Chapter 216 War Preparations
Near the end of the month, Ian received the first written report from Celia. Although he already knew most of the situation through the cat's eyes, it was a process he refused to abandon.
The initial tally showed that Rohr and the others had registered 117,000 slaves along the Worm River. This number did not include those who had yet to be captured, nor the escaped slaves Yunkai was due to return.
The food they had seized was also consolidated, but the total amount was not large—far less, in fact, than the reserves within Astapor itself. Under Ian's new slave policy, the current supply would be enough to feed the more than 120,000 slaves on both sides of the river for less than half a year.
This was likely the reason for Slaver's Bay's perpetually small population. The nobles never stored enough food to see their slaves through the winter. When winter harvests dropped sharply—and Slaver's Bay was fortunate enough to have a winter harvest at all; in the north, not a single grain could be grown—the majority of the slaves would simply starve to death. When the long summer returned, the masters would only need to purchase new slaves from the Dothraki or other traders to repopulate the lands along the Worm River, saving them the trouble of managing such tedious affairs.
But for Ian, who was expanding his army on a large scale and might soon go to war, Astapor's food reserves were dangerously insufficient.
The wheat already sown on both sides of the Worm River would be ready for harvest in three months at the earliest. The fields newly sown by Celia after clearing other crops would mature in five. To solve the looming shortfall, a large-scale food import plan became a priority for Ian.
The largest agricultural producer west of Essos was undoubtedly Volantis. With vast farmlands and more than ten million serfs in the Rhoyne and Seruh river basins, it was the greatest food exporter in the known world.
Unfortunately, given the distance, importing food from Volantis by land was impossible. Shipping by sea was barely feasible, but as vessels could not pass through the Smoking Sea, a grain ship would have to circumnavigate the entire ancient Valyrian Peninsula. The freight cost for a single trip would be five to ten times the value of the food itself.
Therefore, Ian could only turn his attention closer, to the Skahazadhan River basin. The lands to its west were controlled by Meereen, and those to its east by the Lhazareen. Meereen was Astapor's traditional source of imported food. Although the land in the Skahazadhan basin was not much more fertile than that of the Worm River, its population was far greater, and thus more of the land had been developed for cultivation.
After careful consideration, Ian decided to increase the scale of food imports from Meereen. Firstly, it was one of the few choices he had. Secondly, deepening their trade ties would help lull Meereen into a false sense of security. As for whether Meereen would seize the opportunity to raise prices, Ian didn't care. Every penny he spent there would be repaid with interest, sooner or later.
---
Meanwhile, in Astapor, though the officers of his new army were still in training, the first round of slave selection for the Gith Legion had concluded.
The recruits were all chosen from the slaves along the Worm River. If they could pass the initial training period, they would officially obtain the rank of third-class slave. Those who were eliminated were simply returned to their former labor, not killed in accordance with Astapori tradition. According to Rohr, this mercy alone had earned the slaves' gratitude.
Soon, the first cohort of five thousand men marched into the former Unsullied training grounds in Astapor. The existing camp was insufficient to accommodate any more troops, so Ian had to cap the first intake at five thousand. To ensure the smooth progress of his military expansion, he ordered the construction of three large military camps outside the city, though it would be some time before they were ready.
To make room, Ian withdrew two thousand Unsullied from the barracks and stationed them in his three pyramids. The good news was that while clearing space for the new recruits, he was surprised to find that Astapor still held a large number of partially-trained Unsullied who had completed three years of the regimen. Their number totaled six thousand. This was why the Good Masters had been able to promise him another two thousand Unsullied if he had been willing to wait a year.
By the exacting standards of the Unsullied, at least two thousand of these six thousand would have been culled. But to Ian, even those who would have been eliminated to meet a quota were already of elite caliber. He had no intention of culling any more of them, nor did he require them to earn the spiked cap of the Unsullied.
These men had not undergone the complete training, and their loyalty might not be as absolute as that of the fully-fledged Unsullied. Therefore, after selecting all three thousand who were over the age of sixteen, Ian did not integrate them into his original Unsullied forces. Instead, he organized them into the First Gith Legion.
