Once the other men had left, Ser Kevan summoned Cole to his tent.
"Please, take a seat." Kevan gestured to a chair beside him. "Tywin spoke highly of you. He has placed me in command of the army, so I wanted to ask for your counsel."
Kevan studied the young man before him. Cole's short hair was streaked with white—a rare sight for someone so young. Kevan wasn't sure what had caused it, but the contrast only made the lad appear more severe, more hardened.
Cole, for his part, paid no attention to his hair. It had always been this way, and he had been wearing a helmet often enough that it hardly mattered.
"I don't believe Lord Tywin expects us to take Riverrun," Cole said. "His goal is to keep the Tully forces occupied—to prevent them from uniting with Stark's army. If they regroup, they could disrupt our supply lines and strike at our rear."
Kevan nodded approvingly. The more he observed Cole, the more he was reminded of his brother—not in appearance, but in manner.
"So you suggest a siege without an assault?"
"We don't have the strength to take Riverrun," Cole explained. "Half our siege equipment has been destroyed, and our numbers have been cut in half.
We can't afford to divide our forces further. Right now, we don't even have the ability to completely encircle the castle—if the Tullys decide to sally out through another gate, we may not be able to stop them."
Kevan fell silent, deep in thought. Unlike Tywin, he was not a man of sharp, immediate decisions. It often took him time to work through his brother's intentions. But now, Cole had laid it out plainly.
Tywin needed pressure on the North. The Lannisters had won two battles, and their momentum was strong. If they hoped to gain the upper hand in future negotiations, they could not afford to retreat now.
And yet, their only real hostage was Sansa Stark.
Kevan exhaled heavily. "So Riverrun remains beyond our reach…" He shook his head. He had spent his life as Tywin's deputy, always in his shadow. Even in battle, command had gone to Jaime. Now, the weight of leadership sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.
After a moment, Cole spoke again. "Edmure Tully was our prisoner, wasn't he? Could we use him to convince Riverrun to surrender?"
Kevan grimaced. "He was taken back in the chaos. Edmure Tully is now in command inside the castle."
Both men fell silent.
They had won battles, but what had they truly gained? They had lost Jaime. They had lost key prisoners. And though they held captives of their own, they were far from equal to those in the North's grasp.
For this stalemate to break, one of the two Lannister armies had to succeed. But marching north was no simple feat. Cole understood the dangers of the Neck, and even more so of Moat Cailin.
Tywin would never be foolish enough to charge into such a death trap. He would try to lure the enemy into open battle instead.
The Northern army had not yet shattered. This war would not end quickly.
And as for Riverrun…
A direct assault was out of the question. There were nearly a thousand men within its walls. Though the Lannisters still outnumbered them, storming such a stronghold would be madness.
Their army was not made up of hardened warriors, but of conscripted farmers and horsemen. They could fight well when victory was assured, but if the battle turned against them, they would break and flee.
Of course, this problem plagued both sides. The defenders would not be comfortable either.
Cole stared at the map, lost in thought. An idea formed.
Outside, the guards stationed at Kevan's tent only knew that Ser Cole had remained inside long into the night. When he finally emerged, he coughed a few times before disappearing into the darkness.
Cole's tent stood at the center of the Flame People's encampment. Ever since he had acquired full suits of armor and barding for their horses, they had followed him without question. To them, loyalty was simple—he had brought them wealth and power. That was all they needed. As long as he continued to provide, they would follow him without hesitation.
And so, in their eyes, he was now the King of Fire.
But habits died hard. The camp remained wild and chaotic, the way the barbarians preferred it. Still, Cole's own tent remained relatively quiet. As he passed through, his warriors saluted him, and he acknowledged them with a nod.
Right now, he only wanted sleep.
Exhaustion weighed on him like a heavy cloak. He barely had the strength to remove his armor before collapsing onto his mat. His eyelids fell shut the moment his head touched the ground, and sleep claimed him instantly.
"Where is this?"
Cole looked up, taking in the towering pavilions around him. He turned his head slowly, studying his surroundings. This was the world of his past life. But… hadn't he already left it behind? Hadn't he traveled beyond it?
As he wandered through the familiar streets, fragments of memory stirred in his mind. It had only been a year ago, yet the details were hazy. He could barely recall how he had made his way home.
Was that other world merely a dream?
Suddenly, the sound of a girl crying reached his ears. He followed the sorrowful wails until he found himself standing before a massive mirror.
Within its smooth surface, like a vision projected onto a screen, he saw a girl, her face twisted in despair. Countless dark hands clawed at her, dragging her into the abyss.
A strange sorrow welled up within Cole. He didn't know why, but he felt an unbearable grief for this girl.
Then, he saw it—thin threads of blood spilling from her body, weaving through the air like gossamer strands. Within those crimson threads, tiny droplets of blood floated, suspended.
And one of those threads was tied directly to him.
Before he could react, a shadow burst forth from the mirror. Darkness spread like unfurling wings, vast and endless.
Drogo's eyes opened in confusion.
His vision cleared, and he saw his moon, Daenerys, heavy with child.
She was the one foretold by the dosh khaleen, the "steed that would mount the world," the Khal of Khals.
But her face was deathly pale, her lips tinged a dark purple.
In his dream, he had seen a mighty horse descend from the sky. He had mounted it, riding across the Dothraki Sea, past the city-states of the Milk Men, and beyond the Black Sea. He had seen the Iron Throne and a pair of eyes burning with fire.
He was Khal Drogo, the mightiest of all Dothraki.
He would ride a wooden horse across the black salt water and claim the Iron Chair for his son, Rhaegal, the Stallion Who Mounts the World. He would lead his khalasar to conquer the lands beyond the sea.
Suddenly, his almond-shaped eyes snapped open. Blood surged to his face, and the bells in his long braid jingled with the movement.
He touched the wound festering on his chest. It had scarred over overnight. His body felt strangely light.
Stepping out of the tent, his sharp gaze swept over the camp. The slaves were already up, busy with their tasks. His blood riders stood close, watching him. When they saw him walking strong, their expressions brightened with relief.
Rumors had been spreading among the ko—the lesser warriors of his khalasar—that Khal Drogo was on the verge of death. Whispers of betrayal had begun to stir.
For among the Dothraki, when a great khal fell, a new one would rise from the strongest of his warriors. And such a succession was always bloody.
But when Drogo rode through his khalasar on horseback, strong and unwavering, the whispers ceased. His presence shattered all doubts. He would lead them westward, as he had always promised.
And as his fearsome horde thundered across the lands of Essos, entire cities trembled. Their children would be taken as slaves. Their women would become the playthings of wild stallions.
The Stallion Who Mounts the World would not be stopped.
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