as "Hands of the Holy Fire."
At that moment, Ofor burst into the tent, half-carrying a pale, sweat-soaked rider. The Dothraki scout collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.
"Kaor—he slipped into the enemy host, learned their strength, and fled all night to bring word."
Möngke rushed forward, lifting him by the shoulders, gratitude plain on his face.
"My loyal warrior—you have saved the khalasar. Tell me your name."
The scout's lips trembled, but instead of a name, he forced out the words that burned like fire in every ear:
"Drogo… he has led his khalasar south of the Qohor forests, gathered the kas, sixty thousand screamers in all. They march on Selhorys. They will be here within two sunsets."
Even faint with exhaustion, the man's voice was fierce:
"Kaor, lead us to war. We can muster forty thousand riders."
Ofor's old eyes gleamed with defiance. Even the maester's blood stirred, his fists clenched in eagerness.
"The Valyrian steel blade gifted by the Qohorik has yet to drink blood," Bas-Polt said, grinning. "Now Drogo himself brings it."
"Great Khal," Ofor swore, voice trembling with fervor, "I have vowed my life to your cause. At the sound of the horn, I will ride through fire at your side."
Kosoro said nothing, but his hand never left the curve of his arakh.
The tent roared with resolve, yet Möngke's mind was far beyond this single battle. He had already planned the war. Already thought of what must follow after.
Drogo had come to destroy him. Möngke meant to unite the horselords.
The chance would not come twice.
The battle was inevitable.