As for the remaining three thousand partially-trained boys who were not yet of age, Ian decided to let them continue their training until they were old enough.
---
After dealing with the military expansion, Ian turned his attention to refining his five-tiered slavery system.
Celia had previously shown him, via the orange cat, two different proposals for the promotion mechanism, but Ian was not particularly satisfied with either.
One issue was the efficiency of promotion. If it was too slow, it would fail to quickly ignite the slaves' motivation. Ian did not know what would happen when the Long Night fell, so he needed a method that could produce swift, dramatic results. However, an excessively high rate of promotion would devalue the ranks themselves. The value of a rank lay not just in its privileges, but in the comparison to those below. Only with enough people beneath them would slaves gain a sufficient sense of superiority from their status.
In less than a month since the system's launch, five thousand people had already obtained the status of third-class slave. Once this first batch of soldiers completed their initial training next month, the number would approach ten thousand. This made Ian feel fortunate. If not for the false accusations of the former Good Masters, which had allowed him to enslave more than forty thousand free folk from the Worm River, the rank of third-class slave might have seemed far less valuable.
The temporary solution Ian devised was to maintain a high rate of promotion while constantly replenishing the lowest rungs of the slave population. After all, according to the Lord of the Lhazareen, there was a population of more than four million in Lhazar, north of Slaver's Bay. Once Ian conquered the region, he could easily acquire a vast number of low-level slaves.
Compared to the first point, the second gave Ian a much greater headache. He found that no matter how he designed the mechanism, he could not guarantee its fairness.
The mechanism itself was one thing, but the final inspection of labor and the arrangement of promotions had to be carried out by people. And people, as was well known, were the most unreliable element. Even in a modern era of advanced information, anti-corruption was a colossal problem. What hope was there in this age, when a ruler's laws barely reached the countryside?
But the problem had to be solved. Injustice was a fatal flaw.
Ian's previous arrangements had plunged the slaves into a world of despair. This promotion mechanism was the only hope he had left them, and it was the key to ensuring they would work tirelessly for him. If the system could not guarantee fairness, if the officials and high-ranking slaves were allowed to collude and manipulate it, the low-level slaves would become utterly hopeless. And that despair would make them more dangerous than ever before.
A slave would not be jealous of his master, but he would burn with jealousy for another slave who was unfairly promoted above him.
Solving the problem of fairness in promotion had become Ian's highest priority.
Chapter 217 The fifth month-end settlement
Sitting alone in the study at the apex of the great pyramid, Ian waited late into the night.
Today was the settlement day for the sixth month. Since another player had been eliminated this month, it would likely be his last chance to obtain rewards from the standings—unless, by some miracle, the player targeted this month could fight off the Faceless Men, or was powerful enough to force them to take more than a month to prepare for the assassination.
Ian held out little hope for the latter.
In truth, Ian knew very little about the Faceless Men, and he had no idea where a man like Jaqen H'ghar stood within their hierarchy. But if Jaqen's abilities were the standard, then even Ian himself was not confident he could survive for a month if they were hunting him.
At the stroke of midnight, the system delivered its report.
[Congratulations to the player for ranking first on the points list for the June settlement day.]
[Players receive the following rewards: 50 points, 5888 gold dragons, and 1 S-level NPC of their choice (from the current region).]
Looking at the report, Ian felt a strange pang of emotion, a fleeting regret that he had killed so many other players. If he hadn't, he might have been able to collect these rewards for a few more months.
The thought, however, was gone as quickly as it came. He knew perfectly well that the players he had killed were stepping stones, indispensable to his current position.
After two monthly settlements and four [Simple] optional tasks over the past two months, Ian's status was as follows:
[*Ian*
Strength: 35
Agility: 31
Mental Strength: 30
*Skills:* Basic Etiquette, Basic Common Tongue, Basic High Valyrian, Sword Mastery, Advanced Equestrian, Intermediate Lancer, Advanced Skinchanger, Basic Greenseer
*Unspent Points:*
Attribute Points: 4
Skill Points: 2
*Currency:*
Points: 349
*Items:*
Basic Skill Scroll of Choice x2
Skill Upgrade Scroll x2]
As before, Ian allocated all four free attribute points to his mental strength, raising it to 34.
