The widows of fallen khals dwelt forever in Vaes Dothrak.
Together they formed the council of seers, the dosh khaleen, who shared in ruling the vast Dothraki Sea.
The dosh khaleen gave their wisdom to the horse-lords, divining omens, foretelling futures.
Yet no khal who had proven himself in countless battles, still strong enough to ride and raid, was weak of will.
By the ancient traditions of the Horse God, a khal must honor the dosh khaleen—but honoring was not obeying. He need not heed the words of their eunuch servants.
Drogo, mightiest of all the khals beneath the sky, had no patience left for the pale eunuch.
He drew the dagger from his golden belt and leaned low, offering it point-first.
"The dosh khaleen may choose any prize they wish from the spoils. This gift I send them, in thanks for their service. As for you—here is your gift. I will grant you the honor you deserve, that your corpse need not rot unburied in the wilderness."
The eunuch had long basked in the shadow of the crones' glory, forgetting fear. But now, faced with a khal's naked steel, terror returned. The memories of slavery—hunger, beatings, dread—rose again. His body shook as he crawled upon the ground.
Bathed in the red light of sunset, Drogo looked upon his riders. Their eyes were full of reverence. With a sharp motion he sheathed the dagger, cracked his whip, and thundered:
"South. We ride!"
The life of a Dothraki and the way of war were one. Militarily, this gave them their greatest strength: swiftness.
Drogo's braid hung to his thighs, bells clashing with each stride. Every bell was a battle won, every ring a foe conquered. He knew the ways of his people's war.
Speed first. Strike at the enemy's line of retreat.
Then, with light horse unmatched in mobility, harry them from afar—raids so sudden and fierce that terror itself broke men faster than any blade.
At the river's head, the khalasar split like two great serpents.
Drogo led the main horde south toward Volantis.
Pono and Jaqo took their riders west in pursuit.
Clouds drifted. Mist rose from the marshes. Moon and stars bathed the swamplands in silver.
Möngke strode bare-chested through the firelit ruins of Sa-Mael, his painted leather vest cast aside. He oversaw the work of craftsmen raising defenses, soothing the unease of his people.
The city, once proud with pink stone palaces, lay broken in muck and moss. Fire-scorched walls sagged, towers gone to ruin. Yet beneath his hand, life returned—walls rebuilt, ramparts raised, the carcass of the city made strong again to bar the foe.
At the shattered gate he halted. His horde waited still across the river, for his word to cross.
Eastward he turned. The stars shone bright—the galloping steeds of the sky, the souls of Dothraki dead.
He mounted. The steward Ofor placed a torch in his hand. Möngke gazed down at the gathered faces, taut with fear or heavy with resolve, and smiled.
"On the eve of war, some men fear and pray, others grow drunk on rage. But a commander walks the razor's edge above an abyss. He must be calm, steady, and do what must be done. If you know not what will please me—then do as I command. Give me loyalty. Stand at my side. We were born Dothraki—we will die as warriors."
The truth was plain: they were outnumbered. Victory's path was far from clear.
Young Nohat, frowning, dared to ask:
"Khal, will the enemy truly divide at the Vhalaena?"
Möngke bent low, his voice easy.
"They will. The stronger an enemy, the more he hungers. And this foe is proud. Is there any triumph sweeter than to win every battle?"
He thought a moment, remembering Ofor's reports of Nohat's deeds. This youth was worth shaping. Gently, he explained:
"Our strength is not blind as shifting sands. It is cunning. Only by outwitting the foe can we be invincible."
He tapped the young man's shoulder with his whip, smiling.
"Tell me then, where lies our cunning? What is our advantage?"
Nohat steadied himself, raised his head, and answered firm:
"Initiative. We seize the field before the foe. We refuse his strength, strike instead at his weakness. We divide, encircle, raid deep into his rear, ready always to close the trap."
This was the true way of the steppe—born of the hunt. The wolf pack circling prey. Scouts sent forth to harry, confuse, and exhaust. Then, when the time was ripe, the sudden strike.
Möngke studied the young rider's bold eyes. Pleased, he laughed:
"It is not flight—it is the hunter's wheel. If they believe us afraid, so much the better. This war has no single field. The battlefield is where we find it—where terrain favors us, where surprise cuts deepest. Even should they not divide today, we will make them err tomorrow. Piece by piece, we will break them. And when the time comes, we shall gather all strength, strike as one, and annihilate them. That will be the true battlefield."
He looked around. The glow of hope was lit in every eye. His heart eased. He raised his whip with a flourish.
"Good. Let the scouts bring us word soon. When the foe divides, we cross the river, and together we shall ride to war."
The voices of the horde roared in answer:
"Yes, great Khal—it shall be so."