A Dothraki khalasar appeared near the headwaters of the Rhoyne's tributary, the Selhoru. Their riders moved southward along the eastern bank of the Rhoyne.
When the news spread, fear swiftly took hold in Selhorys. Peasants outside the town abandoned their homes in flight.
River galleys, oar-and-sail, heavy with slave-soldiers, patrolled back and forth along the waterways. They were the Tiger Cloaks of Volantis—tattooed with green tiger stripes across their cheeks, clad in tiger-helms, long spears in hand, the sunlight glinting off claw-shaped gauntlets of steel.
Selhorys, under Volantene rule, stood at the confluence of the Selhoru and the Rhoyne. Though it had sandstone walls and towers aplenty, it was still counted a town rather than a true city. Its position on the Rhoyne's east bank left it more vulnerable to Dothraki raids than other holdings of Volantis.
The town grew restless at the threat, yet this khalasar paid them no mind.
"They clearly fear us," one voice declared. "Selhorys is nothing. If I commanded, I would feign an assault on Selhorys, draw the Volantenes to its defense, then with chosen riders I would ride night and day southward, to strike Volantis itself."
In the khalasar's war-camp, a council of war played out—a simulated assault on Volantis. The tent fell silent at last when Kosoro, usually mute and expressionless, gave his grim analysis.
Maester Bas-Pat, who knew little of Kosoro, was surprised; he had judged the man a simple-minded guard. Even the steward Ofor, who once nearly lost his life in a quarrel with him, stared in shock. He had thought Kosoro nothing more than a zealot, blind in loyalty to his khal.
But Möngke smiled broadly, his voice rich with satisfaction:
"My most loyal warrior—you have the skill to command a host of your own."
Kosoro, awkward with words, never spoke much. He was a shadow at the khal's back, silent but ever reliable. Yet his record was ironclad: when Möngke led six thousand riders in a flanking maneuver at the Skahazadhan, Kosoro had marched tens of thousands through the forests of Qohor, shadowing Khal Jomo's horde without loss. When summoned by Ofor, he had led over ten thousand riders westward, appearing at the east bank in perfect timing, sealing a double envelopment.
The khal resolved, silently, to give Kosoro command in his own right.
Just then, a guard pulled back the tent flap.
"Khal, there is theft of horses. Your judgment is needed."
Horses are the most sacred wealth of the Dothraki—dearer than wives or sons. To mount a mare heavy with foal was punished with fifty lashes; to steal a horse was death. Such judgments only the khal, or a ko of the offending rider's khas, might pronounce.
Möngke strode out. There, a group of howling screamers half-dragged a Dothraki woman, laughing crudely as another mocked a boy barely the height of a saddle, who strained desperately to hold the reins of a stamping stallion.
The khal's gaze fell cold upon them. At once the screamers fell silent, standing stiff.
"This horse does not belong—" a guard began, but the woman broke free, clutching her son, and threw herself down.
"Great Khal," she cried, "my husband rode at your summons. He yearned to die with honor in your service, but he perished in the Forest of Qohor, torn by beasts, his bones lost. This horse—this stallion—was no theft. It returned with our mare."
Möngke's iron heart trembled. To die in battle was glory. To be eaten by beasts, leaving no bones for the funeral pyre, was the foulest curse.
The camp grew hushed. Möngke stepped forward, trying to calm the restive stallion. He saw the boy straining, saw the stallion's training—it recognized only its true master.
He had no gift for horse-taming. His relic, the Bridle of Khir-Qi, could command any mount, but rage clouded him.
He seized the beast by the neck, dragged it before the screamers.
"Cowards!" he roared. "Until I judge, she is but a Dothraki mother, and he but her son. His father was your brother in arms. Would you call him craven, who died alone?"
With a thunderous crash, he slammed the stallion to the earth. The beast toppled, legs flailing. Möngke's strength had hurled it down like a child's toy.
His eyes blazed like thornfire. He glared at the screamers, memorizing each face.
"At the next battle, when the horns sound, I will see you at the fore. Else I should take your filthy heads. Now—out of my sight."
The screamers quailed. To them his eyes were dragon's eyes, hungry for blood. They scattered in terror.
Then Möngke paused. His nostrils flared. He smelled something wrong. Looking down, he saw a dark red stain upon his bronze skin. He rubbed the stallion's back; his hand came away wet with dried blood.
"You washed this beast?" he asked.
The woman nodded quickly.
"My son found him caked with mud by the river, we washed him there. We told the screamers all—he was no theft."
Möngke studied the saddle-marks, then nodded. "You are guiltless. Kosoro—see them safely housed and bring back their saddle. Ofor—count our scouts. See if any have not returned."
The steward rushed to obey. The woman bowed with her child, relief in her eyes, then departed under Kosoro's guard.
Watching her go, Möngke swore to himself: he would unify the khalasars, forge law, build a new order, remake Dothraki life.
The maester spoke, glancing at the horse:
"Khal—does this stallion not belong to us?"
Möngke's anger faded to calm. He smiled faintly.
"Maester, the gods ride with me. I smell blood. War is coming."
The red on the stallion's back was not paint, but the iron scent of blood.
And Möngke knew: this time, his foe was no lesser khal. This time, he faced an equal.