Next, he examined the S-rank card he had been awarded this month. For the man he was now, a single S-level NPC could no longer play a decisive role, so he approached the choice with a much calmer mind.
After opening the selection, Ian once again saw his old acquaintances: the [Qohorik Black Goat Cavalry] and the [Unsullied Spear Master], cards that had appeared countless times before.
Ignoring them, he looked at the third card.
[*Winter Wolf Warrior*
Strength: 33-38
Agility: 28-34
Mental Strength: 0-6
*Skills:* Advanced Battle Axe, Advanced Mace
*Equipment:* Two-handed battle axe, hardened leather armor]
"What a massive stretch," Ian complained aloud. "Is the system that short on manpower?"
What in the Seven Hells was a Winter Wolf Warrior? They were the personal guard of Roderick Dustin, the Earl of Barrowton, during the Dance of the Dragons. That entire army had marched south and died in battle; not a single one had ever returned to the North.
Yes, he had drawn Crow's Teeth Guards and Warrior's Sons before, and the auxiliary AI had explained that the organizers trained elite soldiers from various periods in history. But the card was clearly marked in the area! Drawing a Crow's Teeth Guard or a Warrior's Son while in Westeros was understandable, but drawing a Winter Wolf in Astapor?
Was the system that lazy?
If there were truly no suitable NPCs in Essos, they could have used the shadowbinders of Asshai or the warlocks of Qarth to fill the slot. If not them, then the giants from north of the Wall would have been a better fit. But to send such a useless card all this way?
With the new card being such rubbish, Ian had no choice but to finally select the [Qohorik Black Goat Cavalry] that so persistently followed him. He supposed he might as well put the option out of its misery and give the card what it wanted.
[*Qohorik Black Goat Rider*
Strength: 38
Agility: 32
Mental Strength: 4
*Skills:* Advanced Scimitar, Advanced Hammer, Advanced Riding, Intermediate Lance]
"His stats are quite good. Hard to believe no one has chosen him," Ian mused, surprised. He had assumed that the card that kept appearing was likely some low-tier garbage. He hadn't expected the rider to be so formidable in his class.
After finishing the sixth-month settlement, Ian had intended to go back to his room and sleep, but his mind was clear and alert. He felt no trace of drowsiness.
Without thinking, he wandered up to the rooftop garden of the pyramid.
It was the end of the month, and only a sliver of a waning moon hung in the sky, allowing the stars to burn with a brilliance they lacked under a full moon. Looking down at the silent city below, a profound sense of loneliness washed over him.
Celia had been gone for some time, and Daenerys was still too young. As for the temple priestesses sent from the Temple of the Graces, Ian had no desire to touch them.
"A bad habit," Ian whispered to himself.
Suddenly, a black shadow streaked across his vision, followed by a low draconic rumble. He turned to see Ion landing in the middle of the garden, a dead goat clutched in its jaws—the spoils of its nightly hunt.
Ian approached the feasting dragon and gently stroked its head. The beast did not resist, having grown used to his touch. When Ian had first seized control of the black dragon's body, the creature—which he'd named Ion—had resisted fiercely. It had tried to appeal to its 'mother,' Daenerys, but when it found that its mother had already submitted to this new enemy, and that this same enemy now controlled its food supply, the dragon had finally abandoned its resistance and begun to accept Ian's presence.
Still, Ian didn't know how long this fragile peace could last. Ion's wingspan had already reached more than two meters, and the heat radiating from its scales had become much more pronounced. Ian estimated that in another half a year of growth, he might no longer be able to approach it so casually.
The need to hatch a second dragon had become a priority on his agenda.
He had already conducted one experiment, using the corpse of Astapor's former Good Master, Kraznyz mo Nakloz, but the dragon egg had shown no reaction whatsoever.
Next, Ian had turned his attention to the Green Grace of Astapor's Temple of the Graces. Given her position, her blood ought to possess a power not much weaker than that of Mirri Maz Duur.
Unfortunately, the woman was infuriatingly cooperative.
