Sunlight poured over the yellow earth, turning the entire land into a sea of gold.
Black-sailed warships were anchored along the banks of the Rhoyne.
Targaryen soldiers, clad in black armor, marched down from the ships in orderly ranks. From afar they looked like a stream of iron flowing across the land.
Dark formations cut across the golden plains like blades capable of breaking through any obstacle.
Every soldier was fully armored.
Part of this came from the great improvements in forging techniques. Another reason was that, aside from the breastplate, most pieces of their armor were made of replaceable plates.
This greatly increased armor production while reducing maintenance costs.
After a battle, soldiers only needed to replace damaged plates to restore their armor to perfect condition.
With traditional plate armor, the entire suit would need replacement, which was far more expensive.
Because of this technological advantage, Targaryen elite soldiers could even wear two or three layers of armor.
The "light infantry" of the Targaryen army would already be considered heavy infantry anywhere else.
Their standard heavy infantry could even form defensive formations capable of stopping war chariots.
Brute force was the guiding principle.
Meanwhile, the Dothraki host crossed the Rhoyne on floating bridges built by the Volantenes.
They surged across the river like a flood bursting through a broken dam.
Their ranks contained not only warriors, but also countless civilians driven forward like cattle.
Among them were Rhoynar and Andals alike.
Drogo rode forward with several bloodriders and elite scouts, quietly approaching the Targaryen camp.
By observing the thickness of the soldiers' armor, he quickly judged that these were indeed the elite forces of House Targaryen.
"Their armor is very thick," Kovarro muttered, running a hand along his curved blade. "I wonder if our arakhs can even cut through it."
The Dothraki often referred to the peoples of the Free Cities as those who "wear iron clothes and live in stone tents."
Those two things had always caused them considerable trouble.
Although they often boasted about disdaining armor, the sight of soldiers wrapped head to toe in steel still made their scalps prickle.
"Khal," Haggo said quietly beside him, "this proves Viserys truly placed all his elite warriors here. Perhaps we should follow the fat merchant's advice and take the army north."
Drogo trusted his bloodriders deeply.
Yet something about the situation still felt wrong.
"I need to see their king first," Drogo said. "If their king is here, then we go north."
"Understood," Haggo replied. "You should return first. We will remain here to observe."
Drogo nodded and pulled his reins, riding back toward the camp.
His khalasar was the largest among the Dothraki. That was because he possessed both overwhelming strength and flexible thinking.
Unlike many other horse lords, Drogo did not insist on charging enemies head-on.
If he could achieve victory at minimal cost, he did not mind using less honorable methods.
In another time, he had already proven that.
When he realized that Viserys stood in the way of his future son inheriting the Iron Throne, he deliberately acted as though he would not fulfill his promises.
The pressure drove Viserys, who was already on the verge of collapse, into madness.
Eventually Viserys drew his sword beneath the sacred mountain, committing a grave offense.
Drogo then had him killed with molten gold, removing the final obstacle to his son's claim.
Drogo was a khal who possessed both terrifying strength and a willingness to use cunning.
Leaving Kovarro behind to observe the Targaryen forces, Drogo returned to the main camp with Haggo.
In a Dothraki army, horses outnumbered men.
As soon as one approached the camp, the air filled with the heavy smell of horse manure.
At the outer edges of the camp were civilians captured by Drogo's riders.
Their limbs were swollen, their faces numb with exhaustion.
Yet when they saw Drogo approaching, the terror of death almost spilled from their eyes.
Suddenly a white-feathered arrow whistled through the air.
It struck a civilian squarely in the chest.
The white fletching trembled where it protruded from his body.
The surrounding prisoners recoiled in horror, desperately moving away from the dying man.
Fear spread through the camp like an explosion.
The Rhoynar prisoner struggled briefly before falling still.
Drogo turned his head.
It was Ogo.
He was amusing himself by shooting the prisoners.
"Ha! Volantene arrows really are excellent," Ogo laughed, showing off the bow provided by Volantis to his bloodriders.
One of them offered a few flattering words before cautiously reminding him,
"Khal Ogo... that's Drogo."
"I see him," Ogo muttered irritably.
Then he forced a smile and called out, "Khal Drogo, you've been out riding?"
Normally Drogo would have ignored him. But now he had a new plan in mind.
He guided his horse toward Ogo.
Ogo tried to remain aloof, but he lasted less than half a second before riding forward to meet him.
"Ogo," Drogo said calmly, "in all of the Dothraki lands, only your khalasar and mine are truly powerful. I have a plan. I wonder if you might be interested."
Hearing Drogo speak personally left Ogo stunned.
"My blade rests," Ogo replied formally, "awaiting the wind that carries your words."
Drogo smiled, satisfied with his response. "I do not intend to attack Gohor from here. I want to attack from the north."
"The north?" Ogo frowned. "But the north is full of mountains. That is not good terrain for our warriors."
Drogo patiently described what he had just observed.
"The armor of those soldiers is extremely thick. That means this is the direction Viserys expects us to attack."
"If our warriors suffer heavy losses here, do you believe the Volantenes will still honor their promise and give us our share of the spoils?"
Ogo fell silent, thinking.
"So you want to strike from behind?" he asked.
Drogo shook his head. "It is not a rear attack. They have defenses in the north as well."
But Ogo looked at him with a faint sneer. "The Dothraki are proud people. I will break through their defenses from the front."
"If you wish to go north, then I wish you success."
Drogo stared at him for a moment, then let out a cold laugh and rode back toward the main camp.
He understood perfectly well.
Ogo was not a fool.
If Drogo left the southern battlefield, Ogo's khalasar would become the strongest force there.
Whether to attack or withdraw would be entirely his decision.
If he followed Drogo north, that advantage would disappear.
The one hundred thousand Dothraki riders might look terrifying from the outside.
But inside, their unity was fragile.
They had no ability to endure defeat.
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