The dying sun bled across the valley beside the Sayhru River, turning the ground red.
The air was thick with the stench of blood, scorched earth, and horse dung.
Vultures wheeled overhead.
Crows hopped among the corpses, tearing at rotting flesh with ugly cries.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Severed limbs floated in the river.
Broken arakhs jutted from the dirt at odd angles.
The head-takers moved through the field with their great axes.
When they found a dead or dying man they finished him with one clean stroke and took the head.
Among the Dothraki it was bad luck to touch the body of a man you had not killed yourself, so the head-takers did the work.
“Jogo!” Rahallo called out.
Jogo rode over, swung down from his horse, and could not hide his excitement.
“My blood is your blood.
We have won an epic victory!
Jhaqo’s head — that cowardly hyena — has already been cut off and hung from a banner pole for everyone to see!” “What about the loot?
Have you counted it?” “More than eighty thousand horses, both war mounts and draft animals!
All fat and strong, the best stock on the grass sea.
Cattle and sheep beyond counting — more than the stars in the night lands.
Enough to feed the khalasar for years.
We also found gold.
As much gold as the weight of a horse.
And tens of thousands of women, children, and slaves.” Dothraki were brave fighters, but numbers were not their strength.
A horse weighed roughly eight hundred pounds — twelve thousand eight hundred ounces.
A gold dragon weighed about point two eight ounces.
That meant the gold they had taken was worth something close to fifty thousand gold dragons.
Compared to the five hundred gold dragons Illyrio had called a generous gift, it was nothing.
By custom the khal took twenty percent.
That gave Rahallo roughly sixteen thousand horses and ten thousand gold dragons.
The rest would be divided according to merit.
Every warrior would receive a share.
The kos, as bloodriders, traditionally shared the khal’s wealth and even his wives — everything except horses.
Rahallo had no interest in that old, cruel custom.
He would not even let them touch Daenerys’s handmaidens.
If they wanted women they could take them elsewhere.
Essos had plenty.
And on the far side of the Narrow Sea there were countless lords and noblewomen.
When the khalasar finally reached those cities, the men would have more women than they could handle.
They would be smiling for weeks.
Rahallo looked around at the gathered warriors and raised his voice.
“Care for the horses well.
Count every head of cattle and sheep.
The women and children go first to the warriors who earned them.
Let them herd for us.
Let them bear sons for us.” The men roared and brandished their weapons.
Some were already claiming their prizes where they stood.
Rahallo’s gaze drifted across the battlefield and stopped on several packhorses.
Their saddlebags bulged and gave off a strange, sharp-sweet smell.
“Bring those sacks here,” he ordered.
Warriors hurried over, cut the bags free, and dropped them at his feet.
When they opened the first one a pungent odor rolled out.
Inside were chunks of bright red meat covered in a layer of white crystals that looked like coarse salt.
Rahallo picked up a small piece, smelled it, then touched it to his tongue.
A sharp, slightly bitter, almost cooling taste spread across his mouth.
His eyes lit with sudden understanding.
“This is saltpeter.” The warriors looked at one another, confused why their khal was so excited.
Jogo leaned in.
“My blood is your blood… what is saltpeter?
Isn’t this just rock salt?” The Dothraki Sea was vast and rich in minerals, including natural deposits of saltpeter.
The Dothraki used it as a preservative when they traveled long distances.
It kept meat from spoiling and gave it a distinctive flavor.
But to Rahallo it was far more than a seasoning.
Saltpeter was the key ingredient for gunpowder.
With charcoal from the vast Qohor forest he already had two of the three components he needed to make real firearms and cannons — the tools that could conquer Westeros.
The only thing missing was sulfur.
The grass sea had no volcanoes.
Sorrow’s Crest had some, but the place was thick with plague and greyscale.
No one went near it.
The small amount of sulfur the khalasar possessed had been traded for treating horse mange.
The most famous sources of sulfur in this world were Dragonstone, held by the Baratheons, and the Valyrian Peninsula — a cursed, plague-ridden hell no sane man would approach.
Old Moro found Rahallo a short while later, his face worried.
“My blood is your blood… Lazal is missing.” Rahallo frowned.
“He was supposed to be with you.” Moro shook his head.
“I asked everyone in the kos.
No one has seen him.
His second said he rode off alone.
Said he was going to find you.” Rahallo’s stomach dropped.
Lazal was loyal and brave, but sometimes too reckless.
If he had left alone it meant he believed he carried urgent news that could not wait — most likely the report that Fogo had far more men than expected.
“Which way did he go?” “Along the route you took.
East along the edge of the Qohor forest.” “Damn it.” The grass sea was enormous.
Finding one rider out here was like searching for a needle in the ocean.
And Lazal’s path would take him through territory thick with enemy scouts and stragglers.
“Jogo!” Rahallo snapped.
“Gather three thousand warriors.
The best horses, plenty of food and water.
We ride now.” Three thousand riders assembled quickly.
Rahallo swung into the saddle, drew his blade, and pointed north.
“West, northwest, and north — a thousand men in each direction.
Find Lazal.
Move!” The three columns thundered away in different directions, raising clouds of dust.
Three days later, at dusk, scouts found fresh hoof prints at the edge of the Qohor forest.
Rahallo felt a spark of hope.
He led the column into the trees.
Soon they found a trail of blood leading deeper into the woods.
Rahallo’s chest tightened.
He spurred forward.
Pushing through thick brush he found Lazal lying on the ground, badly wounded, blood soaking the earth around him.
His warhorse lay nearby, bristling with arrows, already dead.
Lazal’s face was gray, but when he recognized Rahallo a weak, relieved smile crossed his lips.
“My blood is your blood… you came… that’s all that matters.” “My blood is your blood.
My life is your life.” Rahallo gripped his hand hard.
“Hold on.
We’re taking you back to the khalasar.
Mirri will treat you.” “My blood is your blood…” Lazal hesitated, voice faint.
“She’s a witch…” “Witch my ass.
She’s a healer who can save your sorry life.
Black cat, white cat — doesn’t matter as long as it catches mice.” Lazal stared at him, too stunned to answer.
He did not understand the strange saying, but it sounded like something only a true khal would say.