c12 – Dothraki
"The horse-lords come often, bearing gifts, and they always leave soon after."
This simple phrase reflects the Free Cities' long-standing attitude toward the Dothraki appeasement over confrontation.
The Dothraki are a fierce nomadic people of the central Essos steppe. In an age of steel and saddle, they embody chaos and strength without borders. Their society is not unified under a single regime; instead, they travel in scattered tribal groups known as khalasars, each led by a Khal the strongest warrior among them.
They have only one permanent city, Vaes Dothrak, nestled at the base of the Mother of Mountains and sacred to all Dothraki. Yet, even their so-called capital is more a ritual center than a home. The horse-lords spend most of their lives roaming the vast grasslands of the Dothraki Sea, following the herds, camping in hide tents, and waging war on the weak. Raiding sustains their economy, and when food or sport grows scarce, even Dothraki turn on Dothraki.
Every year, different khalasars pass through Pentos some newly risen, others ancient and hardened.
In the ever-changing hierarchy of these warbands, when a Khal dies, one of three things usually happens: a bloodrider or subordinate Khal may assume control, the khalasar may splinter into rival factions, or it may be absorbed by a greater Khal. Much like the ancient Hunnic model, their internal structure is flexible, brutal, and Darwinian.
Whenever the Dothraki near Pentos, the ruling Magisters offer bribes gilded weapons, silks, salted meats, and coin. Their intent is clear: satisfy the savages and send them elsewhere to plunder.
Pentos has even gone so far as to build a grand pavilion near the bay an opulent rest stop designed specifically to house passing Khals and their bloodriders in peace.
This arrangement suits the Free Cities. Why wage war when you can buy peace? To them, it's not a tribute—it's an investment.
But Viserys would call it what it is: an annual protection payment.
The merchant princes of the Free Cities do not view themselves as part of nations. There is no loyalty to flag or people. Their allegiance is to profit. As long as the trade routes remain open and their ledgers in the black, they care little for external threats.
Illyrio, ever the plotter and opportunist, arranged for Viserys to observe one of these Dothraki khalasars reportedly ten thousand strong currently camped outside the city walls.
Yet Illyrio was too shrewd to bring him straight to Khal Drogo's camp. No, first he would offer a glimpse of the ordinary a lesser khalasar to shape Viserys's expectations. Then, when he introduced the mighty Khal Drogo, the contrast would impress upon him the horse-lord's unmatched strength.
Viserys understood the maneuver the moment he learned this wasn't Drogo's horde. It confirmed something else too Illyrio had noted his initial resistance to the Dothraki marriage plot and was adjusting accordingly.
Clearly, the Magister and his mysterious allies were heavily invested in this union between the last Targaryen and a Dothraki warlord.
Viserys, for his part, had already begun formulating a counterplan.
That night, he slept without dreams.
By dawn, he rose early, broke his fast on bread and honey, donned the servant's garb Illyrio had provided, and joined the party outside.
Illyrio, swaddled in silks, rode in a creaking golden carriage drawn by four Myrish mares. Two house servants handled the reins, while a dozen more guards and grooms rode on horseback.
Viserys mounted a horse of his own with practiced ease.
Despite his youth at the time of the rebellion, Viserys had spent his formative years in King's Landing as a prince of the blood. The Targaryens were a martial house descendants of dragonlords, conquerors, and warriors. Prince Rhaegar had been their jewel: bold, poetic, and deadly with a sword. Viserys, though not heir, had been trained alongside him in matters of war and horsemanship.
Exile hadn't dulled those skills. Over the years, among the minor nobles and sellswords who orbited him for favor or coin, he had kept sharp. Riding remained a necessity, both for appearances and for survival.
So when Illyrio extended an invitation to ride out and observe the Dothraki, Viserys did not refuse. Had he been unable to ride, it might have given him a convenient excuse to delay such meetings but he needed no such pretext now.
This morning's ride marked Viserys's first true venture through the streets of Pentos since arriving at Illyrio's manse.
At first, the departure from the villa was pleasant. But as they passed beyond the merchant compounds and into the city proper, the stench overwhelmed him.