First, she had readily agreed when Ian proposed using the Temple's pyramid to entertain his Unsullied officers. Then, when Ian had Bronn and the others stage a drunken riot within the temple, she had simply sent a group of Red Graces to calm their moods. After that, the Temple had dispatched a large number of priestesses to the Worm River to help Celia promote the new fifth-class slavery system, proclaiming it a blessing from the harpy.
All of this made it impossible for Ian to find a pretext to burn her. It seemed a pity to destroy such a useful, self-aware tool.
Besides, burning her was no guarantee of success. If she could hatch a dragon, then couldn't the Green Graces of Yunkai and Meereen do the same? The Green Grace of Meereen, especially, was a treacherous old woman. In the original story, she had taken advantage of Daenerys's trust to play all sorts of games. She was already on Ian's must-kill list anyway; using her for the dragon-hatching experiment would be perfect. But burning her would have to wait until after he conquered Meereen.
The person Ian truly wanted to use to hatch the second dragon was Mirri Maz Duur. She was the standard, proven sacrifice for obtaining a dragon, and she was also the primary objective of his planned conquest of Lhazar.
Chapter 218 Miracle
More than two thousand slaves gathered in confusion by the sea. According to their new master's instructions, they were to witness a miracle here today.
These slaves had been purchased by Celia, acquired from the markets of Meereen and from several Dothraki khals passing through the city. All of them were young men, captured by their conquerors after a defeat and sold south into slavery.
The beach was now crowded with people. Although this 'miracle' was intended for the Dothraki, many of Astapor's nobility had come to watch the spectacle. Even Fermor, the new Lord of Astapor, was present, along with several of his senior Unsullied instructors.
Almost everyone was mystified by the strange cauldron on the beach, with pipes extending from its pointed lid to a connected basin.
"Why do you think the Queen of Westeros bought these centaurs?" Lysix, an Unsullied instructor who had come to observe, whispered to Fermor. "These slaves are a troublesome lot."
"It would be one thing if they were children or women. Children, after all, can be trained and broken, and they soon become no different from slaves of other peoples. As for women, they can be subjugated regardless of their race."
"But the ones they bought are all men in their prime. These fools know neither farm work nor craftsmanship. You could beat them to death, and they still wouldn't learn to imitate the work of others. And while they are fierce fighters, they are unsuited for the fighting pits. Sending them into the arena is a losing venture."
"Moreover," another Unsullied instructor added, "the price for these Dothraki is higher than for any other slaves. The khals claim their people are nobler than any other on earth, so they always demand an absurdly high price. Whenever we bought them in the past, we gritted our teeth and paid, treating it as a protection fee owed to the Dothraki."
"Fortunately, the Dothraki grow their hordes primarily by conquering one another. If the captives they take exceed the carrying capacity of their khalasar, they rarely sell their defeated kinsmen as slaves. Otherwise, any unfortunate slave merchant they did sell to would go bankrupt."
"And them." The instructor glanced at Daenerys, Ian, and the others on the beach, a disdainful smile on his face. "They were actually willing to spend good coin on these men. I imagine every merchant in Slaver's Bay must have taken the opportunity to empty their stock of centaur slaves onto them."
"Can you not see?" Lord Fermor interrupted his two men. "That man from Westeros intends to form a cavalry from them. The Dothraki are skilled with the bow and horse from birth—they are the perfect stock for slave cavalry. Their silver-haired queen already possesses the finest infantry in the world; imagine if she adds a cavalry to that."
"Form a cavalry from Dothraki?" Lysix was the first to laugh. "If it were truly so easy, the centaur slaves would have been sold to the far corners of the world long ago. Why would they end up in our hands?"
"Yes, my lord," the other instructor agreed. "The Dothraki have a peculiar custom. Those who are defeated and captured lose the right to ride. They will never touch a horse again, unless their conqueror is willing to accept them into his own tribe and permit them to ride once more to wash away their shame. They believe to do otherwise is to be cursed, unable to enter the Night Lands after death."
"And these men," he said, pointing to the slaves baking under the sun on the beach, "have clearly not been accepted by their conquering khal. They will not even touch a horse. How does that silver-haired queen intend to turn them into cavalry?"
