Artys Arryn POV
Khal Mongo stood frozen for only a heartbeat before his face hardened once more.
Blood dripped steadily from the cuts covering his body, splashing onto the dirt beneath his feet. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as his eyes drifted toward the arakh lying several yards away. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but I caught it.
He wasn't looking for an opening anymore.
He was looking for hope.
Without warning, he exploded toward the fallen weapon.
I was already moving.
Just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, my boot crashed into the curved blade, sending it spinning across the battlefield. The arakh bounced over the blood-soaked earth before finally coming to rest far beyond either of our reach.
Mongo watched it disappear into the dirt. Only then did his gaze slowly return to me.
Around us, the battlefield had fallen eerily silent. Tens of thousands of Dothraki sat motionless upon their horses, while my own soldiers watched from atop the walls without daring to cheer. Every eye remained fixed upon us, waiting to see what a man who had never lost looked like when he finally understood he might.
For several long heartbeats, neither of us moved.
"Hash yer yeri?"
What are you?
There was something different in his voice now. The certainty that had filled every word he'd spoken since the duel began was gone. Confusion had taken its place.
I couldn't help but smile. "Yer asti hrazef."
You're finally starting to think.
His brow furrowed. "Yer me dothrae."
You are not Dothraki.
"Anha vo Dothraki. Shafka, anha yer nem nesa." I shrugged.
I am no Dothraki. But I am your death.
His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. This time he didn't charge. Instead, he began circling me. Slowly.
His eyes no longer followed the daggers in my hands. They studied my shoulders, my hips, my feet, searching for the slightest movement that might reveal my next attack. Every step he took was measured now. Every breath controlled. He had finally stopped fighting like a beast.
Unfortunately for him, he wasn't very good at fighting like a man either.
Without warning, he lunged — not with another reckless overhead swing, but a fist shooting toward my throat with surprising speed. I twisted aside just in time. His knuckles grazed my jaw before my bastard steel dagger flashed toward his ribs. Mongo managed to turn enough to avoid the killing blow, but the blade still carved another deep line across his side.
Fresh blood splashed onto the dirt between us. He hissed through clenched teeth before retreating several steps, one hand instinctively pressing against the wound.
Neither of us attacked. For several heartbeats, we simply watched each other. Mongo lowered his hand and stared at the blood covering his fingers, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger as though trying to convince himself it belonged to someone else.
Then he lifted his head.
"Vos?"
How?
There was no fury in the question. Only disbelief.
I raised my Valyrian steel dagger, pointing its tip toward him. "Hash yer asti qisi?"
Do you know your mistake?
He remained silent.
"Yer yeri vosecchi oskikh, mae me adakhat addrivat yeri."
You've spent your whole life fighting men weaker than you.
I took another slow step forward, never taking my eyes off him.
"Yer athdrivat vezhofi. Yer athdrivat qisi me."
You've only ever killed little men. Little men never taught you how to fight.
His breathing grew heavier.
"Yer zhey asti hrazef yeri."
You thought strength was enough.
I spun the Valyrian steel dagger once before settling back into my stance.
"Mechis."
It usually is.
I smiled. "Shafka vo ajjalan."
But not today.
His jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might crack. For the first time since the duel had begun, Khal Mongo wasn't trying to figure out how to kill me.
He was trying to figure out why he couldn't.
Blood soaked through his leather vest, dripping steadily onto the ground beneath him. The giant who had ridden to my gates believing himself invincible now stood before me covered in wounds, his grip tightening and loosening around the arakh as though he no longer trusted even his own hands.
He looked cautious now. He wasn't trying to overpower me anymore. He was trying to understand me.
"Hash yer yeri?"
What are you?
I shrugged. "Anha yeri vezhof."
I'm just a little man.
He stared at me, then his gaze drifted toward the white stallion still kneeling behind me before slowly returning to my face.
"No." He shook his head. "Yer me vezhof."
You're no little man.
A faint smile spread across my face. The seed had finally taken root. Fear was a strange thing. Once it entered a man's mind, it rarely came alone. Doubt followed soon after, and once doubt settled in, the battle was already won.
