Khal Drogo

Khal Sido had never imagined a day when proud Dothraki warriors would suffer a defeat like this.

The armored cowards they had mocked now advanced like death itself, taking lives without the slightest concern for Dothraki honor.

Even brave warriors could be broken by an unfamiliar fear. Every rider caught in front of the heavy infantry was dead.

When the rhythmic drums sounded again and the armored line began to move forward, the remaining Dothraki felt a chill run through them. As one, they looked to Khal Sido.

As their leader, his choice would decide whether his people lived or died. He could choose fearless destruction, or he could choose humiliation and life. Neither end was one he wished to face.

Ronan did not give him long. The Blood Wolf line pressed closer, and as Sido watched more of his people fall, he made the correct choice.

"I will ride under you, and my khalasar with me. I ask only that you spare the innocent Dothraki."

"Innocent?" Ronan said. "I would not call you innocent."

Sido lowered his head, awkward and silent. Some answers were best met with silence.

Ronan was not petty enough to waste what had just fallen into his hands. Dothraki loyalty would be useful. Still, to be certain, he opened the status panel.

[System]

Name: Ronan Harrow
Class: Sellsword Commander
Weapons: Dagger, Bow, Spear

Talent: Conquest (An unpredictable talent with a chance to inspire absolute loyalty and infatuation in the target.)

Skills: Advanced Combat, Survival Mastery, Master of the Forge, Mounted Archery

Summoned Units: None
Sworn Followers: Jebe (Mongol Hero), Khal Sido and his warriors

Divergence Points: 105
Unlockable Units: Mongol Cavalry

"I accept your oath," Ronan said. "Your khalasar will be folded into the Blood Wolf Cavalry as its second wing. You will remain its commander."

"Yes."

The change in status did not anger Sido. If anything, loyalty to a stronger warrior was a tradition the Dothraki understood well.

Outsiders would say the heavy infantry had defeated Sido's khalasar. In truth, Jebe and the Blood Wolf riders had decided the battle.

Their superiority in mounted archery said enough. If even Jebe had chosen to serve Ronan, what reason did Sido have to refuse?

There was another truth as well. A man capable of building a heavy force that could frighten the Dothraki was worthy of comparison with any strong leader.

After taking in his first Dothraki khalasar, Ronan began widening his aim. He chose gradual encroachment, using Khal Sido to bring smaller Dothraki groups under control one by one.

Even with that caution, the powerful Khal Drogo eventually noticed Sido's new ambitions. When Drogo arrived with ten thousand riders and encircled Sido's territory, battle seemed unavoidable.

Facing Drogo's advance, Ronan felt his opportunity coming. From the beginning, he had been considering how to draw Drogo in.

A strong warrior always had pride. If an ambitious challenger appeared inside his lands, his first instinct would be to crush him.

But the most honorable way to destroy a man was not always to kill him. Sometimes it was to conquer him.

And conquering a powerful warrior would excite Drogo far more than conquering ordinary men. When Drogo entered Sido's tent, his eyes went straight to the man seated in the place of honor.

Only that man made him feel pressure. Yet his clothes marked him as no Dothraki. That made it interesting.

An outsider sat at the head of a khal's tent. Either Sido had lost his senses, or the khalasar had changed masters.

"Who are you?"

Drogo's bloodriders tensed at his tone.

"Ronan."

"Ronan. You are the one who conquered Sido?"

Drogo's gaze never left Ronan. Only a strong man could conquer another strong man, and this outsider had the bearing for it.

"That is one way to put it."

The answer stirred Drogo's temper. Even inside an enemy tent, he felt no fear. Sido, on the other hand, did not look entirely comfortable with the confrontation.

Drogo gave Sido only a passing glance and decided the man was not the warrior he had come for. The foreign conqueror was.

Drogo understood that Ronan had been waiting for him. Their eyes met. Both of them saw the same spark of challenge in the other.

Drogo drew the two arakhs at his waist. Ronan closed his hand around the dark, rippled dagger he had forged for himself.

The gift of the Master of the Forge gave him advantages no ordinary smith possessed, and he had come to love that dagger.

To Khal Drogo, however, the sight of it was a naked insult.

"You insult me," Drogo said, his voice low.

He started to cast one arakh aside. Ronan attacked before he could.

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