"He has dragons." Though his subordinates were discussing Daenerys, Fermor's gaze was fixed solely on Ian.
"A baby dragon," Lysix sneered. "If you put it in a cage with my hounds, I wager my dogs could kill the thing in less than ten minutes. It can hardly force the Dothraki to break their vows."
"Do you know why I brought you here?" Fermor asked suddenly.
Lysix's smile vanished when he heard Fermor's serious tone. "Surely not just to watch them make fools of themselves."
"I cannot guess," the other instructor said, shaking his head.
"Then do you know how the red-robed woman at the queen's side persuaded me?" Fermor asked, posing another question instead of answering.
Lysix and the other man exchanged a look. The main reason they had been persuaded by Celia—apart from the promise of becoming the heads of their own families—was that their commander, Fermor, had been convinced first. They didn't know the exact details of his persuasion, but from what they knew of the man, the title of Lord of Astapor was not the extent of Fermor's ambitions.
"She asked me if I was content," Fermor began.
"Content?" Lysix could not grasp what he was talking about.
"She asked me," Fermor's voice was low now, far from the booming command he used when training the Unsullied, as if he were suppressing some violent emotion. "'Are you content to be a slave trader? To hide your entire life in a city of less than a hundred thousand souls, wielding your whip only to dominate slaves? To don Ghiscari golden armor and ride a golden chariot to the arena only on feast days, pretending to be a Ghiscari general, showing off before commoners while leaving all true battle to your slaves?'"
"'Are you content?' she asked me again."
"'No!' I answered immediately. 'I am not.' I did not lie to her. I didn't know her purpose then, but on this, I could not lie. I could not lie to myself."
"Everyone else can be satisfied with the state of Slaver's Bay. Every Good Master, every Wise Master, every Great Master. Every passing Dothraki khal and every sea captain from across the waters. They are all satisfied with the way things are!"
"But you and I cannot be! We are instructors of the Unsullied! Since we were boys, we have studied the Ghiscari military texts that the rest of Astapor has long abandoned. No one reads them but us. We learn how to train soldiers, how to command, how to form our lines. We were raised to be generals of the ancient Ghiscari Empire! We can forge the greatest infantry in the world!"
"But we are nothing more than slave traders!" Fermor's words became a roar. "How could I ever be content with that?"
"You believe the silver-haired queen can change all this?" Lysix asked, a look of sudden realization on his face.
"I believe her Hand of the Queen, Lord Ian, can change everything. He can help us revive our empire." A fanatical admiration crept into Fermor's tone. "He can make us into the men we were meant to be."
"Lord Ian? You think so highly of him? He looks to be less than twenty."
"He is a genius. In this past month, I have discussed tactics with him six times. Every time, he has utterly defeated me. Did you see him wearing that tokar? He is Grazdan the Great reborn. He is the salvation sent to the Ghiscari by the Harpy. He is the miracle itself."
Chapter 219 Dracarys
"But even so," Lysix said, not knowing Ian well enough to accept Feimol's extraordinary claims at face value, "he is an Andal. All of his talents and abilities will be used to fight for the Iron Throne in Westeros, not to revive our Ghiscari Empire. Or did he promise you something?"
Feimol leaned in and whispered a few words into Lysix's ear.
"Truly?" Lysix's eyes widened. "Is this credible? How can you guarantee he doesn't intend to swindle us out of our army and then depart?"
"I wasn't sure at first—I was merely making a wager. But now, I am certain," Feimol said with a smile. "Do you know what this means? Earl Darry ordered the crops on the east bank of the Worm River—crops that were nearly mature—to be torn out. He abandoned them, even on land ill-suited for it, and planted wheat everywhere."
"A strange decision," Lysix frowned, but then the implication struck him. "No matter how much food he hoards in Slaver's Bay, he cannot bring it back to Westeros. Unless… he intends to make war on Meereen! Meereen is our largest supplier of food, and its walls are tall and strong. To conquer it without losing that supply, he would have to be self-sufficient."
Feimol smiled. "You see? The miracle is about to begin." He changed the subject, pointing to a large cauldron set up on the beach.
By now, Ian had brought his black dragon to the strange contraption. Four Dothraki horses were tied to a trough beside the cauldron.