Mongo bellowed and charged once more, refusing to let himself think any longer. His arakh crashed toward my head. I slipped to the outside, letting the blade whistle past my ear before slashing across his forearm. Fresh blood sprayed through the air, but he ignored the wound completely and spun with another savage strike aimed at my ribs.
Steel met steel. Sparks burst between us. His strength was monstrous, driving my arm backward despite the Valyrian steel holding firm, but raw strength alone wasn't enough. Not anymore.
He swung again. And again. Each strike heavier than the last, each one slower. His frustration had finally overtaken his discipline.
I stepped inside another wide swing, drove my knee into his stomach, then raked my bastard steel dagger across his chest. A fresh crimson line opened from shoulder to ribs before I slipped back out of reach.
Mongo staggered several steps before stopping. His breathing had become noticeably heavier now. Blood covered his arms, his chest, his legs. Every movement cost him more than the last.
"Yer qisi."
You're predictable.
His jaw clenched. "Hash yer qisi?"
You call me predictable?
He spat blood onto the ground. "Yer hrazef ma."
You're only lucky.
I laughed, then pointed one dagger toward the dozens of wounds covering his body.
"Hash yer vos anni qisi? Yer qisi. Yer zhorak. Yer me hrazef."
Do you think this was luck? You're predictable. You're strong. You're just not smart.
The words struck harder than any blade. His face darkened — not with rage, but humiliation. Tens of thousands of his own riders were watching their Khal being lectured like an inexperienced boy. He couldn't accept it.
With a roar that shook the valley, Mongo threw himself at me again, abandoning every trace of caution. Exactly what I'd wanted.
He raised the arakh high above his head before bringing it down with enough force to split stone itself. I stepped aside. The blade buried itself deep into the earth, spraying dirt and shattered rock in every direction.
For the briefest heartbeat, he couldn't pull it free.
That single mistake decided the duel.
I stepped forward. Before he could wrench the arakh loose, my knee crashed into his wounded side. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a violent gasp as my bastard steel dagger flashed downward, slicing clean across his wrist. Blood sprayed across the dirt. His fingers loosened. The massive arakh slipped from his grasp and crashed onto the battlefield with a heavy clang before sliding several feet away.
Mongo staggered backward, instinctively clutching his bleeding wrist. For the first time, he looked afraid. Not afraid of dying — afraid because nothing made sense anymore. His eyes drifted toward the white stallion kneeling behind me before returning to my face. He wasn't looking at another man. He was trying to understand whether I was one at all.
I simply smiled. Sometimes silence terrified people far more than any threat ever could.
Slowly, I raised my Valyrian steel dagger.
Blood rolled from every wound I'd carved into him, splashing against the earth with each labored breath. His shoulders rose and fell as his eyes darted around the battlefield, searching desperately for something. Anything. An opening. An escape. A miracle.
He found none.
"Hash yer yeri?"
What are you?
His voice had become little more than a whisper.
I looked at the countless Dothraki watching us before answering loudly enough for the front ranks to hear.
"Anha me hrazef."
I'm nothing special.
I pointed the dagger toward him. "Yer qisi."
You're simply too weak.
His face twisted — not with anger, but humiliation. The greatest Khal of the eastern plains. The man who had never known defeat, called weak before his entire khalasar. That wounded him more deeply than every cut I'd opened across his body.
He threw back his head and roared. The sound echoed across the valley as he abandoned the last scraps of reason still clinging to him. With nothing left but pride, Khal Mongo charged with his bare hands, hoping to crush me beneath his weight. A desperate gamble. Nothing more.
I met him head-on.
At the very last moment, his foot hooked the discarded arakh lying between us. His hand shot downward, snatching the weapon from the dirt in one desperate motion before swinging it toward my neck.
Clever. Too late.
I jumped. The blade missed my throat by inches before slamming into my breastplate. Steel screamed against steel as the curved edge bit deep into the armor, lodging itself there. The impact rattled every bone in my body and sent pain exploding through my chest.
I ignored it. Pain faded. Opportunity didn't.
