Night painted the heavens in darkness, veiling mortal eyes. Yet torches blazed across the walls, flames pushing back the shadows, making night as bright as day.
Within Qohor's inner city, firelight burst forth.
In an instant, cries of slaughter and agony rose, echoing through the streets. The clash of steel rang out, so loud it unsettled even the steeds of the Dothraki.
"The long night is dark and full of terrors,"
murmured Möngke, gripping his whip in one hand while drawing a long-handled arakh with the other. His gaze fixed sharply on the turmoil within the walls.
Beside him, the red priest Makiro prayed fervently to R'hllor, but Möngke ignored him.
Then came the groan of straining wood and iron—the great gates of the inner city began to open.
Excitement surged through Möngke; victory seemed at hand.
But suddenly, an arrow flew from the shadows, piercing the back of the traitor opening the gate. Loyal guards rushed in, cutting down the remaining conspirators before they could act.
The gate, barely ajar, was already being forced shut again.
For a moment, Möngke froze. Then inspiration struck. He cracked his whip and roared:
"Forward! Break down that cursed gate!"
Spurring his horse, he thundered forward like a crimson comet loosed from the heavens.
At the last instant, he leapt from the saddle, hurling himself bodily against the gates. His horse screamed, collapsing beneath the crushing force.
The impact shook the ground. Half the gate burst open, the shock leaving Möngke's head spinning, pain jolting through his body.
But then—another figure followed him. A giant of a man, dark-skinned and scarred, chest bare and broad as a wall, his stomach crisscrossed with old wounds. He hurled himself against the other half of the gate, muscles straining like iron chains.
Möngke seized the giant's arakh, cutting down the stunned guards as the brute forced the gate open wide.
With a roar like a tidal wave breaking its dam, the Dothraki cavalry surged into the city.
The defenders' courage shattered. They scattered in terror, fleeing before the storm.
Then came a commanding cry:
"Unsullied—kneel.
Those who yield shall not be slain."
Möngke turned. A warrior in ornate armor strode forward, raising a black staff shaped like a goat's head. Strange symbols etched its surface. Wherever he passed, soldiers dropped to their knees in surrender.
Even the Dothraki turned fevered eyes toward the figure.
At last, the warrior halted before Möngke. Slowly, he removed his helm, revealing a noble, handsome face.
He dropped to one knee, holding out the staff with reverence:
"Great Khal Möngke, welcome to Qohor. Its people offer you their loyalty."
The black goat-headed staff—symbol of Unsullied command—was his.
Möngke grasped it firmly, feeling the weight of power settle in his hand.
From behind, Makiro the red priest watched silently, his eyes gleaming with fire's secret light.
But Möngke's gaze lingered on something else—the orange cloak draped over the warrior's shoulders, and the flame-shaped spear at his side.
"You are a servant of R'hllor," Möngke said sternly, before softening with a faint smile.
"So, even the holy warriors of the temple bow to mortal kings?"
The warrior did not flinch. His voice rang steady and true:
"The Lord of Light is the only god. But His followers are still men. And all men must respect their king. Until He summons us to His service, we live beneath your protection, Khal. We are your people."
Möngke's booming laughter echoed across the bloodstained square.
"Brave warrior! Tell me your name."
"Aslan. Aslan Makenning," came the reply.
Möngke gave no answer. Instead, he raised the staff high, shouting in rough Valyrian:
"Unsullied! Rise. Take up your arms!"
The disciplined legion responded in perfect unison, sharp as one machine.
"Obey my command—slaughter every soldier of Qohor!"
Gasps and cries erupted. Aslan's face blanched, torn with conflict. Möngke met his gaze knowingly, and smiled.
"I swore before the Mother of Mountains, before the womb of the world's lake, before the Horse God Himself—if Qohor would not yield, I would burn it to the ground. You opened the gates, so I will spare the outer city and its hundred thousand innocents. That is my greatest mercy."
Then he turned to his roaring riders.
"Dothraki! I promised you gold when we took Qohor. Tonight, its treasures are yours!"
A frenzy of cheers erupted.
"Close the gates! Pillage the city until dawn!"
For the Dothraki way was clear: words were sacred. Oaths sworn before gods and men could not be broken.