"Are you the ones chosen to speak for the others?" Ian asked, looking at the twenty Dothraki standing before him.
The young translator, Missandei, rendered his words into the Dothraki tongue.
"Yes, Lord," the bloodrider Qhogo replied. He was one of the twenty representatives. Ian had placed him among the Dothraki slaves beforehand, ordering his own guards to deliberately create opportunities for Qhogo to fight other Dothraki. After three such bouts, the bloodrider had become the most respected man among them.
With his enthusiastic cooperation, Ian could now perform his miracle.
"Very good," Ian nodded. "Do you see the basins over there? The twenty of you will take them, go to the shore to fill them with the poison water, and pour it into that cauldron."
"It is impossible to drink the poison water, Lord," one of the Dothraki representatives said quickly after hearing Missandei's translation. "It cannot be drunk, even if boiled!"
"The poison water is called so because horses will not drink it, and neither will men," Qhogo declared, delivering his line perfectly. "The poison water is an unclean thing. I would rather die than touch it!"
"The poison water is anathema. It is known," the other representatives agreed, seeing their leader had spoken.
News that Ian wanted the Dothraki to fetch the poison water quickly spread through the slaves standing behind the representatives, and a restless murmur rippled through the crowd. If not for the forest of Unsullied spears surrounding them, they might have rioted at any moment.
"The poison water is an unclean thing. Of course, I know this," Ian acknowledged, nodding.
When Missandei translated his words loudly, the Dothraki slaves grew even more agitated.
"But today, I have brought you here so that you may witness a miracle with your own eyes," Ian paused, then raised his voice. "I will purify the poison water!"
"What is the meaning of this—to purify the poison water?" Qhogo asked, playing his part.
"I will make the horses drink it."
"Impossible! You can force a man, but you cannot force a horse! You could threaten them with all manner of pain, you could press their heads into the poison water, and still they would not drink!" Qhogo continued his performance, punctuating his words with theatrical gestures.
"Yes! It is known that horses do not drink the poison water!"
"It is known!" the Dothraki shouted, their voices a chaotic roar.
"You do not believe me," Ian laughed. "Yes, of course you don't. Because you are cowards! Losers! You are the filth that is no longer worthy to even touch a horse!"
The Dothraki slaves were instantly enraged, but they could not retaliate, for everything Ian said was true. For the Dothraki, the horse was the soul, it was life, it was everything. In their customs, all a Khal possessed—even his wives—could be shared with his bloodriders. Only his horse belonged to him alone. To be deprived of the right to ride was a pain that cut to the soul, a shame they could not bear to face.
And now, Ian had just peeled that shame away, leaving the wound raw.
"You can kill me, but you cannot humiliate me!" Qhogo roared, taking a step forward, only to be forced back by the spears of the four Unsullied behind Ian.
"I have no desire to kill a useless man who cannot ride," Ian said, glancing at Qhogo. He was glad the man was a system NPC; he never would have found a real Dothraki willing to cooperate in such a humiliating charade. "But I can give you back the power to ride a horse!"
"To ride would bring a curse," Qhogo said, seeming to hesitate, but he still spoke through gritted teeth. "It would bar our way to the kingdom of the night."
"I told you, I will purify the poison water and let the horses drink. And I can purify the curse upon you, and let you regain the right to ride!" Ian looked directly at Qhogo. "Are you willing to gamble on this one chance? You will not get a second."
"If I can ride again, I will risk everything!" Qhogo yelled, turning to the representatives behind him. He then strode forward, picked up a wooden basin, and began to walk towards the sea.
Under his leadership, the other Dothraki began to move, one after another. In the end, all twenty representatives took up the task, fetching water from the shore and filling the great pot beside Ian.
When they were done, they all looked to Ian. He immediately ordered his men to cover the cauldron with its lid.
"Now," Ian said, opening his arms toward the cauldron, "let the holy fire purify all curses! Dracarys!"
At Ian's command, the black dragon Ion unleashed a torrent of flame upon the firewood stacked at the bottom of the pot, and it immediately burst into a raging bonfire.
