"This road runs north from Volantis, across the Vhalaena, until it reaches the ruins of Sa-Mael upon the eastern banks of the Rhoyne."
At the red priest's words, Möngke's brow furrowed.
His hand tightened upon the dragonbone hilt. This road does not appear on any map. Has it long been abandoned?
Makkiro met the khal's piercing stare without flinching. "It was once the Valyrian Way between Volantis and Sa-Mael. But a thousand years ago, in the First Turtle War, Sa-Mael was destroyed. Thus the mapmakers ceased to mark it."
Seeing the khal's doubt, the priest pressed on. "After Valyria rose to glory, they moved swiftly to seize the Rhoyne. The river-folk, the Rhoynar, welcomed them at first, granting leave to raise outposts. Merchants, adventurers, exiles came in droves, and towns sprang up along the banks. Volantis was raised as a fortress at the mouth, and the Valyrian Way was laid to bind it with Sa-Mael. Yet across the river, at Velosys, Valyrians slew a great turtle—the River Father, sacred to the Rhoynar. Their fury birthed the First Turtle War. Sa-Mael was sacked and burned, and the Rhoynar water-wizards called down floods that swept away half the Valyrian colony."
Möngke grew grave, weighing the tale. After a long silence he smiled faintly. "If their floods were so mighty, can this road still cross the river?"
Makkiro's calm eyes did not waver. "The bridge was wrought of black volcanic stone, strong as the Black Walls themselves. Though parts are broken, it still stands. Strong enough for your riders to cross."
At that, the khal threw back his head and laughed. "Priest of R'hllor, tell me—did your journey to Volantis bring me other good tidings?"
Makkiro's expression twisted. He bowed low, voice heavy with shame. "Great Khal, forgive my deceits. I thought myself wise, devout, selfless. Yet every step I took was misguided, straying from the Lord of Light's true path. I abandoned my duty to prove courage and loyalty when war is at hand."
Möngke gave no answer. He studied the man in silence.
He knew well the nature of zealots: their loyalty burned bright, but such fire was never to be trusted. They bent eagerly to their priests, to their god, but when faith and power pulled against each other, their zeal could as swiftly turn to rebellion. The more fervent their devotion, the less reliable they became.
Yet if the High Priest of R'hllor, Benerro, favored him, the fire-worshipers might serve as a weapon. A lever against Volantis, a key to open the Black Walls without bloodshed.
The khal's eyes softened. "You have not sworn me fealty, and so I demand no loyalty. Yet I have a task for you."
Makkiro exhaled in relief, bowing low. "By your mercy, command me."
"Return to Volantis," said Möngke with a smile. "Whisper it through the city—that the Dothraki come not to burn, but to free the slaves. When we ride through the gates, every slave shall be a free man."
The red priest blanched, stunned, but at last he nodded. "As the Lord of Light wills. I shall obey."
He thought the young khal more dangerous than any man he had ever served, for his ambition stretched wider than the Dothraki Sea itself.
But Möngke spared him no further thought. He spurred his horse north, a troop at his back, eager to see the truth of this forgotten road.
Summer's fire rode the wind. The stench of rot and mire rose thick as if the earth itself smoldered.
Orvo, the steward, lifted his head, nostrils flaring, and smiled. "By sunset, we will reach the marshes."
Maester Bas Port gave no answer. His gaze remained fixed upon the blooded stallion, scouring for signs of spellcraft. Blood magic was born from sacrifice, but the beast had been scrubbed clean. If not blood sorcery, perhaps divination—but the means of it were many, and the trail too faint to follow.
At last he sighed. "I cannot break it. But all sorcery needs a vessel. Drain this beast of its blood, or send it far from the khalasar."
Orvo knew no more of magic than any man, and so he merely summoned a band of riders. "Take it north to Syhoru," he ordered.
Soon after, Nohat returned, restored in strength. He sought to ride again for the river's source, to search for lost scouts and spy the enemy's trail.
But Orvo laid a hand upon his shoulder. "That must wait. I have need of you elsewhere. Take three thousand riders. Go with all haste to the ruins of Sa-Mael. Sweep it clean before the tribe arrives."
He looked into the youth's eyes—fearless, sharp, yet steady as stone—and thought: Here is one who may rise far.