At the confluence of the Rhoyne and the Vhalaena Rivers.
Since the First Turtle War, when the Rhoynar water-wizards called down floods to scour away the Valyrian colonies, this land had lain drowned beneath marsh and mire.
Thick vines, long steeped in stagnant pools, draped with fungi like hanging curtains. Gray-green muck bubbled here and there, the stench of rotting leaves rising with each burst. All around, unseen perils lurked, waiting to swallow the careless.
Strange flowers and serpents prowled the swamps, yet there was no true breath of life—only decay.
A band of Dothraki riders pressed forward along the causeways, thin earthen ridges that wound between the bogs. They kept distance from one another, each scouting for firmer ground.
At the fore rode Nohat, face composed, his movements calm. He bore a heavy branch for a staff, probing the earth before each step. He chose the safer ground—wooded knolls where trees grew, steering wide of dead black flats and carpets of green moss that masked treacherous sinkholes.
They went slow, halting often. Fortune favored them, for no man was lost. The riders, watching Nohat's sure hand, began to look on the young warrior with new respect.
"Here!" one called. "A road! Hoofprints and footprints—a host has passed this way."
At once the khalasar halted. Blades hissed from sheaths, eyes scanning the shadowed thickets.
Before setting out, Maester Bas Port had warned them of the river-robbers. These outlaws haunted the ruins, lying in wait for merchant boats.
Now, mist boiled off the marshes, cloaking the distant wreck of Sa-Mael.
Nohat said nothing. His eyes sought the sun through the fog, measuring its place, gauging the light. Bandits were common upriver at the Dagger Lake, rare this far south. Yet the fresh trail troubled him—Sa-Mael might not be as empty as he had hoped.
Calm, deliberate, he signaled caution, and led them round a patch of black mire. But when he stooped to study the tracks again, his breath caught. The imprints were vast—giant's steps.
And then, from the ruin's shadow, came the clear ring of hooves.
Ding-dang, ding-dang.
Bells.
The fog curled like gauze around rotting vines, parting to reveal a giant astride a warhorse. Bells swung from the braids in his long hair, jangling loud, proclaiming his presence, striking fear into foes.
When the Dothraki saw his proud, fierce face, they lowered their weapons and bowed as one.
A wind rose, and the mists rolled again like a storm tide.
Far upriver, the source of the Vhalaena roared, white waters bursting like unchained stallions. A troop of strange riders appeared, hesitated, then scattered into the wilds. Scouts at the river's head saw all, but neither side struck—the last uneasy peace before storm and slaughter.
The sun dipped low. Night's veil spread across the sky, crimson rays bleeding into the horizon.
The earth shook. Horses thundered. From the steppe poured the khalasar—an endless tide of riders, black waves rolling to drown the land. Hooves pounded, manes streamed, the clamor of whinnies and war-cries split the sky.
At their head, astride a great stallion, rode Khal Drogo.
His long black braid hung to his waist, his beard bound with silver rings, and his braids heavy with bells of gold and bronze that clashed with every stride. The sunset blazed across his bronze face, casting his shadow long and terrible.
He reined in, eyes like a predator's, voice ringing iron-strong as he barked:
"Kovarro! Call Pono and Jaqo to me."
Kovarro, cold-eyed and cruel, bowed low. Small but deadly quick, he was reckoned the most ruthless of Drogo's bloodriders. Yet his loyalty was iron. He wheeled away, swift as an arrow.
Soon he returned with Pono and Jaqo—both kos in their own right, chiefs of their smaller khalasars, Drogo's lieutenants and commanders. With them came a pale eunuch, sent from Vaes Dothrak by the dosh khaleen.
Drogo faced them with the same hard strength he showed all men.
"My scouts tell me the so-called prophesied khal flees south, abandoning his wagons and the weak. Let him run. I will hound him. Pono, Jaqo—take ten thousand from my riders. Seize their women and children for slaves. As for me, I ride with my bloodriders to the south. I will slay this 'legendary khal,' bear his head to Vaes Dothrak, and lay it before the Mother of Mountains. I, Drogo son of Bharbo, swear it—to the Mother, to the stars above. I shall be the greatest khal who ever lived, and do what none before me has dared."
At once the eunuch stepped forth, voice shrill with warning:
"Khal Drogo, those tracks are lies, snares laid by the prophesied khal. Your scouts are bewitched! The fire-stallion shows me he rides north."
The bloodrider's hand leapt to his arakh, fury in his eyes. "Lying eunuch! It was you who told the khal to ride southwest, and now you spew more poison!"
But Drogo lifted his hand, halting the strike. His gaze burned. He had scented prey, and nothing would turn him from the chase.
The dosh khaleen might wield wisdom and sacred power, but a true khal placed his trust in his riders.