At dawn, the first light dispersed the mists of night. The air was filled with the scent of fresh grass, though tinged with the faint odor of horse dung.
The Dothraki, accustomed to such things, broke down their tents and mounted their horses. Until new orders came from Möngke Khal, the tribe would continue its march toward the outskirts of Kohol.
A marching force of over forty thousand people would be no small matter in other lands, requiring a full supply chain and strict command structure. Yet for the Dothraki, such movements were instinctive—it was life itself.
Riding was life. Killing and raiding were life. Day by day, living until death.
As long as a Khal could ride, sunrise and sunset passed without trouble.
On the following day, the tribe noticed that their Möngke Khal liked to converse with an old man named Ofor. Could it be that the Khal intended to appoint this horseless elder as a Bloodrider?
Another day passed, and a scouting party did not return. Möngke Khal declared that the missing scouts had gone further afield to examine water sources.
By the seventh sunset, the tribe reached the Saen River in the western Dothraki Sea and halted. The missing scouts returned safely.
The next morning, Möngke rode his fiery warhorse, guided by the elder Ofor, to the ruins of a city by the Saen River.
"This is Vis Kwo."
A gentle breeze stirred as Ofor reached out to touch the weathered stone walls. A faint, enchanted smile spread across his aged, furrowed face.
It was well known that the Dothraki had no interest in architecture. Möngke reined his horse, smiling:
"Vis Kwo—a proper Dothraki name."
Incredible things happened in the world. A Dothraki man surviving to Ofor's age was rare indeed.
His prominent cheekbones framed a weathered face; beneath a wrinkled brow, eyes clouded yet gentle glimmered with calm. Möngke noticed the old man's exposed arms—slender, long, and graceful.
After a brief silence, a light returned to Ofor's absent gaze. He spoke:
"Tangazan Fain called this capital Shanass. 'Vis Kwo' is the name the Dothraki gave it—it means 'City of Worms.'"
Möngke blinked at the foreign tongue. Before he could ask, Ofor continued:
"All prosperity meets dusk. All golden ages come to an end. Tangazan Fain was a title among the High Men, who also called themselves the Salor.
…"
With no further explanation, Ofor led the way toward the Saen River beyond the ruins.
Möngke watched the old man's bent figure, thoughtful.
Initially, he had only sought someone familiar with the Dothraki Sea and paid little attention to Ofor's background. He only knew the man's knowledge of geography was unmatched.
But after today, Möngke realized Ofor concealed much beneath his humble exterior.
To rule a people, one must know its history and culture. When Möngke had first become a Ko, the tribe's physician had taught him the Dothraki oral legends.
The Dothraki Sea had not always been so vast. Once called the Essos Grasslands, it was home not only to the Dothraki. The High Men had once been a roaming tribe across the plains. They later settled along the Saen River, founding the Salor Kingdom. At its peak, fifty city-states surrounded the capital Shanass, creating a civilization of over two thousand years. The title "Salor" came from this era.
As Ofor said: all prosperity fades. The Salor dismissed the rising Dothraki, and by the time they realized their error, the kingdom had fallen to the thunder of Dothraki hooves. Only a small settlement of less than twenty thousand, Seas, remained.
Since then, the Dothraki had ridden across the plains, transforming Essos Grasslands into the Dothraki Sea.
The Salor had long, slender limbs, brown skin, dark eyes, and hair as black as night. Ofor was certainly not purely Dothraki but likely had deep Salor ancestry.
Möngke did not fear him. The Salor kingdom had been destroyed centuries ago, and Ofor had lived peacefully in the tribe for decades before Möngke became Khal.
With that, Möngke focused and rode after him.
Passing through the city ruins, they arrived at a great bridge spanning the Saen River.
From horseback, Möngke saw a broad avenue stretching straight toward the horizon like a spear.
Now standing tall, Ofor's posture hinted at a trace of Dothraki warrior spirit.
Hearing the approaching hoofbeats, Ofor turned, joy evident on his face. He stomped the smooth, ribbon-like surface of the road and laughed:
"The Valyria Avenue, built from solid lava, wide enough for three chariots to travel abreast. The Valyrians' architectural and sculpting skill was as famed as their steel."
Having seen the ancient Valyrian steel, Möngke knew its reputation. Infused with magic, it was lighter, harder, and sharper than any ordinary metal. Surviving Valyrian weapons after the Doom were rare, each with a name and story.
Möngke said nothing. The avenue impressed him deeply. He dismounted to examine the half-foot elevated lava roadway.
During their prime, the Valyrians had constructed avenues linking all major cities of Essos. Though four centuries had passed since their fall, the roads endured.
Ofor pointed to the western horizon:
"This avenue leads to the ruins of Vis Kadok. There once stood a city called Isalia, a Valyrian colony."
Möngke concentrated, then drew a dagger from his belt, blade toward himself, handle extended to Ofor:
"Using the Saen River and its tributaries along with the Valyria Avenue as references, can you now draw maps of Vis Wok and Vis Kadok?"
Ofor hesitated, then withdrew his hand, speaking with seriousness:
"My Khal, allow me to speak frankly.
For plotting routes and orientation, my maps suffice. For locating enemies, your scouts suffice. But to determine the outcome of a war, you must see the terrain yourself. The Dothraki Sea is vast—passing through it takes three years for a tribe. Neither my maps nor your scouts alone can guarantee victory."
Möngke understood the importance of terrain. That was why he sent scouts and sought Ofor's mental maps.
Yet even that might not be enough to decide war. Gazing at the rushing Saen River, he recalled past battles and decisive moments: one with few men but great courage, another with many but lacking leadership.
To be Khal, commanding forty thousand and two thousand roaring warriors, the exhilaration was fleeting.
Calming himself, he reviewed his plans: cavalry, speed, raids, plains, charges, decisive victory. The familiar images vanished, leaving his mind blank. He knew nothing.
But now he understood Ofor's words: he had been arrogant.