The sun is almost hidden behind the horizon, painting the steppe crimson. The sky seems to be burning, like the soul of a khal ready for new trials. A light wind walks across the endless expanses, ruffling Drogo's dark hair, braided into massive braids. He sits astride his war stallion, motionless as a statue, but there is fire in his eyes. This is the look of a man accustomed to bending the world to his will.

Drogo's thoughts "The earth. It is always here - patient, indifferent, eternal. But my people know how to make it tremble under our hooves. Tomorrow the rivers will be red with the blood of those who dare to challenge us. They think that walls will protect them. Fools. Walls break. Everything breaks if you apply enough force."

A low hum is heard behind him - his warriors are gathering around the fires. The sound of metal, the murmur of voices, the occasional laughter. It is not fear, it is anticipation. Everyone knows that their khal will lead them to glory or death. And those who die will feast with their ancestors. It is not frightening, it is inspiring.

Drogo turns his head. He does not need to shout to be noticed. One look - and the warriors freeze. He raises his hand, motioning for the nearest clan leaders to come forward. A few steps - and the most loyal are nearby. They are waiting for the word, the command that will lead them forward.

"Tomorrow we will remind this world who we are. They fear us, but they do not understand how justified their fear is. Their huts and cities are but bones that we will break. Their wealth will be ours, their cries - music for our victory songs. Prepare. Rest. Tomorrow is the day of hunting."

He speaks quietly, but every sound of his voice penetrates the hearts of the warriors, leaving a mark there. They part, clutching their weapons tighter than before. Drogo is left alone, looking into the distance again. The wind brings the scents of the night, and with them comes the sense of the inevitability of battle.

"If this is the last night before death, let it be long