Let him through."
Möngke gestured, waving back the surrounding Dothraki riders. Yet as he looked upon the Unsullied—who understood nothing of the Dothraki tongue—he felt a brief stir of frustration.
Fortunately, the steward Ofor translated swiftly, and thus Bas Bort, the blood mage, was allowed safe passage before the Khal.
Aslan's heart trembled. He did not wish for his Maester to be placed in such a perilous position, forced into choices against his will. With urgent steps, he placed himself before his master, speaking with conflicted eyes:
"Maester, had you not resolved to leave the Free Cities, to return home to Westeros?"
The breeze stirred. The heavy ships on the lake lay still. Weary birds wheeled back to roost. Fallen leaves, like men, would one day return to their roots.
Bas Bort smiled warmly at his student's courage, and corrected him gently:
"I followed in the footsteps of Archmaester Marwyn, who once wandered here. Though I hear he has now returned to Westeros, and I burn with desire to learn further mysteries from him, my own journey is not yet done. I swore, when I left the Citadel, that my wanderings and studies would not end until my purpose was fulfilled."
At the Citadel, maesters who rose to mastery in a field were granted ring, rod, and mask—the regalia of a true archmaester.
Leaving his pupil's side, Bas Bort turned to face Möngke directly. He bowed, then laughed with candid honesty:
"The eastern roads are perilous indeed. There is no safer path than at your side, Khal. In your shadow, I may roam the world, and study its cultures and lore unhindered."
The meaning was plain.
Möngke laughed aloud, raising his weapons:
"I nearly forgot—Aslan has gifted me not one, but two Valyrian blades: the straight sword and this arakh."
He lifted them both, crossing them high, weighing them in his hands. His smile was faint, his eyes bright.
"Together, reforged, their weight will be perfect. And so it is—gods ever favor me. Fate decrees that we now hold Qohor, and here alone dwell the smiths who possess the secrets of reforging Valyrian steel."
With that, he hung the arakh back at his waist, keeping the sword Truth in hand. He leveled it at Aslan.
"Aslan, will you pledge your loyalty to me?"
Ofor began to protest, but Möngke silenced him with a wave.
"Do not forget my oath to you, Ofor. In time, Braavos will not stand idle against us. Until then, we must gather every ally we can. And you miss the point—Braavos' true strength lies not only in the Iron Bank's wealth, but in its fleet unmatched upon the seas. Wealth and ships—these are precisely what we Dothraki lack."
Then Möngke returned Truth to Aslan, his face solemn, voice measured:
"Aslan Rogare—I return Truth to you. Bear it with honor. Remember your oath, restore your house. Now, swear your fealty."
Aslan laid Truth before him, sank to one knee, and declared:
"I swear my loyalty to you, Khal Möngke. My life and honor I lay at your feet. I am your sword against your foes, your shield in danger. In peril I shall give my life, unbroken until death. By flame, by the Lord of Light, by the honor of House Rogare—I so swear."
Möngke did not yet dismiss him, but answered in kind, his thunderous voice filling the night:
"I, Khal Möngke, swear by the Horse God, by the Mother of Mountains, by the womb of the world's lake: your loyalty shall never go unrewarded, your service shall be repaid with justice. I will restore the name of House Rogare."
Aslan trembled with joy, unable to contain the shaking of his shoulders.
For his true name was not Makenning—that was but his father's name, a middle name carried by custom. His true bloodline was Rogare of Lys.
And Truth, the Valyrian blade, was the ancestral sword of House Rogare—descended from Valyria before the Doom, once the greatest house of Lys.
From their heights during the Spring of Lys, when Lythandro Rogare rose as lifelong governor, and through alliances with Dornish royalty and even the Targaryens, House Rogare stood at the peak of glory. They rivaled Braavos' Iron Bank with their own Rogare Bank, until betrayal and the long hand of Braavosi assassins cast them down.
From wealth and power supreme, they were broken. Cast into slavery. Their heirs tortured, their sons mutilated, their daughters sold into pleasure houses.
But one line endured. One sword endured.
Aslan Rogare bore both the weight of vengeance and the hope of restoration—forever bound to the legacy of his fallen house, and the ancient enmity between Lys, Braavos, and the Iron Bank.