The Sheep People shared with the Dothraki bronze-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes, similar enough that when Daenerys first arrived in Lhazareen, she mistook them at a glance. However, over time she began to notice clear, almost unsettling differences.
Their faces were broader and flatter, their bodies sturdy, built for constant labor rather than war. They wore their hair cut in an unusual way, almost shaved to the scalp, a stark contrast to the long Dothraki braids, symbols of pride and victories never lost.
"I made you my promise in Vaes Dothrak."
Khal Kerse's voice echoed throughout the camp, deep and authoritative, imposing silence even among the most belligerent. He raised his hand and pointed toward the city walls in the distance.
"As your khal, I allow you to plunder and to take the wives and concubines of others, for that is our ancient tradition."
For an instant, some faces lit up. But Kerse's expression hardened immediately, and his voice rose with an almost sacred weight.
"But I must also announce rules. Rules that will ensure our victory is not brief, but lasting."
The camp held its breath.
"First, slave trading and indiscriminate slaughter will not be permitted."
An uneasy murmur ran through the warriors.
"Second, the god Thor Horse-Head commands that we respect the beliefs of the Sheep People. Their temples and priests are not to be profaned."
Some khals frowned.
"Third, the burning of houses and buildings is forbidden."
Kerse paused briefly, letting his words sink in.
"These rules exist to milk more mare's milk, not to kill a mare that can still produce."
Finally, his voice lowered, laden with warning.
"Anyone who disobeys my orders will suffer the consequences."
After the speech, the atmosphere of the camp grew tense, heavy. The lesser khals exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting hesitation and discontent. They had followed Kerse for promises of wealth and plunder, not to submit to restrictions imposed by another khal.
However, Kerse's prestige as the chosen of the god Thor Horse-Head shone like the highest star in the firmament, unreachable and imposing. Even the dissatisfied lacked the courage necessary to challenge him openly.
They watched one another, searching for someone who would dare to take the first step. No one did.
In the end, all that remained was silent commitment.
After all, Kerse was the father of the horse that would mount the world. Following him meant betting on a future of even greater conquests.
Among the warriors, only a few showed open indignation, annoyed at being unable to enjoy the pleasure of killing and ravaging. Their faces were tense, as if a sacred right had been stripped from them.
By contrast, the bloodriders and bandits who had followed Kerse for longer reacted differently. In their gazes there was understanding. Acceptance. They knew that this khal did not think like the others.
Kerse's sharp eyes passed over the faces of his warriors one by one, reading their emotions as if they were visible scars.
He exhaled slowly.
Blocking everyone's desires was dangerous, but this time it had worked.
Under his orders, the Dothraki army moved into action, surrounding Lhazareen with speed and silence. The city was small, with low, deteriorated walls, marked by years and neglect. The packed-earth walls looked fragile, as if a gust of wind could bring them down.
To the east, Molegro commanded thirty-two thousand elite warriors, their arakhs gleaming with lethal edges, their faces hardened by determination.
To the west, Khal Kerse led a similar force. He rode his imposing black horse, watching the city like a patient predator. Any resistance would be crushed beneath iron hooves.
To the south, Khal Moro directed a coalition of ten thousand lesser khals, armed with bows and arakhs, prepared to serve as bait if necessary.
When the Dothraki vanguard appeared on the horizon, the sentinels of Lhazareen were paralyzed by horror. The alarm bells began to ring, sharp and rapid, shattering the stillness of dawn.
Sparse and poorly equipped guards appeared atop the walls, their small figures brutally contrasting with the tide of riders approaching. They wore hastily fitted leather armor, and the weapons they wielded seemed primitive compared to refined Dothraki gear.
The city gates slammed shut, iron bolts locking with a heavy, almost desperate sound.
Archers lined the walls. They were outnumbered, but even so they prepared to defend their homes. Their movements were clumsy, lacking the instinctive ferocity of the riders of the Grass Sea.
From above, the Sheep People soldiers watched the army's advance and despair took hold of them. They knew who the Dothraki were. They knew what they usually did.
At the foot of the wall, Khal Kerse advanced on horseback.
His voice burst like thunder across the battlefield:
"Men of the city of Lhazareen, listen! I am Khal Kerse, chosen of the god Thor Horse-Head, Lord of the Horses of the Great Grass Sea."
He paused, letting fear settle.
"If you surrender, my warriors will not kill indiscriminately. But if you resist, there will be countless dead. The Dothraki will kill every man taller than a wheel."
His gaze was cold.
"The god Thor Horse-Head does not like the blood of innocents to stain this land. Lay down your arms, open the gates, and I will do everything possible to guarantee your safety."
On the wall, the guards began to murmur, exchanging panic-filled glances. They knew Khal Kerse's reputation. They knew Dothraki brutality.
When the silence dragged on too long, Kerse was about to give the order to attack. Then an unexpected movement caught his attention.
An old man, dressed in a fine wool sweater, appeared panting atop the wall. His face was furrowed by years, and his eyes shone with anxiety.
In clumsy Dothraki, with a strange accent, he shouted:
"Great Khal Kerse! We surrender! We surrender voluntarily!"
He was the leader of one of Lhazareen's most prestigious families. His mere presence was enough for the guards to turn toward him, knowing that, in that instant, the city's fate had just been sealed.