The early hour offered no reprieve. Though the streets were sparsely populated, filth lined the cobbles. Fish guts, rotting fruit, manure from oxen and goats every scent clung to the damp morning air, pungent and foul.
Despite the warnings in the memories he now held, Viserys had underestimated just how filthy an ancient Essosi port could be. Even for someone who had once walked the dank underways of Lys and Tyrosh, this was a brutal assault on the senses.
Luckily, they didn't linger. The horses trotted briskly through the market lanes, past the crumbling city walls, and soon they were beyond the city gates, out into the open air of the coastal plains.
Although the area outside the city where people had gathered was scarcely more hospitable, the open space offered a wide view and better air circulation.
But the relief of fresh air did not last long. Soon, they arrived at a mid-sized encampment a few hundred paces east of the city. The camp was pitched on a plain well apart from the sprawling slums clinging to the inner moat, and near one of the old Valyrian stone roads that still stretched across Essos, a relic of empire.
The fortifications were rudimentary: simple wooden stakes ringed the encampment in a loose perimeter, clearly thrown together for temporary use.
Despite its makeshift nature, the camp was heavily manned with soldiers and horses. At the gate, guards demanded to verify Illyrio's credentials before granting entry, their tone respectful but firm.
Numerous mule-drawn carts stood in rows, each laden with bales of goods bolts of cloth, salted meats, wineskins, and chests bound with iron.
Above the gate, the blue and silver emblem of Pentos the crescent moon above a tower fluttered beside the banner of the City Guard.
Once inside, Viserys began to observe with a critical eye.
He had once served as a centurion in another life, and though his current form bore different memories, his instincts remained sharp. From the spacing of tents and layout of supply lines, he quickly estimated no more than five hundred individuals in the camp.
Only a small fraction appeared to be true soldiers—no more than fifty clad in bronze or iron, armed with short spears and round shields. The rest were logistical personnel and aides to the merchant-princes, clad in undyed linen or leather, clearly untrained in combat.
Among them walked a handful of personal retainers wearing boiled leather and curved swords bodyguards to the governors, by their posture and discipline.
Viserys, in his borrowed squire's garb, blended into the background. A worn leather helmet concealed his silver-gold hair and much of his face.
A Pentoshi guide walked beside Illyrio, casually briefing him on matters of the caravan guard rotations, rendezvous points, and distribution of tribute.
When they reached the central pavilion, a richly adorned tent stitched with Myrish patterns, Illyrio instructed his guards to remain outside. He entered alone to conduct business.
He had told Viserys earlier: if any issues arose, he was to speak with the captain of his guards the same man who had accompanied him to Lys, a silent and stern figure suspected to be a eunuch.
That man's bearing and discipline confirmed Viserys's suspicion: Illyrio's personal guard were Unsullied.
Viserys made no comment and kept still.
His silence and restraint did not go unnoticed. Illyrio, always reading others, was pleased by his show of composure.
But Viserys had no intention of pleasing the magister. He wanted to observe, learn, and remain inconspicuous.
Within fifteen minutes of their arrival, the camp stirred to life. One by one, the merchant-princes of Pentos emerged from their tents, each surrounded by scribes, heralds, and household guards. Messengers dashed to and fro, relaying orders.
Soon, the mood shifted the caravan was preparing to move.
Outside the tent, the attendants began to assemble. Despite the bustle, there was no disorder.
Viserys noticed most of the governors' guards bore the same look as Illyrio's: silent, unflinching, and wholly devoid of expression. These were Unsullied gelded at childhood, trained to obey without question, and forged into the deadliest infantry in Essos.
It seemed their use had become common among Pentoshi elites.
This made sense. After Pentos's defeat by Braavos in the War of the Ninepenny Kings' aftermath, their peace treaty forbade the city from raising standing armies, hiring free companies, or maintaining foreign garrisons. With private arms restricted, the merchant-princes had turned to the only option permitted purchasing Unsullied from Astapor to guard their persons and estates.
In fact, the most significant martial presence in the city came not from secular forces but from the militant arm of the Temple of R'hllor, whose Red Priests had risen in political influence.
Viserys didn't know all these details, but he noted them intuitively. Standing among the Unsullied, he could not help but wonder whether Illyrio's decision to dress him as a mere squire was a calculated slight or a subtle protection.
