9: Chapter 9: CaveLeather only for 9$ The fierce sun beat down on the endless grassland.
Everything in sight had turned a dry, withered yellow.
The long summer had already lasted eight years.
The oldest men in the khalasar said a great drought unlike any in living memory was about to strike.
Near the smiths’ tents, the air was thick with the smell of iron rust and charcoal.
It stung the nose.
Newly built furnaces roared with flame, painting the blacksmiths’ soot-streaked faces red.
Callused hands gripped hammers and struck the glowing steel again and again, sending sparks flying.
They were forging the new Damascus-style arakhs—the weapons Rahallo had introduced to the grass sea.
The Dothraki had already given them a name: Atak blades, or in their tongue, Visah Atak — the Thunder’s Fang.
After many failures, the smiths had finally mastered the crucible steel process.
By combining the high-grade hematite with charcoal, they produced true steel.
Using the methods Rahallo provided, they hammered and folded the metal until every finished blade carried flowing, water-like patterns.
The edges were terrifyingly sharp.
Lazal swung one of the newly forged blades through the air.
It sang with a high, piercing whistle.
He glanced at the heavy traditional arakhs hanging on the nearby rack and smirked with open contempt.
“Those things,” he said, jerking his chin toward the old weapons, “catch on an enemy’s armor during a charge and either rip the blade out of your hand or drag you off your horse.
Ugly way to die.” He turned to a young warrior beside him and handed over the new Atak blade.
“Here.
Try it.” The young man’s eyes lit up with excitement.
He had watched from not far away when Rahallo used such a blade to cut through Drogo’s arakh.
The look of shock on the dead khal’s face was still fresh in his memory.
He swung the weapon a few times.
It felt strange.
“This blade is much lighter than a normal arakh,” Lazal said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You’re using too much force.” He took the blade back and demonstrated—cutting, spinning, countering—then finished with a smooth arc that buried the edge deep into a wooden post.
The watching warriors erupted in loud cheers.
“See that?” Lazal turned in a circle so everyone could hear him.
“This blade is light.
It cuts with less effort.
Whether you’re fighting from horseback or on foot, it’s far better than those heavy old arakhs.” The traditional arakh was an ancient infantry weapon from the time of the old empires—designed for hooking and pulling in tight shield walls.
But the Dothraki were not infantry.
The Atak blade was made for cavalry.
It was the kind of weapon that had replaced heavy straight swords among mounted warriors in later ages.
On horseback, the old arakh was nothing but dead weight.
A man could barely swing it a few times before his shoulder gave out.
Lazal didn’t know the long history, but he had fought all his life.
One real test had been enough to convince him.
This was the true weapon of the horse lords.
He raised his voice so the eager young warriors could hear every word.
“Pay attention, boys!
I’m going to show you what a real weapon looks like!” Two men faced each other in the open space while the rest formed a shouting, excited circle.
Lazal let out a war cry and attacked first.
The young warrior raised his traditional arakh to meet the blow.
Lazal slipped past it and brought his own blade around in a backhand cut.
Crack.
The old arakh snapped cleanly in two.
The young warrior stumbled back in shock.
Lazal’s blade stopped a finger’s width from his throat.
“See?” Lazal said, almost as surprised as the others by how easily the cut had gone through.
His voice rose with excitement.
“This is a blade that nothing can stop!
It is not just a weapon—it is your life.
Carry it, and you carry the Khal’s own strength.
You will be the victor!” The watching warriors roared with sudden hunger.
Their eyes locked onto the Atak blade in Lazal’s hand like starving men staring at meat.
“I want one!” a warrior shouted.
“Take my horses and my women—whatever you want!” “Give it to me first!” another man pushed forward, raising the price.
“I’ll trade three warhorses!” Right now the smiths’ skills were still rough and the success rate was low.
Production was limited.
An Atak blade was more than a weapon—it was a mark of honor and status.
Only the strongest and most trusted warriors were allowed to carry one.
In other words, receiving an Atak blade meant receiving Khal Rahallo’s personal recognition.
There were only thirty smiths in the entire khalasar.
For now, only Rahallo’s bloodriders and his hand-picked elite warriors carried the new blades.
“Only a great khal could have created such a weapon,” an old warrior said with open reverence.
“Khal Rahallo is favored by the Horse God!” “With the Atak blades, our khalasar will be unstoppable!” “Follow Khal Rahallo and we will conquer the world!” The crowd took up the chant, thousands of voices rising together until only one name remained: “Rahallo!
Rahallo!
Rahallo…!” … Rahallo had called Lazal, Jogo, Quaro, and old Moro into his tent for a war council.
They were discussing what to do about the warriors who had abandoned them when Rakharo suddenly burst inside, breathing hard.
“My blood is your blood—Fogo is coming!
His khalasar pours toward us like locusts.
Their horse-head banners cover the sky!” The tent went dead silent.
Every man held his breath.
Only the crackle of charcoal in the brazier could be heard.
Khal Fogo commanded the second strongest khalasar on the grass sea.
With Drogo dead and Rahallo’s forces split, Fogo saw an easy prize.
He intended to swallow Rahallo’s territory and people whole and become the strongest khal on the plain.
“How many?” Rahallo asked coldly.
“Thirty thousand,” Rakharo answered.
The number landed like a stone.
Thirty thousand meant Fogo was committing everything.
This was victory or death.
A great drought was coming to the grass sea, and Rahallo currently held the richest grazing lands—the Golden Fields and the Dagger Lake region.
The territory was less than ten days’ ride from Pentos and Qohor.
From the Rhoyne it was a straight run down to Volantis and the Summer Sea.
If even these lands were about to suffer drought, the rest of the grass sea would be far worse.
Fogo was clearly trying to seize the best territory while he still could.
“Which direction are they coming from?” “From the Qohor forest.” “How far?” “About four days’ ride.” The faces around the tent were grim.
Excitement for battle mixed with unease.
“Thirty thousand,” old Moro muttered, stroking his white beard.
“We only have twenty thousand.
This will be a hard fight.” Rahallo sat in his chair of furs, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, and looked at each of his commanders in turn.
This would be his first real battle as khal.
If he lost, everything he had built would collapse.
But he had been preparing.
The materials he had demanded from Illyrio—wildfire, white sugar, and empty wine bottles—had already arrived.
And he already had a plan.