The old blacksmith set down his hammer and wiped the sweat from his brow.
He thought for a long moment before he spoke.
“A true warrior bears the enemy’s blows with nothing but his own body.
That belief is carved into Dothraki bones.
Asking them to wear armor goes against everything they are.” Rahallo nodded.
He knew the old man was right.
“What if we look at it differently?” he asked.
“What if putting on armor lets a man fight longer and win the final victory?
Doesn’t that take courage too?” The blacksmith stayed silent for a moment, then raised his head.
A spark lit his eyes.
“Khal, you may have a point.
But getting the others to see it that way… that will not be easy.” Rahallo considered this.
He needed to redefine courage itself, to make it something the Dothraki could accept without feeling they had betrayed who they were.
The next day he called his bloodriders and warriors back into the main tent.
Several more sets of half-plate cuirasses and horse-tail helmets now lay in the center of the space.
The men stared at them like the armor might carry greyscale.
Rahallo pointed at the gear and looked around the circle, his voice steady and serious.
“You all speak of Dothraki courage.
So tell me—do any of you have the courage to put these on?” It was a trap, simple as asking whether an unstoppable spear could pierce an unbreakable shield.
Not clever.
But it worked.
The tent went utterly silent.
Every warrior stared, caught off guard.
They had never expected the question turned back on them like that.
“And I have another question,” Rahallo continued.
“When you fight the enemy, is it glorious to lose your head?
Or is it glorious to live and cut the braid from your enemy’s corpse with your own hands?
You are my blood brothers.
We share one life.
I will not watch what happened to Lazal happen again.
If he had died out there in the brush with no one knowing where he fell, what then?
What if men called him a coward?
How could he ever prove his courage?” “I am no coward!” Lazal roared.
A flicker of unease still showed in his eyes.
Rahallo swept his gaze across every face.
Doubt.
Contempt.
Hesitation.
And here and there, the first signs of real thought.
Was armor truly weakness?
Or was the real courage the willingness to accept something new?
At last his eyes settled on old Moro’s lined, weathered face.
He spoke slowly.
“You say wearing armor is cowardice.
Then answer me this…” He paused.
“I killed Drogo and his three bloodriders.
Who can call me a coward?
I defeated Khal Fogo.
Who dares question my courage?
I executed the traitor Jhaqo with my own hands and used his braid to tell the entire grass sea that the honor of Rahallo’s khalasar cannot be stained.
Who can say I fear death?” His voice rose.
“Moro, my blood of blood, you saw it all.
Tell me—am I a coward?” Old Moro said nothing.
A complicated light moved through his cloudy eyes.
Rahallo pointed at the nearest cuirass.
“I will prove I have the courage to wear it.
True courage is not the blind bravery of a fool who charges to his death.
It is the strength to change.
The nerve to accept what is new.” He snatched up the cuirass, buckled it on with quick, sure movements.
The plates settled over his broad chest and shoulders like they had been made for him.
He looked every inch the warrior-king.
He lifted the helmet and set it on his head.
The long horse-tail plume fell down his back like a banner streaming in the wind.
“This is not a coward’s shell,” he said.
“This is a warrior’s war-coat.
It will let us win greater victories and help our khalasar unite the grass sea.” A voice cut through the silence.
“I will!” Every head turned.
Jik stepped forward from the crowd, shoulders squared, eyes steady, no hesitation on his face.
“Khal!” Jik’s voice carried clearly through the tent.
“I will wear this iron clothing!” A man worth forging.
Rahallo gave him a quiet nod of approval and walked over to help him into the armor himself.
When it was fastened, Jik rolled his shoulders and tested his movement.
Rahallo watched him closely.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
Jik clenched a fist.
“Better than I expected.
Lighter.
I can still move.
I can fight in this.
I can live to see the day Khal Rahallo unites the grass sea!” Rahallo clapped him on the shoulder, genuine pride in his voice.
“You made a brave choice, Jik.” Whispers rose around the tent.
Warriors leaned toward one another, eyes brightening with sudden interest.
The remaining sets of armor were claimed quickly.
Rahallo knew he had to keep the momentum.
He cleared his throat.
“Strong warriors alone are not enough.
We need a strong rear to keep our campaigns supplied.” He pointed northwest.
“That is why I have decided to build a city at Ghoyan Drohe.” Gasps broke out, followed by a rising storm of voices.
Ghoyan Drohe.
The name was known to every Dothraki who had ever ridden near the edge of the grass sea.
It lay in the hills between Norvos and Qohor, east of Pentos, guarding the pass through the Velvet Hills and sitting squarely on the old Valyrian Road.
Long ago it had been a Rhoynar city of canals, fountains, orchards, and waterfalls.
Valyrian dragons had burned it during the wars, but the stone foundations remained solid and the ancient water systems were still mostly intact.
The tumbled blocks lay ready for reuse.
Tyrion Lannister had once called the living city beautiful beyond compare.
Maester Yandel had written of its fame for fruit trees and falling water.
More importantly, whoever held Ghoyan Drohe controlled the trade between Pentos, Qohor, and Norvos.
Even a modest toll—half a percent—would bring two or three hundred thousand gold dragons a year.
From the Velvet Hills the mountains ran south in a long, fertile band beside the Rhoyne, thousands of miles of land that now belonged to Rahallo’s khalasar—wider than any kingdom in Westeros.
One hectare of grassland could feed only one person.
One hectare of good farmland could feed twenty.
With enough people, with irrigation and cleared fields of barley and beans, he would grow richer than any king who ever sat the Iron Throne.
To collect those taxes he needed a fixed seat of power.
Ships could sail from Ghoyan Drohe down the Rhoyne to Volantis or north to Braavos.
Qohor and Pentos were only fifteen days’ ride away.
From Ghoyan Drohe, Rahallo would build something greater than Valyria had ever been.