Under Khal Drogo, the old warriors had found the feeling of their youth again.
The annihilation of the Three Daughters' army was a victory that would be remembered in Dothraki history for generations.
Out of seventy to eighty thousand riders, they had suffered fewer than a thousand casualties.
The victory swept away the shadow of their previous defeat like a storm wind.
"Khal Drogo, which army do we attack next?"
Rogo, who had once again become a ko, asked excitedly.
According to the usual fate of a Dothraki warrior, he would have had at most three years left before leaving the khalasar to quietly await death.
But now, after witnessing a miracle and receiving the blessing of the Horse God, he felt as though he had been granted a second life.
Every gust of wind on horseback, every swing of his arakh that took a life, every breath and every gallop—it all felt like pure gain.
But Drogo remained cautious.
Ever since receiving the blessing, his mind had become sharper than ever before.
He had gained something beyond instinct, something closer to a heightened battlefield awareness.
He could sense weaknesses, exploit them instantly, and expand his advantage with terrifying efficiency.
He knew morale was high.
But first, he needed to understand the movements of the Free Cities' alliance.
A scout entered his tent and reported.
"Khal Drogo, Qohor's army has slowed its advance. Norvos and Ogo's forces are moving to join Viserys Targaryen' army. Volantis is still advancing at its original pace."
Drogo closed his eyes.
It felt as though he was rising upward, higher and higher, until he could see the entire battlefield from above.
Soon, the whole continent of Essos became a vast chessboard.
On opposite sides sat himself and Viserys.
His goal was to drive the Free Cities' armies back. Viserys' goal was to seize Vaes Dothrak.
This would be a battle that determined the fate of millions.
Their names would be remembered for generations.
But only one of them could win. The bones of the loser would become the throne of the victor.
"Volantis..."
Drogo pictured their dense population and war elephants, then shook his head.
"Qohor..."
The Unsullied, standing like walls of stone, had been a thorn in the Dothraki's side for centuries.
"Viserys..."
The memory of that storm of arrows still haunted him. He still had no answer to it.
Then, suddenly, Drogo saw it.
A weakness.
Supply.
Every army of the Free Cities was tied to long supply lines stretching behind them.
Like leashes.
Like reins.
They bound their movement.
"This time, we will not attack any army head-on," Drogo said. "We will go around them and strike their supply lines."
"This Viserys wants to march on our sacred city? Let's see how his soldiers and horses fight on empty stomachs."
.....
The Pentoshi had been given the easiest task—transporting supplies.
They did not have to face the Dothraki directly, and they considered themselves fortunate.
"I heard the army of the Three Daughters was wiped out."
"Yes, heads piled up across the hills."
"It must be Drogo's revenge. Viserys used the Forest of Heads to show his victory, and now Drogo answers with a hill of heads."
"They say that place is now called Headfall Hill."
The Pentoshi had long lost their warrior spirit.
Since their war with Braavos a century ago, they had learned to avoid conflict at all costs.
They compromised with Braavos in the north.
They paid tribute to the Dothraki in the east.
When Viserys arrived in Gohor, they had tried to bully him, but in recent years, they had been increasingly suppressed by Audro.
This expedition had not been their choice.
Viserys had practically forced them to contribute men and supplies at swordpoint.
To ensure the supply lines held, he had even taken on part of Pentos' debts.
If they delivered the supplies on time, he would repay what they owed.
Of course, whether those governors would ever dare demand repayment from him was another matter.
These men controlled wealth exceeding twice the entire city.
Yet they spent it only on walls, ports, and slaves.
The common people were nothing but tools for exploitation. Because of that, the supply troops were unusually motivated.
"His Majesty Viserys is truly generous," a man in his thirties said.
"I was supposed to spend thirty years repaying Governor Bael. After this trip, my debt will be gone. I might even get married."
"Haha, same here. I'm too old for that, but I can save something for my son."
The supply column moved slowly across the grass sea.
From above, it looked like a fat, sluggish caterpillar.
But the men felt at ease.
Far from Pentos, it was as if they had escaped their debts.
The sun on their shoulders felt like freedom. They all dreamed of a new life after the war.
"Do you hear something?"
The younger man stopped and listened.
The older man beside him narrowed his eyes and scanned the horizon.
Then he saw a figure stumbling forward.
At the same time, a drop of dew slid from a blade of grass. The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Behind that figure, riders appeared.
Dothraki.
Some with gray hair. Some no older than children. They drew their bows and shot the fleeing man down.
The young soldier froze.
Realization hit him. They were under attack.
"The Dothraki!"
"The Dothraki are here!"
The supply column dissolved into chaos.
Debts, money, marriage—none of it mattered anymore. Only survival mattered.
But two legs could never outrun four.
In the blink of an eye, the riders were upon them.
A nearly fifty-year-old Pentoshi man ran as fast as he could.
The last thing he saw—
Was a Dothraki boy, no older than his grandson, raising a gleaming arakh and bringing it down.
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