"What the east fears, the west embraces!" Ian chanted loudly. "Holy fire, burn away the curse! Purify the poison water!" He waited as time passed.
Finally, the seawater in the pot began to boil. The evaporated steam entered a long copper pipe connected to the lid, where it condensed back into water and flowed into the trough nearby. Because Celia had designed the copper pipe to be long enough, the distilled water flowing into the trough had mostly cooled.
Gradually, the cauldron was nearly empty, while the trough was half full.
"Now, four of you will choose four horses and lead them to the trough to drink," Ian then ordered.
"Is this the poison water?" Qhogo asked, genuinely confused now.
"You saw it with your own eyes," Ian smiled. "The power of the holy fire made the poison water ascend, and in doing so, purified it."
The Dothraki representatives looked at the nearly empty cauldron, then at the copper pipe from which fresh water had been flowing. They nodded to each other, accepting this explanation.
"So?" Ian looked at them and made an inviting gesture.
"Then let me try!" Qhogo said, wasting no more words. He led a brown horse directly to the water trough.
Every Dothraki watched the scene with bated breath.
The horse lowered its mouth into the trough and began to drink eagerly.
Qhogo staggered back two steps in disbelief. Then he rushed to the trough, plunged his own head in, and took a drink.
"It is not poison!" he shouted with exhilaration. "The poison water has been purified! The curse has been purified!"
Still shouting, Qhogo vaulted onto the back of the warhorse he held. He spurred it into a gallop, charging toward the Dothraki slaves who watched from a distance. He rode through their ranks, then wheeled his horse around and raced back to Ian.
Reaching Ian's side, Qhogo swung himself from the saddle and dropped to one knee on the ground. "Blood of my blood, you have purified my curse. You have given me the gift of riding once more. I will fight for you until I die!"
A moment of silence, and then a roar of cheers erupted from the Dothraki behind him.
"A miracle! A miracle!"
Chapter 220 Qhogo Khal
"I accept your allegiance and grant you freedom, Qhogo," Ian said, laying his sword upon the Dothraki's shoulder. "At the same time, I grant you the authority to choose men from among my slaves to form your own khas—your bloodriders. They will fight under my banner and wash away the shame of being vanquished in the blood of their enemies."
"I will not fail you," Qhogo vowed. He rose and walked toward the other Dothraki slaves standing aside.
"Qhogo Khal!" a sharp-eyed young rider shouted, raising his arms in the air.
Immediately, the other Dothraki excitedly took up the cry, chanting Qhogo's name.
"Ian Darry!" Qhogo then roared, turning back to face him. "The Purifier!"
The riders responded as one, their voices now chanting Ian's name. The sound grew louder and louder until Ian held up a hand, and the boiling energy on the beach gradually subsided.
"Now," Ian called out, "is there anyone else who wishes to be purified of the curse? Drink the purified water, and you will regain the strength to ride!"
"I do!"
"I will!"
The Dothraki slaves scrambled toward the trough filled with the water, but they were quickly held back by a line of Unsullied spears.
"I understand your eagerness to wash away your shame, but unfortunately, this water is only enough for three hundred men to drink," Ian said with an air of regret.
"You can give us more," one of the Dothraki in the front row said quickly.
"Yes, I can," Ian agreed, shaking his head. "But purifying the poisoned water consumes my strength. You have not yet proven yourselves to me. Why should I help you?"
"We will fight for you, as Khal Qhogo does!"
"My enemies are powerful. They are numerous, and they wear clothes made of iron. I do not believe you have the means to fight them."
"Only cowards wear clothes of iron!" a Dothraki warrior immediately retorted.
"Yes, only cowards!" others shouted in agreement.
It was a Dothraki custom to despise armor. Ian believed this mentality stemmed from two primary causes.
First, the Dothraki had no craftsmen and could not produce armor themselves. When the original Dothraki first encountered enemies in heavy plate, they were frightened. To boost morale, the khals of that time declared that their enemies were cowards. They preached that no matter how strong a man's defense, a person without courage was vulnerable before a brave, screaming warrior.
