Moro
Moro's stallion crested the hill, hardly considering it a challenge. Beyond lay a thousand hills just like it, each obscured by thich fields of grass. The morning sun had just creasted the horizon, reflecting the dewdrops on the grass like the shimmering waters upon the Womb of the World. The sun had still not fully vanished the night's chill, and Moro rubbed his arms for warmth. Qavo had come riding this way earlier, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Wild as he were, Qavo was never the sort of boy to abandon his brother like that.
Chiding his brother's recklessness, Moro bucked the reins and continued onward into the gently sloping valley beneath him. Legends said that before the Dothraki had ruled the land, it was filled with mountains, but the Tall Men had torn them down and scoured the rubble for traces of gold and gemstones. Once, before Qavo was born and Moro could remember, a milk-man of Qarth arrived in the khalasar and demanded to be shown the way to the "mountain of gold". However, all he found was a back full of steel. Oh, how their father would laugh every time he retold the story!
Moro's reminiscing was suddenly ended by a single crack in the distance, several hills beyond. It was as if a man was smashing rocks together or forging an arakh... or Qavo was causing trouble again. Without a moment's hesistation, Moro urged his horse to ride faster and headed toward the source of the mysterious noise.
Over the next hill, he could see Qavo desperately running towards him... without a horse. Had Qavo, in his utter foolishness, managed to fall off his horse and wound it? His leather vest and face were smeared with dust, and he would occasionally stop to clutch at his left arm. Yes, he had definitely fallen from his horse. Moro knew not whether to laugh at the sight or take pity on his brother for the shame he would bring upon his name.
When Qavo was near enough, he hurriedly climbed up behind his brother and urged him to turn back immediately. Moro had seen fear in an animal's eyes enough times to know when a person was the same, and Qavo was full of it. He just hoarsely yelled over and over again about the milk-men and their warlocks killing his horse. Moro was starting to grow concerned that his brother had hit his head during the fall as well.
As he turned back toward the khalasar, Moro heard the sound of many hoofbeats growing rapidly closer. A glance behind showed a great many horse riders waving swords and wooden cudgels; some were as pale as the milk-men, while others looked like the traders of Yi Ti or the N'Ghai, and others still had the look of Dothraki. As evidenced by the uproar of whoops and war cries, it seemed that they noticed him, too, and with no good intention. Moro needed no further motivation to ride as fast as his horse could go.
The air was filled with loud cracks, like the ones he had heard before. Moro hazarded another glance behind him toward his mysterious assailants. Their clubs seemed to be the source of the racket, but he could not see the strangers hitting anything to make noise. Even stranger, smoke would billow from the ends of the weapons! Moro tried to urge his horse to ride even faster, but it could not. With every passing second, the unknown warband drew nearer and nearer.
Moro heard Qavo trying to shout something over the cracks, but he didn't fully hear it. When he turned around, he found his saddle empty. It was as if nobody had ever sat there, save for a splash of red dripping off the horse's flanks. Behind him, Moro could see his brother's body tumble to a stop, before jolting as the riders passed over it.
Moro's horse let out an unearthly cry and dropped, sending him crashing into the soil. He tried to scramble to his feet, only to find that his foot was in great pain and could not support any weight. Filled with fear, Moro closed his eyes and waited for the end with what little dignity he could muster. The riders had come to a stop and formed a circle around the fallen horse and rider. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind drifting through the grass sea to break the silence.
When Moro opened his eyes again, he was next to a white stallion. Upon it rode a slender milk-man, his hair fiery-red in the light of the rising sun and eyes that burned with an undying range words could never convey. Moro did all he could to meet the man's gaze, even as the milk-man raised a silver arakh and swung downward with all his might.
The man re-mounted his horse and the riders passed on, leaving two bodies to be swallowed up by the sun-drenched waves of the Dothraki Sea.