Perhaps both.
By the time the last mule cart departed, laden with goods, Illyrio emerged from the tent accompanied by several governors. They exchanged pleasantries, nodded farewells, and dispersed—some returning to the city, others riding east to follow the mule train.
Illyrio lingered until the rest had gone. Then, with a wave, he summoned Viserys and his retinue. Mounting his gilded palanquin, he led them along the Valyrian road, flanked by his mounted servants.
They rode in silence across the plains, the ancient stonework of the road clicking under iron hooves. After five or six miles, they came upon a small river, its clear waters flowing southwest toward the Rhoyne.
Though far from the great river itself, this tributary marked a natural waypoint.
Here, Illyrio's carriage veered from the path. Instead of following the tribute caravan, he directed the procession toward a nearby hillock, its slopes low but commanding a clear view of the surrounding lands.
The magister stepped from his carriage, mounted a waiting gelding, and led Viserys up the incline. His attendants kept their distance.
"Your Majesty," Illyrio said, bowing slightly, "I apologize for the indignity. The attire, the delay please forgive it."
Viserys, schooling his expression, replied with forced grace. "Think nothing of it, Lord Magister. I understand your caution."
Illyrio nodded, satisfied, and quickly changed the subject. "This spot offers an excellent vantage. From here, we will witness the Dothraki receive their gifts. They'll be arriving shortly."
"I had thought we would be visiting their camp directly," Viserys commented, squinting toward the distant horizon.
Beyond the river lay a dry plain scoured by wind and time. The earth turned from ochre to gray where it met the low hills, and a faint ribbon of road curved through patches of green grass, no doubt trampled flat by thousands of hooves.
Illyrio smiled. "Their camp is far deeper into the grasslands. The Dothraki never pitch their tents near city walls. Even here, their proximity unsettles the populace."
He gestured grandly toward the open plains. "This is their land the Dothraki Sea. We bring the gifts here. Their riders send an escort. The exchange occurs quickly, without incident."
Viserys gave a faint nod, half-listening. He noted the positioning: this place, while scenic, was also strategic. Cavalry could ride swiftly in any direction across the flatland.
Illyrio, emboldened, added with a chuckle, "Not that we fear these horse-lords. The Red Priests assure us the Lord of Light shields Pentos. Even if a thousand khalasars came charging down, the flames would protect us."
Viserys, not eager to challenge religious delusions, simply ignored the latter half of the boast.
Indeed, from what he'd seen, Pentos had every reason to maintain distance. The eastern plain, ideal for cavalry maneuvers, would become a death trap if the Dothraki decided to attack. A single Khal's whim could reduce Pentos to ash and ruin.
"Still," Viserys said, "how do you know it's truly them? What's to stop a lesser khalasar from posing as Drogo's men to claim richer spoils?"
Illyrio laughed softly, eyes glinting. "We know, Your Majesty. The Dothraki do not tolerate impostors."
Viserys heard Illyrio's confident remark and couldn't help but sneer inwardly. His tone was vague and careless as he replied, "It seems you've had plenty of practice with this sort of arrangement."
Illyrio vaguely sensed the sarcasm and turned his head to look at Viserys, but the young man's face, largely obscured by the leather helmet, revealed only a composed expression of anticipation, as if his focus was entirely on waiting for the Dothraki to appear. His earlier remark now seemed like nothing more than idle small talk.
Looking out across the plains toward the distant trail of the mule cart caravan, Viserys's sharp gaze soon caught sight of curling plumes of smoke rising from beyond the low hills. The terrain was sparse and open a broad, windswept expanse that bore the marks of passing herds and raiding parties. As the smoke drifted upward, distant figures began to emerge from the foot of the hills, their silhouettes multiplying rapidly.
Within moments, a sprawling mass of horsemen and riders flowed down from the distant ridges. Though three or four miles away, the cavalry's movement was unmistakable. To the naked eye, the riders and horses looked no larger than ants, but the sheer density of the formation made it difficult to count their numbers accurately.
