The sun blazed like fire, scorching the skin. A haze neither cloud nor mist hung low in the air. The river below shimmered like molten tin, winding endlessly forward.
This time, Möngke did not lead his horde eastward through Qohor's forests, but instead marched south along the eastern bank of the roaring Rhoyne.
Horses and sheep were the Dothraki's main fare. Yet such food could not sustain long migrations. Mare's milk and cheese were also staples, and together with plunder and captives, they nourished the khalasar on its endless journeys.
But herds alone could not meet the needs of such a vast horde. Tens of thousands of horses and sheep devoured grass and drank rivers dry. Their movements had to follow water and pasture, and so Dothraki migration routes overlapped with striking precision.
From the Dagger Lakes southward along the Rhoyne, then eastward at the source of the Sarhoy River, stretched the great raiding path of the Dothraki. Beyond that lay Volantis—the first of the Free Cities.
Thus, Möngke expected his horde might clash with others. Indeed, he welcomed it.
From high ground near the Sarhoy's source, the khalasar encamped. Möngke raised his Valyrian steel arakh, treasure-laden chests of gold and jewels beside him.
Back in Qohor, the Dothraki had left behind a forest of spears crowned with heads. Terror-stricken survivors hailed Aslan Rogare as "Savior of Qohor," and pressed him into rule as governor, charged with forming a council of merchants and owners.
To them, he was the man who faced a Khal and lived. Only he could keep the Dothraki away.
Thus, a Qohorik embassy soon overtook Möngke's host, bearing three chests of treasure and another Valyrian steel arakh—tribute for peace. Möngke played the role of warlord well, granting hints of his path eastward, letting them believe he was satisfied.
The new blade pleased him greatly. Forged by Qohor's smiths, reforged from three other Valyrian weapons, it fit his massive frame perfectly—five feet in length, its black rippling edge gleamed with waves like shadowed seas, its grip of dragonbone enlarged for his hand.
Bas Bort, watching his joy, unrolled parchment and said:
"Great Khal, it is fitting that you name your new blade. The weapon's former master bore a tale worth remembering."
Möngke frowned—names did not come easily to him. He bade the maester tell the tale instead.
The bloodmage spoke:
"This sword once belonged to Sandokh the Shadow, mute from a severed tongue, near seven feet tall, black of skin and hair, his face scarred beyond count. Though he could not read, he played mournful songs on strange strings. In Meereen's pits he fought one hundred death-duels, slaying beasts barehanded, even tearing throats with his teeth.
Purchased by Lythandro Rogare of Lys, Sandokh later guarded Lady Larra Rogare, wife to Prince Viserys Targaryen. When enemies sought to break into Maegor's Holdfast, he held the drawbridge with this very blade, slaying four Kingsguard, and kept the tower safe for eighteen days."
The Kingsguard—the White Swords, sworn to serve king and realm—were proof enough of Sandokh's might.
Still, Möngke found no name. Instead, he asked suddenly:
"Maester—what year is it now, by Westerosi reckoning?"
The maester replied without hesitation:
"297 After Conquest. And perhaps the longest summer in memory is ending."
Seasons in this world did not turn as in others. Summers and winters lasted for years, sometimes decades. The Citadel's task was to track the heavens, to mark the lengths of day and night, and declare when a season had turned.
This was the Long Summer—sunlight endless, days hot and bright. Yet its end approached. Soon would come the false summer, and after it, the cruel cold. And beyond even that, perhaps, the Long Night of legend—years of endless winter, darkness, famine, and fear.
Essos, lying further south than the lands beyond the Wall, would feel it less than Westeros. But it would come.
Möngke raised his eyes to the blazing sky, lips curling into a grim smile:
"Maester—prepare yourself. The Long Summer is ending."
297 AC. The world stood on the edge of change.