Extract from The Stallion of the East by Maester Koran
As recorded in previous chapters, the Great Khal Drogo's conquest of the Dothraki Sea was not a prolonged campaign of grinding attrition, but rather a swift and merciless affair. What should have taken decades of tribal warfare was accomplished in mere years, a fact attested to by numerous witnesses, among them the disgraced lord and exiled knight Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.
Ser Jorah, who rode for a time among the Dothraki, claimed that Drogo's most trusted bloodriders, the fierce equivalents of a Kingsguard, often declared that their Khal had been blessed by the Great Stallion, the horse god of the Dothraki people. Whether these accounts were born of genuine belief or simple flattery born of fear remains unproven, as is so often the case with the tales of conquerors.
What is beyond dispute is the timeline. Drogo's rise began in 296 AC. By 298 AC, the entirety of the vast Dothraki Sea lay beneath his dominion. Many expected the young Khal to turn his gaze westward, toward the Free Cities and the Disputed Lands, hungry for further glory and richer spoils. Indeed, in 297 AC, Drogo led a massive host against the ancient city of Qohor.
Contemporary accounts speak of over a hundred thousand warriors gathered outside Qohor's formidable walls, though the Masters of the city, ever prone to exaggeration when recounting their own peril, likely inflated these numbers. The siege, as it was called, lasted exactly one day.
What transpired remains one of the strangest episodes in recent Essosi history.
Drogo, expecting to face the legendary Unsullied or a formidable mercenary company, was reportedly surprised when the great bronze gates of Qohor swung open without resistance. Instead of soldiers, an array of women emerged, kneeling in neat rows before the gates. All wore robes of a deep, dark red, the color of old blood or dying embers. Witnesses described them as unnaturally still, murmuring a low, rhythmic chant in a language none of the Dothraki recognized.
Khal Drogo, ever bold, is said to have laughed and declared that the city had accepted its fate beneath the hooves of the Great Stallion. He proclaimed the women a tribute of whores sent to appease him. With only his bloodriders at his side, the Khal rode through the open gates to inspect his conquest.
What happened next is still hotly debated among maesters and smallfolk alike.
According to the few survivors who later fled Qohor, the moment the bloodriders drew near the kneeling women, the entire gateway erupted in dark, unnatural flames. The fire was not the bright orange of ordinary blazes, but a deep, hungry crimson-black that seemed to devour light itself.
The bloodriders were consumed in an instant, their bodies melting like wax before iron. Horses screamed and collapsed. Only Khal Drogo himself survived the ordeal, though he lost his prized steed and emerged visibly shaken, his braids singed and his golden bells melted.
The maesters of the Citadel, ever skeptical of tales involving gods and magic, propose a more rational explanation: the women likely carried casks of wildfire or some similar alchemical compound, which was ignited once the Dothraki were within range. Such substances are known to produce unnatural flames and have been used in desperate defenses before.
Yet among the smallfolk and certain religious orders, a different story persists. They point to the rapid expansion of the Red Temples of R'hllor throughout the Free Cities during those very years. Many believe the red-robed women were priestesses of the Lord of Light, sent to protect civilized lands from the savage tide of the Dothraki. Some even whisper that the Red God himself intervened that day, answering the prayers of his faithful with holy fire.
Whatever the truth may be, the Siege of Qohor marked the first true check on Khal Drogo's seemingly unstoppable rise. The Stallion Who Mounts the World had been bloodied, if only slightly by forces he did not understand.
And the world, as it so often does, watched and waited to see what the young Khal would do next.
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Extract from The City of Winter and Wolves by Archmaester Luwin
Many scholars and smallfolk alike persist in the mistaken belief that the great curtain walls now encircling the City of Winterfell were raised in response to the betrayal and sack led by Theon Greyjoy, the man later known as the Dirt Squid or, more commonly, Theon the Traitor. This is a comforting falsehood, one that attributes great works to reaction rather than foresight. In truth, the expansion of Winterfell began long before that dark day.
Even prior to Lord Eddard Stark's departure south in 298 AC to serve as Hand of the King, the ancient seat had already swollen far beyond its traditional bounds. Nearly two hundred thousand souls called the growing city home, drawn by opportunity, safety, and the promise of steady work in a land long known for its hardship.
It was Lord Eddard himself who first commissioned the construction of the long, formidable outer walls, envisioning a stronghold capable of sheltering not merely his household and bannermen, but an entire thriving city.
The design and intricate patterns of these walls, however, belong to his second son, Lord Brandon Stark, a boy of remarkable intellect even in his youth. Many jested, not entirely in mockery, that he was a new Bran the Builder reborn. Indeed, the cleverness of the fortifications, with their layered defenses, hidden sally ports, and harmonious integration with the natural landscape, has only reinforced such comparisons in the years since.
No one living a mere decade ago could have imagined Winterfell's transformation into the vast, living metropolis it has become. What was once a formidable but isolated castle now stands as the beating heart of the North, a sprawling city of stone, timber, and snow, alive with industry and ambition.
The ever-expanding brewery and its lucrative export trade proved the greatest catalyst. The demand for skilled laborers, carpenters, brewers, and lumberjacks drew men and women not only from the northern clans and holdfasts, but even from south of the Neck. Entire families uprooted themselves in search of steady wages and the protection of Stark rule.
The number of farmers in the surrounding lands has tripled since the previous great summer, feeding both the growing population and the hungry markets of White Harbor.
Meanwhile, the silver mines long thought exhausted have been reopened and expanded under careful stewardship, yielding a steady flow of wealth that has further fueled the city's rise.
Central to this prosperity has been the now-famous brew known as Lady Frost. This rich, dark ale has found its way across the Narrow Sea. In the sun-drenched isles of Lys and the bustling ports of the Free Cities, it is spoken of in the same breath as Arbor Gold and the finest Dornish reds.
Merchants swear it warms the blood better than any southern vintage during the long nights, and its popularity has only grown with each passing year.
Such success, however, has invited danger. There have been numerous attempts to steal both the brewing methods and entire casks of the prized drink. Shadowy figures have been caught more than once attempting to bribe or threaten brewers, and at least two rival merchants from Pentos were executed after being found in possession of stolen recipes. In response, the Starks have maintained a constant and formidable escort for all shipments. Companies of guards now travel the roads between Winterfell, Karhold, Deepwood Motte, and White Harbor, ensuring that the lifeblood of the North's new wealth flows unmolested.