The khals argued heatedly among themselves.
More than a hundred years had passed, yet the memory of their crushing defeat before Qohor still lingered.
Three thousand Unsullied had once driven back Khal Temmo's khalasar of fifty thousand riders.
After that victory, the Qohorik had tied strands of black hair to their spears as a symbol of triumph over the horse lords.
Among the assembled khals was one whose body carried more scars than any other.
He was known as Khal Zekko.
Zekko believed Khal Temmo had been his ancestor.
Even during the harsh winters he would occasionally raid the lands around Qohor to provoke them.
But that was as far as he had ever managed. The walls of Qohor, guarded by the Unsullied, were for him nothing more than a Wall of Sighs.
He had once attempted to attack them.
He had been driven back.
Half the scars on his body came from that failed assault.
The horse lords all carried a stubborn determination in their hearts. They wished to capture a city and wash away the humiliation of the past.
They wanted to prove their strength once more. To them, Gohor was merely a place to test their blades.
"Now the men who live in stone houses and wear iron clothes are helping us," one khal said. "This time we will take that city and capture their king alive."
"Yes! Capture them alive!"
"The Horse God will bless us!"
The khals shouted in agreement.
Behind them, their bloodriders could barely restrain their excitement.
Seeing that the mood was favorable, Drogo swept his gaze across the gathering. His eyes eventually settled on an older khal who seemed lost in thought.
This was the eldest among them, known as Khal Mosso.
His khalasar consisted mostly of old men.
Among the assembled khals, he was by far the weakest. Yet because of his age, he commanded a respect that surpassed his strength.
Mosso understood that cooperation was not the strong suit of the Dothraki.
Gathering one hundred thousand roaring warriors was one matter. Coordinating them and launching an attack at the right moment was another.
Even if they succeeded, dividing the spoils afterward would become another serious problem.
"Honored Khal Mosso," Drogo said calmly. "You seem troubled."
His voice was quiet, but it made everyone listen.
"Great Khal Drogo," Mosso replied. "I have heard of this Targaryen king. Several years ago he defeated both Pentos and Braavos."
"Now that several more years have passed, his strength must be greater still. Perhaps we should test him first with envoys or small skirmishes."
Silver threads ran through Mosso's hair, giving him the appearance of quiet wisdom.
His suggestion was cautious and reasonable.
Yet nearly everyone present was eager for war. The moment he finished speaking, objections erupted.
"When one hundred thousand roaring warriors ride together, we are unstoppable!" Zekko shouted.
"If we attack, we must strike like thunder and crush him at once, not waste time probing and giving him a chance to prepare."
Zekko despised stone walls.
Mosso's cautious proposal disgusted him.
"I agree with Khal Zekko," Ogo added immediately. "We should twist their heads off and teach them what fear truly means."
For a khal, the greatest danger was not the strength of his enemies.
It was the appearance of weakness.
To prove his strength, Ogo often killed people within his own khalasar. Slaves or common Dothraki made no difference.
His skill and strategy might not equal Drogo's, but his cruelty surpassed all the other khals.
"Honored Khal Mosso," one of Ogo's bloodriders said mockingly, "you are an elder and a wise man. Leave the task of taking cities to warriors like us."
The bloodrider's tone clearly ridiculed Mosso's caution.
Mosso remained calm despite the rejection. His composure hardly resembled that of a typical Dothraki.
Drogo's gaze suddenly turned cold.
"Ogo," he said sharply, "is this how you discipline your bloodriders? Is this how a bloodrider should speak to a khal?"
The question struck like a hammer. The bloodrider who had mocked Mosso trembled in terror.
Ogo knew the man could not be saved.
There was only one fate left for him.
Drogo tossed his riding whip onto the ground before him. "Use my whip to end your own life. That will be your honor."
The bloodrider was quickly dragged away.
At the Womb Lake, the Dothraki followed a long-standing rule.
No weapons were to be drawn.
No blood was to be shed.
Except when declaring war, anyone who drew a blade there could be executed immediately.
Yet even then blood could not be spilled.
That was why, in another timeline, a certain man had once been killed with molten gold instead of steel.
The death of the bloodrider cast a grim shadow over the wooden hall.
Drogo had achieved his purpose.
Now came the matter of war.
"I will begin by sweeping along the eastern bank of the Rhoyne," Drogo announced. "We will destroy the villages of the people who live in houses and drive them before us."
None dared oppose him.
Even Ogo nodded. His bloodrider had indeed spoken out of turn.
Of course, when Drogo spoke of making them fight for the khalasar, he meant driving them ahead as shields or slaughter.
Just as Drogo prepared to explain the next step of his plan, Kovarro returned from Gohor.
Drogo could see at once from the man's condition that the mission had not gone well.
He intended to dismiss Kovarro for the moment.
But Ogo, still irritated by what had happened earlier, demanded to hear the report immediately.
Time was short. Drogo had no chance to warn Kovarro what to say and what not to say.
Kovarro respected his khal too deeply.
So he simply told everything.
"He said that if we want gold or marriage, our Khal Drogo should come and take it himself," Kovarro declared angrily. "He is an arrogant man."
He did not realize how much his words would influence Drogo's decision.
Ogo rose to his feet.
"Shame!" he roared. "The dignity of the Dothraki has been trampled!"
"Drogo is the greatest khal among us. If the Horse God could speak, he would surely name Drogo as his favorite.
Yet this wandering man from the western continent dares insult him. We will not accept it!"
"Kill them all!" Zekko shouted, raising his curved blade.
"The Horse God protects us! Break their cities, burn their houses, take their women, and slaughter their children!"
Under such fiery cries, the Dothraki finally set their war schedule.
The events had not unfolded exactly as Drogo had intended.
But he understood that he had to appear strong. Otherwise his authority would be questioned.
This time Ogo did not wait for Drogo's permission.
He strode outside the hall.
Drawing his curved blade, he slashed his own face, leaving a bloody line across his cheek.
Then he raised his voice to the riders waiting outside.
"War! Slaughter!"
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