The night was endless and dark. The soft veil of silken clouds released the sleeping plain, where fireflies flickered and the moonlight mingled with starlight, weaving a glittering river of sand across the sky.
Beneath the firmament, along the banks of the Vhalanna, the earth trembled. Serpentine trails of firelight leapt and danced across the horizon, carried by the thunder of hooves, surging in a rolling tide.
The Dothraki riders, sweeping across the boundless grasslands, made no effort to hide their coming. Men shouted, horses screamed, and the sound became a single voice—an oceanic roar that surged from every direction, pressing forward, swift and unstoppable, shaking the night with its fury.
At the river's edge, Möngke reined in his flaming-red stallion. He had no time to survey the waters of the Vhalanna. With a sharp tug, he wheeled the horse about, scanning the chaos behind. Relief touched his face only when he saw the wagons bearing the khalasar's women, children, and elders keeping pace, straggling but unbroken.
Driving his mount back, he called out over the din:
"Ofor! Ofor!"
"Here, my Khal!" came the answer, shouted from the wagons. It was the steward, Ofor. "No one has fallen behind—all are safe!"
Only then did Möngke's chest ease. For fear of pursuit, he had commanded much of the baggage to be cast aside. Those unable to ride wagons bore the brunt of the burden. The rest—every man and woman fit for battle—had been given horses and weapons. But in the darkness, the unblooded risked losing themselves, drifting from the host.
Bas Port rode up then, his gaze lingering on the wagons with gratitude. Möngke was no tender guardian—he had sent few to shield the weak. It had been Ofor who volunteered to guard the rear, preserving the khalasar's heart.
But relief was fleeting. Möngke's brow darkened again. The plan was set: divide the forces at the source of the Vhalanna. Until it failed, the plan must be pursued.
He lifted his whip in salute, and spoke quickly:
"The foe may abandon their own to give chase with horse alone. Your march is heavy and slow—vulnerable. You must make for the marshes without pause. There, with the craftsmen taken from Qohor, raise defenses. Remember—marshland can blunt the charge, but cannot be trusted as a wall. Do not strike out. And beware the Volantenes at your back."
Ofor and the maester exchanged grim looks. "We understand. We will march without delay, fortify, and await you," the maester said solemnly.
"Yes," Ofor agreed. "But if we wait for another sunset, we will reach the marshes too late. We must ride now."
Satisfied, Möngke smiled faintly and pressed his whip against their shoulders. "Hold fast. We will encircle them. We will break them."
Then he turned away, riding to rally his horsemen for the southward drive—toward Volantis.
In the shadowed silence of the forests, a different war was fought. Scouts lay hidden, their mounts trained to sink to the ground, as still as stone. Only the torchlight of the enemy betrayed them—an approaching band of rival riders, cautious, searching.
"We've been found," a whisper broke the quiet.
Before the words had faded, bowstrings sang. Arrows hissed like lightning through the dark, felling half the enemy at once. The torches had marked them for death. Among the Dothraki, only the keenest eyes, only the deadliest bowmen, could serve as scouts.
The survivors wheeled their mounts, some fighting, others fleeing. But they were too late. The ambushers struck in pairs—one loosing arrows from afar, the other closing fast with arakh in hand. Within moments, the forest floor was strewn with corpses, none spared to escape.
"Gather what you can," ordered their leader. "No need to hide the dead. No need to cover our trail. We ride for the Vhalanna."
The man's name was Nohat, the same scout who had once slipped through Khal Drogo's camp and returned with priceless news. Young, broad-nosed and strong-browed, with great ears like twin shells, he was marked by sharpness and quiet resolve.
His companions pressed him: "You met Möngke Khal, didn't you? Is he truly as the songs say—mighty and fearless?"
But Nohat gave no answer. He only spurred his horse harder, dark eyes fixed ahead, lost in thought.