A few days later, inside the main command tent.
Lazal, Jogo, Quaro, and old Moro sat around the fire.
In the center a large copper pot bubbled with rich beef stew.
Chunks of meat had cooked until they were tender and glossy, falling apart at the touch of a knife.
The broth carried the sharp bite of onions and mountain pepper.
Red grape wine filled the horn cups — bright, tart, and clean.
Tear off a piece of hot beef, wash it down with the wine, and the taste lingered long after.
Lazal’s wounds were still dressed with Mirri’s herbs.
Fresh blood had seeped through the bandages, but he refused to be left out.
Grease shone on his mouth as he ate with obvious enjoyment.
While the men were laughing and talking, the tent flap was pulled aside.
Rahallo walked in carrying an armful of equipment.
Metal clinked softly.
He set down a high-backed war saddle, a set of half-plate cuirass, and a helmet topped with a horse-tail plume.
Dothraki had never used saddles.
They simply laid a hide or blanket across their horse’s back.
To them, true connection with a mount meant flesh against flesh.
Westerosi knights had long understood the value of a high-backed saddle.
With a flat saddle the tremendous shock of a lance striking home could rip a rider straight out of his seat.
Rahallo’s design gave far greater stability.
It freed the rider’s hands and let him stay balanced even at full gallop.
Whether swinging a blade or shooting a bow, his fighting power rose sharply.
The half-plate cuirass was modeled on the armor once worn by Napoleon’s heavy cavalry.
It weighed only twelve kilograms yet could turn aside most blades and arrows.
Once his riders wore this gear they would hold every advantage against other Dothraki light cavalry.
Even against the plate-armored knights of Westeros they would be able to attack or defend without being at a disadvantage.
Rahallo’s plan called for at least five thousand heavy cavalry.
But even producing a single set of this cuirass had taken three days.
Mass production would be slow.
The real problem, however, was convincing these stubborn heads to actually put the armor on.
As soon as Lazal and the others saw what he carried, their expressions turned skeptical.
They were not ignorant of armor’s benefits.
They had simply been raised from childhood to fight bare-chested.
They took pride in meeting steel with nothing but their own skin.
In their eyes that was what made a man a true warrior.
Anyone who thought otherwise was the strange one.
This was the gap in culture and understanding.
Sure enough, Lazal stood first.
“My blood is your blood.
Dothraki warriors do not need these things to protect us!” Quaro rose as well.
“Lazal is right!
We are the eagles of the grass sea.
Putting on iron clothes is like shackling an eagle.
How can we fly free?
If we cannot fight with everything we have on the battlefield, what is the point?” These men would die for Rahallo without hesitation.
He could not simply order them to wear armor.
If they did not believe in it, their fighting spirit would suffer.
Rahallo spoke calmly.
“I understand how you feel.
But from now on our enemies will not only be other khalasars.
We will also face the Andals.
Our way of fighting must change.” He pointed at the bandages on Lazal’s body.
“These wounds are proof.
If you had been wearing armor, Lazal would not be hurt.
When you wear armor you protect yourselves.
You suffer fewer needless wounds.
You live longer on the battlefield.
And the longer you live, the more enemies you can kill.” He paused, then continued.
“You all want glory.
You want your names to be remembered.
But if you are dead, who will sing of your deeds?
Only the living can create legends.
Only the living can cut braids from fallen enemies and bring them home.” Rahallo argued until his mouth was dry, but the thick-headed warriors were unmoved.
Lazal did not want to shame his khal openly, so he hesitated before answering.
“My blood is your blood… the things you say make sense, but I do not understand them.
I only know that a true hero fights with his chest bare.
He wins with blade and courage.
Hiding behind sheets of iron is not the act of a hero.” At that moment a hoarse voice cut through the tension.
“My blood is your blood…” Everyone turned.
Old Moro walked slowly to Rahallo.
He spoke one deliberate word at a time.
“These iron shells will only make our warriors slow, like turtles.
We must respect tradition.
If our enemies see us wearing armor they will laugh.
Their courage will rise while ours falls.” Moro’s words found ready agreement.
Murmurs of support rose around the fire.
“Old Moro is right!” “We don’t need armor!” “That is what cowards wear!” Rahallo looked at the old man.
Moro had fought bare-chested his entire life.
Among these stubborn warriors he was the most unyielding.
If Rahallo could not convince Moro, he would never convince the rest.
He changed tactics.
“Moro, Lazal has a big-ass slave woman who has given him three sons.
He shares his other slaves freely, but he will never share that one.
Yet according to the bloodrider oath, even wives must be shared.
Is that respecting tradition?
I myself will not share my wife or my handmaidens.
So tradition is not carved in stone.
Traditions exist to be broken.
If we followed every old custom we would still be eating nothing but horse meat and drinking nothing but mare’s milk.
We would never have tasted beef stew or grape wine.” The tent fell silent.
Old Moro’s eyelid twitched.
For once he had no answer.
The others glanced at one another.
Their heads were not built for this kind of twisting argument.
They had no reply.
Lazal looked thoroughly confused.
In his mind he was already wondering whether he should send that particular slave woman to Rahallo’s tent so she could bear the khal a son as well.
The meal broke up soon after.
Rahallo sat alone in the tent, his expression shifting between frustration and thought.
He had been talking to a wall.
The Dothraki valued raw, bloody combat and the courage to ride straight at death.
When he spoke of surviving to fight longer they heard only weakness.
In simple terms, they were not afraid to die.
If this armor had been offered to any other khalasar the men would have fought to be first in line.
Here, with Rahallo, they treated it like poison.
He rubbed his temples, stood, and walked out into the night.
Stars filled the sky.
He wandered without direction until he found himself once more among the blacksmiths.
A few smiths were still working.
The steady ring of hammers on steel sounded sharp in the quiet dark.
Rahallo stopped beside an older Dothraki smith.
The man had traveled the Free Cities in his youth.
His skill was high and his experience broad.
“Jik,” Rahallo said, using the man’s name, “do you think wearing armor is a sign of cowardice?”