A sudden wind scattered the lingering mist, spilling pale, watery moonlight across the grasslands. The scent of flowers and herbs floated on the breeze, delicate and intoxicating.
Elder Ofor's eyes blazed with a growing intensity, his weathered, furrowed face lighting up with excitement:
"Yes, the Darkcurrent River—it's here. It rises from the Novoth Hills northwest of Qohor city and flows into the Qin River. Any who take the Valyrian Avenue from Qohor to Pentos must pass here. It is our last chance. Beyond the Darkcurrent lie hills and mountains; cavalry cannot charge there."
Möngke lowered his gaze, deep in thought.
The shifting terrain of Vis Kadok left Ofor uncertain. Hesitantly, he spoke:
"Four years ago, this area was open and flat. From east to west, cavalry could charge from higher ground… but I do not know how it is now."
Before the elder could finish, Möngke clenched his fist and struck decisively:
"Enough. The Qohor people cannot have turned the entire steppe into forest. We will reach the Darkcurrent first and scout the terrain."
Each Dothraki tribe had its own territory, but the vast Dothraki Sea and constant raiding of Essos' city-states meant that missing this opportunity would make locating Jumokao difficult.
Möngke vaulted onto his horse, riding along the Saen River via Valyrian Avenue. Beneath the stars, he and Ofor returned to the tribe's camp.
Outside a tent, a stocky, low-set Dothraki man waited. Thick eyebrows framed sharp eyes, partially hidden beneath a dense beard. Though shorter than most, his body radiated agility and explosive strength.
Hearing the horses' cries, the man's eyes lit with fervor. Möngke reined in and smiled broadly at the living witness before him.
"Cardo," he said to the man bowing respectfully, "you must now reassign your loyal Bloodriders."
Dismounting, Möngke stepped forward, bending slightly to pat the man's shoulder. At his full height—nearly eight feet—without the magical reins of his warhorse, no mount could carry him in battle.
"Kosoro," he continued, "my bravest and most loyal follower, I appoint you as the new Bloodrider." He gestured to the elder beside him: "This is Ofor, who knows the geography and history of all Essos. He is my advisor."
Kosoro revealed no emotion at the appointment. He had no desire for leadership; serving as a Bloodrider and obeying Möngke in all things was loyalty enough. Born weak, once discarded at birth, he had survived where others would perish, carrying secrets unknown to most.
When he caught Ofor's eager gaze, Kosoro flashed a toothy grin. Möngke had once said that baring one's teeth was a proper smile.
Satisfied with their harmony, Möngke led them into the camp. Inside, he poked the flames with his hands, sending sparks leaping upward.
Ofor froze, startled. Möngke's hands seemed to stir the fire itself, and the elder feared it might be magic. Kosoro, accustomed to such acts, only stared in awe, convinced his Khal was blessed by the horse god.
Möngke, deliberate and calm, wiped ash from his hands and spoke:
"Ofor, you are my chief officer. At dawn, take inventory for six thousand Roaring Warriors, each with two horses, enough provisions for seven days. At sunrise, these warriors will leave the tribe under your guidance. We will travel north along the Saen River, avoid Jumokao patrols, and turn west through Qohor Forest to the Darkcurrent River.
Kosoro, you now lead a Khas and the remaining Roaring Warriors to guard the tribe and advance toward Qohor city—but do not approach the city until I give the order."
Kosoro obeyed silently, while Ofor hesitated.
"Khal, if I may speak frankly…"
"Speak freely," Möngke said, placing a hand on Kosoro to prevent him from drawing his sword. "Ofor is my officer. The Bloodrider protects the Khal, the Khas commands warriors, and the officer offers counsel and manages the tribe wisely."
Seeing Kosoro restrain himself, Möngke shook his head calmly:
"Rather than risk minor losses to authority by heeding others, I seek victory at any cost. Dothraki cannot survive without victory. A Khal who cannot lead warriors to triumph is no true Khal. Misunderstandings among the tribe are inevitable, but any who question me will lose their heads."
He waved Ofor on: "Continue."
Ofor, reassured that Kosoro would not interfere, whispered:
"Khal, calculating only by distance and speed, seven days' provisions suffice. But if Jumokao lingers outside Qohor, seven days may not be enough."
Möngke's brow furrowed as he listened.
"The people of Qohor do not fear Dothraki Khals. The city's walls are thick. Over four centuries ago, three thousand Untouched defended it against a Temokao-led tribe of at least fifty thousand. More than twelve thousand Dothraki perished, including Temokao, his Kalar, and all Bloodriders. Survivors severed their braids and threw them at the feet of six hundred Untouched warriors—these became known as the Three Thousand of Qohor."
Ofor paused, then continued:
"Since then, all guards are Untouched. Each spear bears the hair of a Dothraki. Today, there are more than three thousand. Qohor also maintains a fleet. Jumokao has only forty thousand warriors; Qohor fears no Dothraki assault. Tribute may be demanded, but only briefly. Jumokao will not attack Qohor city, and Qohor, lacking cavalry, will not sally forth."
Based on experience, Ofor estimated the Qohor–Jumokao standoff would last no more than three days, enough to affect trade.
Möngke resolved to carry ten days' provisions to the Darkcurrent River. War is uncertain; they could only prepare as fully as possible.
Beneath the full moon, with dawn still distant, Möngke remained thoughtful.
The Untouched, he knew, were light infantry armed with spears, shields, and short swords, trained in brutal discipline, reminiscent of Greek phalanxes. Castrated as boys, they were stripped of individuality and fear, conditioned to absolute obedience. Only one-third survived the grueling training from age five to become warriors.
Previously ignorant of Qohor's military, Möngke had puzzled over Dothraki tribute practices. Now he understood: Qohor's strength demanded that Khals could only harry them for gain. Even a well-trained cavalry could not break the Untouched line.
Four centuries prior, Temokao's light cavalry had charged the Untouched phalanx. Möngke pondered their mindset.
Qohor's strategy relied not on steel alone, but on gold and planning. Wealth, skill, and discipline protected their city, and sooner or later, all who challenged them would pay the price.
Though their military prowess was obscure, Qohor's forging and woodworking were renowned. Möngke's eyes gleamed with envy