TBOV: Chapter Twenty-Three: Eastward Expansion

Chapter Twenty-Three: Eastward Expansion

“The horselords come, we give them gifts, the horselords go.”

―Qavo Nogarys to Haldon

…

Ghoyan Drohe had been dead a thousand years, yet the city would not stay buried. Mounded walls of Rhoynar mud‑brick streamed outward like the ribs of some colossal carcass, and now the Red Cloaks were grafting new flesh atop the bones: timber palisades, stone blockhouses, and a ditch so wide a horse could break its leg and never find the bottom. Luthor Sand had walked the circuit at dawn. The smell of wet clay and pitch lingered in his boots still, as did the sweet copper tang of the river beyond.

Now, in the half‑roofed courtyard that served as his hall, the marshal presided over a feast he scarcely tasted. Sweat beaded under his gorget; the evening was thick and windless, filled with the buzz of Rhoyne‑midges and the louder hum of a hundred tongues. Dothraki voices carried above the rest—sharp, laughing, impatient. Like crows squabbling over a corpse, Luthor thought, schooling his face to a pleasant indifference.

Across the low table, Khal Rhozko lounged upon a saddle‑blanket of black bear‑skin, a gilt arakh resting across his knees. Thick black braid coiled down his back, bells chiming whenever he reached for food. Beside him waited two bloodriders, stern and silent. They ate with knives of dull bronze, hacking charred horseflesh from a whole roast stallion that steamed and bled in the torchlight.

Luthor lifted his cup. The fermented mare’s milk within smelled of sour apples and wet leather. He forced a swallow, let the sting coat his tongue, and offered the khal a tooth‑white grin. “Your cooks do me honor, mighty Rhozko. The meat is rich, the milk strong.”

The khal bared his teeth—half smile, half challenge. “Your stone‑house men learn quickly. Even your little eunuchs know to salt the haunch before the flame.” He spoke Westerosi with a harsh accent, but perfectly well. “Better than Qartheen slim‑waists, who drown the meat in sweet wine.”

“My men will be pleased,” Luthor replied with a smile of his own. He never loved the Dothraki, nor did he believe they were worth the horses they rode. Yet tonight he smiled and drank and roared laughter as if the Khal were his brother, and every horse-lord gathered within the half-raised palisades of this fort was his kin.

He had spent a month preparing this reception. Fresh horseflesh, tents pitched inside the walls so the khal need not pass beneath a true roof, and gifts: a stallion foaled from Dornish coursers, its coat white as dune‑sand; three silver‑shod mares; a mirror‑bright arakh forged from Pentoshi steel. All were arrayed behind him beneath banners stitched with the three‑headed dragon, red on black. The khal had accepted each with casual nods—yet his eyes lingered on the mares greedily as though measuring their worth.

Fool, Luthor thought. Barbarians.

A hush rippled through the Red Cloaks gathered round the courtyard when pipes began to play. Five girls from the river villages stepped forward, anklets jingling, veils shimmering bronze in the torch‑glow. They danced the spiral of the Rhoyne, hips rolling like the river’s own slow bends. The Dothraki roared approval; bloodriders pounded fists upon the earth. One with braids so long he had to wrap it around his waist like a belt took a girl and began fucking her against the wall.

Luthor clapped in turn, though he watched the khal more than the dancers. Rhozko’s gaze followed the girls with hungry amusement, flicking to the bloodrider who had stepped out of line. Considering. Men are men, Luthor mused, horse‑lords doubly so.

When the music ebbed, Luthor leaned in. “Your khalasar camps two thousand strong beyond the north dunes, yet not one hoof has crossed the ditch. Peace between us is welcome.”

“Peace for now,” the khal answered. He tore free a chunk of red meat, grease shining on his beard. “You build stone nests on horse‑roads. My riders do not forget such things.”

“Nor do I ask them to forget.” Luthor spread his hands. “Only to hunt richer game. Myrish caravans crawl the Orange Shore like maggots on carrion. Littered with silks, sapphires, sun‑gold. Easy plunder for swift riders who know the salt plains.”

One of the bloodriders spat onto the dirt. “You would send the dothrae mar across half a kingdom so your stone men may squat here unbothered?”

“I would send brave riders to wealth,” Luthor countered, voice calm. “Myr closes the coast‑road to Volantis, fearful of our dragons. Ships rot at dock, wagons choke the river fords. Their merchants grumble, trapped. A khal who cut them a new road—south along the Orange Shore—would grow braids heavy with bells.” He let the words settle. “Besides, my Prince desires friendship. He respects the strength of your riders, your speed, your ferocity. Why spill blood between warriors when gold and glory wait elsewhere? Your foragers have tasted our grain stores and you would agree that they could be better. Imagine tasting Myrish wine, Myrish girls, Myrish silver. All without risking dragonfire.”

