Drogo soon received word that Rhaella herself was across the field with the Targaryen army.
He even heard that a young man barely fifteen or sixteen years old had been seen aboard one of the nearby warships.
That information eased much of his suspicion.
Convinced that the Targaryen leadership was truly concentrated in the south, Drogo prepared to move toward the Goose Mountains north of Gohor.
Although he failed to bring Ogo with him, he succeeded in persuading Khal Zekko and two weaker khals to follow.
Together, the four khalasars numbered more than sixty thousand riders.
Watching the massive Dothraki host depart under the cover of night, Illyrio quietly let out a long breath.
"My task is complete."
As Drogo's army crossed the Rhoyne again and rode northward, Illyrio returned to the camp.
But with Drogo gone, the camp had already descended into chaos.
Drogo had left behind only a single statement.
"I will attack from somewhere else."
Then he rode away without further explanation.
However, Ogo—who never minded stirring trouble—stepped forward and declared that he understood Drogo's plan.
At first, even some of the Volantenes, including Alios, struggled to understand why Drogo would abandon such favorable terrain.
But when they saw the Targaryen army stationed on the plains, the answer became obvious.
The armor coverage and sheer thickness of their equipment were unlike anything they had ever seen.
Yet Ogo dismissed the concern entirely.
"Khal Ogo," Alios said cautiously, "now that Khal Drogo has left, what about our attack?"
"What is there to fear?" Ogo replied with a laugh.
"I have investigated thoroughly. That Viserys claims to be king of the Andals and the Rhoynar.
You have never seen how foolish some kings of small kingdoms are.
They are stupid enough to die for common people who are no better than livestock. Their brains are worse than a donkey's."
He turned back with a grin.
"In three days. Three days from now I will begin the attack."
"So what if their armor is thick? They cannot catch us."
Far away, the green slopes of the Goose Mountains stretched across the horizon.
The banners of the three-headed dragon rested quietly among the hills like a great dragon with its wings folded.
Viserys had already received messages from both Illyrio and Rhaella.
Drogo's army had left the Golden Plains and was now racing toward the mountains.
After several years of careful exploration, the terrain of the Goose Down Mountains was already thoroughly understood.
There was only one route suitable for large cavalry forces to pass through the mountains toward Gohor.
Viserys divided his thirty-five thousand longbowmen into three groups.
They occupied the surrounding hills like a massive beast with its jaws wide open but its fangs still hidden.
Eight thousand heavy infantry were stationed on the front line.
Further north along the upper Rhoyne, Tormo personally commanded more than forty thousand men, putting pressure on Viserys's forces.
Despite the coming battle, the atmosphere in the Targaryen camp remained relaxed.
An old veteran was telling a group of young recruits about the glory of past battles.
"Back then, His Majesty descended upon them with the fleet like a bolt from the heavens. Those Pentoshi and Braavosi soldiers were cut off from water and supplies..."
"So we just beat them when they were hungry!" one young longbowman interrupted excitedly.
He looked barely grown, with a trace of youthful innocence still on his face.
"When I'm hungry I can barely walk, let alone shoot."
"You little brat, don't interrupt," the veteran scolded.
"Do you think His Majesty's plans are that simple?"
The veteran looked toward Viserys's tent with deep reverence in his eyes.
In his mind, he seemed to see that battle again.
"His Majesty waited five or six days. The Braavosi, the Pentoshi, and the mercenaries all ran out of food and water."
"They could barely even lift their swords."
"But His Majesty still did not attack. He kept waiting."
"Waiting?" one of the recruits asked.
"Yes. Waiting."
"Soon the mercenaries couldn't endure it any longer. They brought gold and begged His Majesty to let them go."
"Those bastards," the same talkative recruit muttered. "They come and go whenever they want. What do they think Gohor is?"
The other soldiers quickly scolded him again for interrupting.
After some urging, the veteran continued.
"His Majesty gave them water and food. But in exchange he ordered them to deal with the Braavosi."
"They had no choice."
"So they captured more than forty thousand Braavosi soldiers."
The talkative recruit was about to ask what happened to the Pentoshi when his companions quickly covered his mouth.
"And then the Pentoshi came begging too," the veteran continued.
"They even offered dragon eggs as tribute."
"But everyone knows that after the Doom of Valyria, only the Targaryens possessed dragon eggs."
"So His Majesty demanded that they eliminate the mercenaries."
"In the end, His Majesty defeated an army of more than a hundred thousand without losing a single soldier."
The veteran exaggerated Viserys's achievements to make the story more dramatic.
But no one cared.
To them, such victories were only natural.
"These Braavosi lost fifty thousand men and still dare to return," someone shouted.
"This time we'll drive them all back again!"
"Yes! Drive them all back!"
The soldiers' morale soared.
Each man gripped his yew longbow with pride, as though he could shoot down the sun itself.
Just as the veteran continued boasting, a sharp military whistle suddenly pierced the air.
It meant the enemy was about to attack.
Across the nearby hills, the longbowmen formed V-shaped formations. For this defense they had brought more than two million arrows.
In all the world, there was no army that could break through such a storm of arrows.
The veteran, as the captain of these recruits, carried a telescope.
At first he expected the approaching army to be Braavosi. But when he looked through the lens, he froze.
The horizon was black with riders.
An endless sea of cavalry.
The thunder of hooves shook the very earth.
"Horse lords?" he whispered.
The veteran was a Rhoynar.
Nothing frightened him more than the collapse of a river dam and the flood that followed.
The advancing Dothraki army reminded him exactly of that.
It was like a tidal wave.
A disaster unleashed upon the world.
Some of the younger soldiers felt their jaws stiffen.
They could hear nothing except their own heavy breathing and the pounding of their hearts.
Can we really stop them?
Some of the Rhoynar and Andal soldiers who had only recently become Targaryen subjects began to feel uneasy.
Younger men might not fully understand the terror of the horse lords. But the older ones remembered all too well.
The Dothraki burned homes.
They seized people.
They slaughtered anyone who resisted.
The Free Cities had never been a united power. They had no real experience fighting nomadic hordes.
To them, the Dothraki were the third great disaster of the world, alongside drought and flood.
Just as the soldiers' resolve began to waver, a deep horn suddenly echoed across the mountains.
The sound rolled like thunder.
It seemed to rise from the very heart of the mountains themselves.
And it drowned out the thunder of the Dothraki hooves.
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