Silence blanketed the land. From the east, dawn stirred—its light trembling across the wounded night, soothing the scars of darkness torn open through the long hours.
A horn's deep call sounded again.
Within the inner city, the gathering of Dothraki warriors stirred the slumbering people of Qohor's outer walls. The city awoke in silence.
The people, long haunted by fear, peered anxiously through shutters and cracks in doors, watching every movement of the horsemen.
The Dothraki, laden with plunder, swaggered proudly down the avenues—faces filled with greed and cruelty, eyes roaming arrogantly over the neat rows of stone houses still untouched.
The Qohorik dared not meet their gaze. Huddled together, they trembled like sheep stalked by wolves. Each hoofbeat thudded against their hearts, pounding harder and harder, as though the horsemen would break down their very doors.
At last—
The outer gates slammed shut. Then came the disciplined march of Unsullied feet, retaking control of the walls.
The bells rang out once more—not the harsh, frantic tolls of invasion, but tones gentle and calm.
The Dothraki had gone.
The joyous news spread like wildfire. Relief swept through Qohor—merchants, craftsmen, and common folk wept openly. The crushing weight of fear lifted, and the city's cries turned into shouts of celebration that echoed to the heavens.
Beneath the red haze of dawn, the air beyond the city walls was fresh and sharp.
At the head of his host, Khal Möngke rode calmly, listening to the waves of cheering that rolled from behind the walls. His face betrayed no turmoil, only quiet resolve.
Beside him, Bas Bort the maester-bloodmage spoke hesitantly:
"Khal, do you truly trust Aslan's counsel—leaving Qohor so lightly, as though it meant nothing?"
Möngke smiled faintly, answering with ease:
"If you do not trust a man, do not employ him. If you choose to employ him, doubt neither his loyalty nor his strength. And you Westerosi ought to know—Dothraki have no love for stone cities. Never have we ruled one."
Bas Bort blinked, then laughed:
"Forgive me, great Khal Möngke. Most men let reason be conquered by feeling. Yet you—your reason conquers even passion."
Möngke did not reveal his true thought: You are my hostage, maester—that is why I leave you.
Instead he answered gently:
"You fear for your student. But take heart—three thousand Unsullied remain, bound to Aslan's command. I've placed brave men at his side to guard him well."
The maester recalled then Bazzak, the stern veteran who had served in the Ghiscari Iron Legions. He smiled, reassured. But then another image rose in his mind—the hulking glutton, Bevos.
With a worried frown, he asked:
"Khal, that warrior Bevos… he seems lacking in wits."
Möngke chuckled. "Not just in appearance—he truly is. Yet he is strong. Strong enough to break men with his hands alone. In Meereen's fighting pits they called him 'Bevos the Strong.' He has never lost a fight. His scars are trophies—he let foes cut him once before he killed them. Such a man is brutish, yes. But his dull mind ensures loyalty."
Then Möngke changed the subject swiftly:
"Be at ease, maester. I charged Aslan thus: if the city must be abandoned, so be it. A city may be lost and rebuilt. But if men are lost, all is lost. The living come first."
Bas Bort bowed deeply, words heavy with reverence:
"You are a merciful and wise ruler, Khal Möngke. The source of your people's faith. With you, pride and greed shall be overcome. You shall lead mankind away from bloodshed, away from the errors of cruel history."
Möngke accepted the praise in silence, his eyes glinting with joy and ambition.
Behind him, five hundred Qohorik craftsmen marched—taken as prize. On wagons followed books and tomes, treasures of knowledge, guarded as carefully as gold.
This, more than plunder, was what Möngke desired: skills, wisdom, and lore. Gold could be stolen anywhere. But these men and their knowledge were priceless.
He had what he came for. Qohor itself mattered little. If Aslan lost it, the city would stand empty—its ruin waiting for the Dothraki tide to return again.
For now, it was enough. The Dothraki pretended to abandon Qohor to lull the other Free Cities. Better to appear as a Khal bound by tradition, roaming the grasslands, than to reveal an ambition to rule cities. Rule threatened all; plunder threatened none.
A fist withdrawn may strike harder when loosed again.
To govern is harder than to conquer. And the Free Cities would unite against a Dothraki who sought dominion. For now, Aslan would remain—his council hidden, a shadow government that would feed the horde in secret, and serve as eyes and ears among the Nine.
The road lay eastward. Möngke must complete what he began—uniting the Dothraki.
He cast one last glance at Qohor's walls, whispering to himself:
"Dothraki despise stone cities. Yet we never truly leave them untouched. Aslan… you must survive."
Then, upon his red warhorse, Möngke rode on—departing in triumph.
Crossing the Qhoyne River, he saw ahead a forest of spears planted in the earth—each crowned with a fresh, severed head.