Second, the khals' strategy worked. With their courage and superior cavalry, they truly did defeat enemies clad in "iron clothes." And because the military technology of Essos had remained largely stagnant for centuries, the Dothraki were consistently victorious in their battles. This continuously reinforced their belief that armor was useless, until they had thoroughly deceived themselves.
Now, this deep-seated belief was the greatest obstacle Ian faced in forging them into a true cavalry force.
The greatest advantages of the Dothraki were their mastery of the bow and horse and their fearlessness in the face of death. Their shortcomings were a lack of tactics, a disregard for discipline, and a rejection of armor. If they could not overcome the latter, they would never meet Ian's standards for cavalry.
The lack of tactics was a relatively simple problem to solve. Although the Dothraki usually fought with undisciplined fury, their history showed they were not incapable of employing strategy. A tale from the official atlas of A Song of Ice and Fire came to mind.
After the Dothraki hero Khal Mengo first united the horselords, they launched an invasion against the Sarnori kings in the Sarnor River Basin. The Dothraki gathered eighty thousand screaming warriors, commanded by four great khals. In response, Mazor Alexi, the last High King of the Sarnori, assembled an army of six thousand scythed chariots, ten thousand heavy horse, ten thousand light horse, and one hundred thousand infantry outside his capital of Sarnath for a decisive battle.
At the beginning of the engagement, the Sarnori scythed chariots charged directly into the Dothraki center, crushing it with overwhelming force and killing the khal who commanded it. Many of the Dothraki began to flee, and the Sarnori army pressed their advantage in pursuit.
But as the Sarnori formation loosened, the supposedly defeated Dothraki suddenly turned their horses and unleashed a storm of arrows. At the same time, their flanks were suddenly attacked by two other khals. Struck by this devastating blow, the Sarnori army began to collapse, frantically attempting to withdraw to the city of Sarnath behind them.
Only then did they discover that the final Dothraki khal had circled behind them, cutting off their retreat. In the end, the Sarnori army was annihilated; one hundred thousand men died on the battlefield that day, which would forever be known as the Field of Crows.
It was a classic feigned retreat, an ambush tactic reminiscent of the Mongols. It was a costly strategy, but one that preyed on an enemy's overconfidence with devastating success. This proved that the Dothraki were capable of fighting beautifully coordinated battles when led by a clever enough khal.
But this was where the similarities to the Mongols ended.
The Dothraki's two other shortcomings—their disregard for discipline and their rejection of armor—doomed them to fall far short of the Mongols' true power. Without extremely high discipline, they could never learn complex tactics like the feigned retreat, the encircling wheel of horse archers, or coordinated assaults. Even the ambush used by Khal Mengo would be a significant challenge for the Dothraki of today.
Furthermore, the Dothraki rejection of armor was the starkest contrast to the Mongols. The Mongols learned from every culture they conquered, adopting heavy armor and gunpowder from the Central Plains and trebuchets from the Arab world. They absorbed the most advanced technologies of their time and turned them into weapons of war.
The question of how to persuade the Dothraki to don armor had given Ian a headache for a long time.
Generally, the best way to make a nation accept a weapon they repel is to beat them with it until they understand they cannot survive without it. It was how the stirrup changed the history of cavalry. After the Chinese innovation drove the Turkic peoples north, the Turks took the stirrup west, dominating the Serbs and Sassanid Persians for centuries until those who initially dismissed it as a "toy for poor horsemen" adopted it themselves. It was the same with the ancient empires that dismissed new weapons as "tricks and trifles," right until those weapons battered down their gates.
Unfortunately, Ian had neither the means to build an armored army to crush the Dothraki nor the decades it would take to force them to change their tune.
So, in the end, he chose a more direct method of persuasion.
"Here are three hundred breastplates," Ian announced, ignoring their claims that "only cowards wear iron clothes." He gestured to a pile of armor his men had brought forward. "Now, the first men to put one on will each receive a share of the purified water and will earn a place in Khal Qhogo's khas."
He let the offer hang in the air for a moment.
"They will become my first guard cavalry, and each man will be given three horses," Ian added. "The rest of you will be sent back to the farms."
Before his last words had even faded, the Dothraki were rushing toward the armor.
Who cared about being a coward? It was better than being a farmer.
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