"How far are the enemies? And how many warriors do they have?"
In the war tent by the headwaters of the Selhorys, a detailed sheepskin map hung at the center. Seated at the long table, Möngke posed his question.
Before him gathered the tribe's functionary Ofor, Maester Bas-Polt, the kos Khosoro, and the Red Priest Makiro, who had returned from Volantis.
"Kaor," Ofor reported, "the enemy tribe numbers no less than fifty thousand screamers. They clearly fought a battle not long ago. Were it not for that honest child discovering the stallion, we might still be blind to it. Whether the horse escaped in battle or was loosed deliberately, I cannot say. But the enemy is wary—our scouts were spotted as soon as they drew near. By tomorrow at the latest, we will fall within their patrol range."
Möngke bent forward, eyes scanning the map.
The wastelands stretched between the forests of Qohor and the headwaters of the Selhorys—a scar of charred plains and stripped earth. Once fertile, the region had been ruined by ceaseless logging and the raids of Dothraki khalasars.
Since absorbing Khal Jomo's tribe, Möngke commanded more than forty thousand screamers—fierce, skilled warriors. Yet still, the enemy outnumbered them. By sheer count, the field tilted against him.
But the Red Priest's calm, ever-watchful eyes pricked Möngke's back like thorns. He knew well the design of R'hllor's followers: they aided only the strong. Should he falter or suffer ruin in this war, they would turn on him without hesitation.
This battle must be won—not a pyrrhic victory, but a triumph with losses kept tight. His wars to come would be many, and his strength must endure.
At last his finger landed on the mouth of the Rhoyne, where it kissed the Summer Sea.
"Volantis," Möngke said grimly. "Should they march north, we would be caught between hammer and anvil, crushed beyond hope."
Volantis, the "Daughter of Valyria," "Queen of the Rhoyne," "Mistress of the Summer Sea." Once the mightiest of the Free Cities, it still boasted a vast fleet and armies of slaves.
Turning, Möngke asked:
"Who among you can tell me Volantis' true mind toward the Dothraki?"
The Red Priest Makiro bowed smoothly.
"Great Khal, be at ease. Volantis may fear for Selhorys and dispatch soldiers, but they will not wage open war."
Möngke's gaze sharpened.
"Their fleet—how many warships?"
Makiro hesitated, then answered:
"Perhaps more than three hundred."
"And their army?"
"Over ten thousand Tiger Cloaks, three thousand cavalry, and war elephants."
Möngke sighed.
"With such might at their command, you would have me believe they will sit idle?"
The priest's voice was calm, almost cold:
"In the arena, if a gladiator aids one tiger to slay another, he does not leave unscathed. So too will Volantis refrain. They will not bleed to crown one khal above another—it profits them nothing."
Then, seeing doubt upon the faces around him, he pressed on:
"None of you know Volantis as I do. It is ruled by three triarchs, chosen yearly by every freeborn landholder. Candidates will do anything for votes—save one thing: harm the voters' interests. To march against the horselords unprovoked would sour their image, and cost them dearly."
Ofor nodded in understanding:
"Kaor, the triarchs crave votes, the people are weary of war, and the Elephant faction thrives by promising peace. Volantis will not fight us unless compelled."
But Maester Bas-Polt shook his head sharply, eyes narrowing at the priest:
"Impossible! The whole of Westeros bows to a single king, and yet this 'mighty' Volantis requires three? Absurd!"
Möngke frowned, realization dawning.
"One king's heart is fickle. Three rulers' hearts—how much harder to read? The sight of a khalasar before their walls may stir them in ways unseen. After three centuries of stalemate, their order could break."
Makiro's gaze fixed on the flames. He seemed to search them for visions. At length, he replied:
"Kaor, you need not overthink. Volantis' system is designed to hold itself in check. Should one triarch act rashly, the other two will strip his power. Should all three lose reason, the people will cast them down and put them to death without mercy."
Then, stepping forward, his tone solemn, he declared:
"Volantis is strong in the faith of R'hllor. Allow me to go as your envoy, to the High Priest Benerro himself. He can speak to the triarchs and calm their fears."
Möngke's eyes turned to the fire as well. Yet no vision came, no whisper of flame and shadow.
At last he spoke:
"Very well. Ofor will provide horses and supplies. Leave at once."
Makiro inclined his head, expression placid. But as he turned to depart, Möngke glimpsed the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
When the priest was gone, Bas-Polt slammed the table, his voice thick with fury:
"Deceiver! I knew it. He is nothing but a deceiver."