My left hand flashed forward. The Valyrian steel dagger whispered across his throat so quickly that neither of us felt it.
We passed each other. Neither of us stopped immediately. Mongo stumbled forward, taking three more heavy steps before finally slowing. He stood there with his back to me, staring silently toward the thousands of Dothraki waiting beyond.
For one strange heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then a thin crimson line appeared across his neck. His head slid cleanly from his shoulders and struck the dirt with a dull thud. A heartbeat later, the giant's body collapsed beside it.
Silence swallowed the battlefield. Not a single Dothraki spoke. Not a single horse moved. Even the wind seemed to disappear as every eye remained fixed upon the body of the man they had believed could never fall.
I walked back without hurry. Mongo's severed head lay where it had fallen, his long braid soaked in blood. I bent down, grabbed it by the braid, then turned toward the white stallion still kneeling several yards away. The great horse remained perfectly still. Waiting.
Without hesitation, I mounted it.
The stallion rose beneath me and began carrying me forward at a slow, deliberate pace toward the stunned khalasar. Every hoofbeat echoed across the silent valley as thousands of Dothraki watched without speaking. No one dared move.
At the front of the khalasar stood four warriors with braids hanging almost to their waists.
Mongo's bloodriders.
Their faces twisted with grief and hatred as they stared at the head hanging from my hand. One of them pointed his arakh toward me.
"Yer athdrivar!"
Kill him!
The other three answered with identical roars before digging their heels into their mounts. All four charged.
I simply watched them come.
I had used the gift before — on wolves in the Vale, on hawks, once on a dying horse of my own I hadn't wanted to lose. It had never felt like this. Four riders, thousands of horses, one battlefield holding its breath. I reached for it anyway, the way you'd reach for a blade you weren't sure would hold.
It held.
When the bloodriders had covered barely twenty yards, I found the animals beneath them and simply took the reins that mattered.
Their horses screamed. All four came to an abrupt halt before violently rearing onto their hind legs. The bloodriders were thrown from their saddles, crashing hard onto the blood-soaked earth before they could even think about rising.
Confusion flashed across every face. Then it became terror.
The horses turned. Not away from their riders, but toward them. Iron-shod hooves rose into the air before crashing down with sickening force. Once.
Twice. Again and again, the bloodriders were trampled by the very horses they had ridden for years. Bones shattered beneath the relentless barrage as screams echoed through the valley.
One man managed to crawl only a few feet before a hoof crushed his skull. Another reached desperately toward his fallen arakh, only for his own horse to cave in his chest before his fingers could touch it.
Within moments, silence returned. Mongo's four bloodriders lay motionless beneath the very beasts they had raised since birth.
I looked down at the bodies before shaking my head. Controlling animals really was disgustingly effective — and it cost me something, a thin thread of effort I could feel pulling taut behind my eyes, though not enough that anyone watching would ever know it.
Then something happened that even I hadn't planned.
One by one, the four horses lowered their heads toward me. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear.
Submission.
An idea took shape before I'd finished deciding I liked it. I looked out at the stunned horde, thousands of riders still mounted, still frozen, and reached out again — further this time, wider, until I could feel every horse on that field like a held breath waiting to be let go.
The movement spread outward through the khalasar like ripples across still water. Horses at the front slowly bent their knees. Then the next rank. Then another. Then another.
Thousands of Dothraki looked around in confusion as their own mounts ignored the reins and lowered themselves before the white stallion carrying me. Some warriors tried pulling on the reins. Others kicked their horses. Nothing happened. The horses refused to obey. Their heads remained lowered before me.
A slow smile spread across my face. I raised my Valyrian steel dagger high above my head.
"Anha athdavrazar! Anha tih azhakooni vezhven qoy qoyi!"
I am the Great Stallion! I am the Stallion Who Mounts the World!
The words rolled across the valley. A lie. A shameless one. But myths had never been built upon truth. They were built upon belief, and at this very moment, thousands of Dothraki were watching their own horses kneel before me.
They raised their arakhs and screamed my new name back at me.
POV ends