A murmur coursed through the nearby riders. Rhozko fingered a bell at the end of his braid, consideration clouding his dark eyes.

“You speak of dragons,” he said at length. “Sky‑demons. Your silver prince rides one. They say she’s the size of a mountain.”

“Vhagar is bigger,” Luthor lied smoothly. “She circles the Narrow Sea, not far from these sands. Here you face only men.” He paused a beat. “And friendship, should you wish it.”

Rhozko’s chuckle was low and rumbling. “Friendship with wall‑builders is frail.” He gestured up at the half‑finished rampart. Work‑lamps glimmered along its crest, where Red Cloaks labored even by night, driving iron spikes into green timber. “Stone and wood topple beneath a thousand hooves.”

Fool, Luthor thought again, but outwardly he smiled again. He tapped a nearby shield propped against a wine‑jar—layered oak and boiled leather, rimmed in iron. “Topple a wall, and you find men beneath it. Spears, swords, discipline. Would your riders bleed for scraps when better pickings lie south?”

Another sip of mare’s milk—another grimace hastily concealed. Luthor set the cup aside. Time for the seal.

He clapped twice. Two guards emerged from the shadows, escorting a mule cart draped in crimson cloth. They wheeled it before the khal. With a flourish, Luthor whipped the cloth away.

Inside lay twelve casks of Myrish fire‑wine, stamped with the sigil of House Spicer; bolts of dyed silk in peacock hues; and a chest overflowing with crescent moons of silver coin. But amid these luxuries, pride of place went to a severed head, pickled in pale vinegar—its eyes sewn shut, its lips stitched with golden thread.

Rhozko’s brows rose. “Who is this?”

“Zaloro Rahl,” Luthor said softly. “A Myrish trade‑prince. He sent word last moon that Dothraki are savages unworthy of tribute. I disagreed.”

The khal stared a heartbeat longer, then threw back his head and laughed. Torches shivered in the sound. His bloodriders joined, slapping their chests. One of the younger Red Cloaks flinched at the savage mirth; the others watched impassively, faces schooled by drill.

Rhozko rose, towering, his braid swaying. He hefted the silver‑bound arakh Luthor had gifted him, testing its balance. “Perhaps this road of yours deserves a look, stone man.”

The khal studied Luthor anew. “You bargain well for a man who hates riders.”

Luthor’s heart lurched, but he kept his smile. “I respect riders, great khal. As I respect any power that wins what it desires.”

Rhozko gave a slow nod. “I will ride south at first thaw. If the Orange Shore fattens my herds, I shall send you a foal from the spoils.” The promise hung like a drawn bow. Foals are a khal’s oath, Luthor recalled from his tutors. A good sign.

“In return,” the khal went on, “your men stay west of the Painted Hills. The river shall be our border.” He stabbed the arakh into the earth between them, blade humming. “Cross it, and I will braid my hair with your entrails.”

The courtyard stilled. Luthor inclined his head just so. “The Rhoyne will flow red before that day.”

Another roar of laughter rolled out, and the tension eased. Rhozko tugged the arakh free, wiped the tip on a tuft of grass, and sheathed it.

He signaled to his captains. Wine flowed anew; dancers returned, flickers of bronze and shadow. The Dothraki feasted louder than before, and Red Cloaks shuffled back to their posts atop the walls, eyes wary but shoulders looser.

Luthor let the sounds wash over him, the clang of distant hammers, the rumble of barges on the river, the soft crackle of torches devouring pine‑pitch. Somewhere beyond the gatehouse, a messenger from Ny Sar would be cantering through the dark with fresh requisitions; tomorrow he would draft another caravan schedule, another roster of levies marching east from ports at Pentos. The realm’s arteries pulsed with supply, and tonight he had spared them a knife at the throat.

For now, he reminded himself. The khalasar rides south, but one day Aemond will turn north, and the hoofbeats will drum against our shields instead of Myrish gates. Luthor pictured that distant field, ranks of scarlet cloaks braced behind their wall of shields, dragons wheeling overhead, and horse‑lords breaking like waves on rock.

When the Free Cities learn to submit, the plains would be next. He felt no pity. The world was wide, but the prince’s ambitions were wider. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Khal Rhozko raised his cup, crying a toast in gutteral Dothraki. Luthor mirrored the gesture with his own, though he sipped sparingly; the mare’s milk curdled in his gut. Around them, laughter, bells, and drums rolled together. The night steamed with heat and the scent of roasted horse.

“To Marshal Sand,” Rhozko toasted, raising his cup, eyes glittering dangerously. “May his walls stand firm until we meet again.”