Dark wolf-smoke from their campfires spiraled into the sky like colossal ropes rising from the earth to hook the clouds. From behind this curtain of smoke, the Dothraki horde poured forth like a living tide, gradually converging on the mule train trudging through the wilderness.
Viserys, who had once commanded a century of knights in the open plains of Hyrule during his previous life, gauged the Dothraki's numbers with practiced instinct. He estimated that there were about 1,500 riders arranged in three distinct units of five hundred, moving with surprising discipline for a culture known more for ferocity than formation.
It was a display calculated for effect. In mere moments, the horde materialized like spirits called forth by the smoke—then galloped from the hills with a surge of hooves and dust. The visual impact was undeniable. The cavalry spread out across the terrain like a dark wave rolling over the wilderness, a scene that might have impressed a lesser man.
In modern times, saturated with information and fictional spectacles, few truly grasp the visceral might of a thousand cavalry charging as one. Even the largest set pieces in the Game of Thrones series—like the Battle of the Bastards or the Dothraki charge at the Loot Train ambush—could only capture a fragment of that primal terror. On the battlefield, a thousand riders could stretch out over hundreds of yards, their approach thundering like a coming storm.
The Dothraki rarely maintained tight formations. Trained for fluid warfare, they favored swift, chaotic strikes—raids more than battles, hunts more than sieges. Yet today, their posture was ceremonial, a theatrical display of power. At a mile's distance from the mule carts, they suddenly let out a fierce war cry and charged.
But it was only for show.
The thunderous gallop came to an abrupt halt just before contact. Then, like an artist rearranging paint on a canvas, the horsemen broke and reformed into two wings, encircling the caravan. Their intent was clear: to escort, not attack.
Even from the hilltop, Viserys could feel the reverberations of their movement. The ground shook with the force of hooves, and a trail of dust marked their path like a comet's tail.
It was an awe-inspiring display—but Viserys remained unimpressed.
These were still men. Flesh and blood. He had stood before greater horrors—marching columns of mutated beasts, eldritch monstrosities in other lifetimes. He had once commanded warriors to strike at dragons and had even briefly glimpsed the world through a dragon's eyes.
The display did serve as a tactical reminder: if he were ever to use dragonfire against a large army, it would be best to catch them tightly packed in formation. Even a dragon's flame had limits—against scattered infantry, the devastation diminished. The Targaryens had learned this bitterly during the First Dornish War, where even with three dragons, Dorne had never been fully conquered. The scattered terrain and elusive tactics had outlasted fire and fury alike.
Illyrio's eyes remained on Viserys. He had noticed the shifting expressions—calculation, remembrance, strategy. Mistaking them for awe, he asked with a hint of pride, "Your Majesty, what do you make of these Dothraki riders?"
Viserys could hear the eagerness in Illyrio's voice. Whether it was genuine admiration for the Dothraki or simply part of the performance meant to impress him, he couldn't say.
He looked at Illyrio seriously, his voice even: "I understand now."
He spurred his horse gently, riding closer to Illyrio, and continued, "You're not like those idle nobles who throw coin at ambition for the thrill of it. You've drawn up a plan—not just fantasies, but logistics. You've gone to great lengths to make it appear feasible. That takes more than gold—it takes conviction."
Illyrio's brows lifted slightly. This wasn't quite the praise he'd expected, but it wasn't a dismissal either.
Viserys's tone grew more resolute. "You needn't try any harder to prove yourself, Lord Illyrio. If I sit the Iron Throne again, the office of Master of Coin shall be yours. That's a promise."
Illyrio paused. That wasn't the emotional payoff he was angling for. He blinked once, unsure if the young man's response was a brush-off or a mark of calculated trust. "Your Majesty?" he asked cautiously.
Viserys didn't answer at once. He rode a few paces ahead, then reined in his horse, letting the silence build like a curtain.
Illyrio hesitated. He saw Viserys glance over his shoulder, beckoning him forward, as if to share something meant only for trusted ears.
For the first time in a long while, uncertainty flickered in the fat magister's eyes. But curiosity and ambition—proved stronger. After a moment of deliberation, he rode forward.
The Dothraki continued to gather in the distance, a storm coiled beneath the sun. And on the low hill above, two men leaned in—schemes and secrets simmering in the hot wind.
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