The king sat in his tent, the smell of fermented goat's milk filling the air inside as he held out a horn to his guest.
"Twenty thousand Dothraki warriors has he, you say?" He watched with interest as his guest lifted the horn to his lips with both hands, a gesture of gratitude and submission, and drank deeply, before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. This foreigner could drink quite well.
"Yes, my master," the man seated before him replied. He appeared to be middle-aged, and from the far west, across the narrow sea by the look of it. The trade language of the Steppe came smoothly to his tongue. Across his lap, in its sheath, lay a Western longsword, beautifully decorated. He wore mail armor covered with a green surcoat, although the device on it was damaged and bloodied beyond recognition. His eyes were a pale gray, flecked with blue and green, and very round, the shape making him stand out among his hosts. His hair was short, dark, and thick, growing from the back of his neck, the backs of his hands, and of course, from his beard as well.
"Thank you for your service, soldier. Your name will be noted." The king turned to the scribe seated cross-legged at his right side. "After the battle is won, you may take first pick of any horse we capture. But you must have a down payment, of course." With a bell, a servant was summoned, bearing a chest of jewels and treasures that dazzled the eye. "What did you say your name was, soldier?"
"Jorah," the guest replied. "My name is Jorah."
"Very well, Shora the Soldier, for this good news you bear, you may now take any single article of jewelry that fits your fancy. Make your choice well!" The chest was laid on the carpeted floor beside him, and Jorah leaned over and picked a golden chain from the hoard, which, when laid out, would reach four feet in length. It was certainly valuable, and a gift fit for a king - or a queen. Hopefully this will reingratiate me to her, the visitor thought to himself.
The king looked thoughtfully at Ser Jorah and ran his fingers through his own beard, red as freshly-spilled blood. He closed his eyes and whispered what was likely a silent prayer to his god, and then spoke aloud, to the scribe, in his own language. "Make note of this decision well. Write thusly unto the Khals of the Dothraki:
"Thus says King Isiv, son of Arran, son of Zakki, Khagan of the Steppes, the Crook-Bearing Servant of the Great Shepherd, who will not turn from before his foes and does not relent until his enemies are cut down before him:
"Our brothers and sisters have suffered long enough at the hands of the sons of the perverse heretics. We offer them now a choice: they will return the way they came, their braids cut and their bells melted down, leaving behind all of our brothers and sisters that they have taken as slaves, as well as their Khals, leashed in chains, else I will take my armies, march across the Great Sea of Grass, and slaughter them in their hordes. I shall set their tents ablaze, hamstring their horses, enslave their men, women, and children, and level Vaes Dothrak, pulling down the Mother of Mountains atop its ruin. I will sow their sacred city with salt and water it with their blood, I will burn their temples in fire and grind their statues to powder. I will lead the Khallassars to such horrors that they will beg for death itself to free them, but it will not be granted.
"Those who survive the sword on the day of wrath that I bring will wish they had been struck through. The sun will rise and set, and they will beg for death, but it will not be given to them. They will suffer tortures beyond imagining and pain beyond reckoning, but they will not die, until I have extracted from their lips a full accounting of their people's sin against mine, and from their bodies pain equivalent to sevenfold the pain my people have felt at their hands.
"All this do I swear, this and more."
The scribe jotted down the king's command and then rose to fulfill it. He bowed to the guest and prostrated himself before the king, and exited, leaving the two alone in the tent.
"Take care, soldier. You indeed have a place in this great war to come." The king waved his guest away and called for his squires. Dutifully the two lads stepped within, and the king beckoned them closer, commanding then to arm him for battle. Over his silken caftan they laid gilded scale, brassy lamellar, and iron mail, and a helm with a wrought grimacing mask covered his face. His quiver and bow and saber and buckler were slung at his sides, and his lance was pressed into his hand. Outside the tent, his warhorse awaited, a stallion red as the king's hair and beard.
The warriors of the Southern Steppe gathered in their horde. On foot and on horse they came, the thirteen clans united into one horde, one army, one nation. One purpose had they, one creed, one faith.
King Isiv led his horse before his assembled warriors and spoke.
"Warriors of the Flock," he began, his eyes roving his audience, searching for weakness. "You have heard tell in the laws of our people not to slay without cause. You have heard tell in the laws of our people not to make war without the consent of the warriors who would go out to do battle. I ask you today to consider my proposal of this matter.
"For war have we gathered, and victory is our only goal. Not for my own wealth and glory and revenge do I seek to bring about this conflict, but for all of our people that are suffering at the hands of the enemy, that they may once again live in peace and prosperity.
"I have, as is my right, sent forth my ultimatum to the sons of the upstart heretic - to return all our people that languish in captivity, to never turn south of the Skazadhan, and to cut off their braids and leave their Khals, chained as they deserve to be.
"They will not follow these commands, of this I am certain. But will you, who have fought inhuman foes and survived, and warred with demons and emerged victorious, will you follow me into this war?"
The assembled warriors clashed their spears and shields together in a sound loud enough to rouse the dead. Horses roared and warriors shouted their assent, swearing oaths of slaughter and destruction upon their infamously-dreaded foes. When the roars of the warriors and the great and dreadful din finally subsided, officers and priestly commissars bearing great ceremonial maces and axes walked before the assembled fighters to separate those who could fight and those who were unfit for battle.