"By the Horse God, what just happened?"
Aside from the few horsemen who had fallen to the ground, the remaining riders all felt a fleeting terror flash through them. It was as if a blazing fire had licked at their souls, or as though some devil from the land of night had seized their hearts in its spiked claws and squeezed hard.
They trembled, confused and panicked, pulling their reins but not daring to advance—until they saw the lone figure standing ahead: a warrior in a blue robe and silver armor, holding a greatsword.
Her face was obscured, but the graceful curve of her breastplate revealed that she was a woman.
Yet these horsemen, who had long treated women as mounts, dared not show her the slightest disrespect. From her radiated an unmistakable pressure of power. At that moment, even Drogon had left his dragon soul, while Daenerys still bore four within her.
A heavy weight pressed upon their chests, as though a slab of lead or an iron weight hung from their hearts. Even the air itself seemed dense and sodden, like a coat drenched in water.
Their throats went dry. They wanted to tug at their collars—but their Dothraki vests had none.
They also noticed that the fallen horsemen and mounts around them formed a fan-shaped pattern, and that the tall woman with her hand resting on her greatsword stood precisely at its center.
The Dothraki might be hard-headed, but they were not fools. They all shared the same unspoken understanding.
They didn't know exactly what she had done, but every one of them knew—she was the one responsible.
"Witch-demon!" one of them screamed hoarsely.
"Loose! Kill the witch-demon!"
A hundred meters away, the khal raised his curved blade and shouted the order.
The air filled with the hum of bowstrings.
In an instant, the sky darkened under a storm of arrows, pelting Daenerys like rain upon banana leaves.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The armor forged by the Smith himself fit the Dragon Queen's body perfectly, leaving not the slightest gap for an arrow to pierce.
Forged from Valyrian steel, it was utterly impervious to bone, bronze, or black iron.
And many of the Dothraki arrows weren't even metal-tipped—merely sharpened wood and bamboo.
"You dare attack me? Then die!"
Such pitiful resistance could not harm her at all. It only enraged her.
She had intended to impress her son, to make him submit willingly.
A surge of power burst forth.
From her back sprang two immense wings—pure and radiant as doves, yet formed of white, holy fire. Every feather was distinct, heavy with a palpable, searing majesty.
This time, she did not restrain the flames of her wings.
With a gentle beat, the green grass around her withered, curling and yellowing before bursting into flames.
At that moment, the laws of nature themselves seemed to break. Newton would have turned away in shame. The Dragon Queen had shed most of her weight.
With a metallic ring, she leapt forward several meters, drawing her sword as the scabbard fell away behind her.
The four-foot-long, half-foot-wide blade gleamed coldly in the fiery light.
Running faster and faster, the winged figure seemed as swift as a galloping horse, as light as a startled swan.
Whereas the martial masters of the East could tread upon grass without leaving a trace, Daenerys's magical qigong left a trail of fire in her wake. The ground blazed wherever she passed, burning a brilliant path across the plain.
The white blade dragging behind her began to glow with crimson runes from guard to tip, turning the iron sword into a flaming weapon of destruction.
Though it all seemed to happen slowly in words, only four or five seconds passed from the moment she drew her sword and charged to when she reached the two thousand Dothraki riders still loosing arrows.
In those few seconds, she had crossed a hundred meters. Magic surging, she reached the peak of acceleration. The last trace of gravity transformed into lifting force, and she soared upward like a great bird, gliding more than thirty meters before landing squarely in the midst of the enemy ranks.
"Kill!"
Empowered by the fivefold dragon spirits, her soul-breaking strike rippled outward like waves.
A thunderous explosion followed as the divine fire of the Smith infused the sword, distorting the air around her.
One sweep of her flaming blade cleaved through several horsemen at once. Their bodies split cleanly in two before blood could spill, bursting instead into orange flame that consumed their clothes and hair.
The battlefield erupted in chaos.
Horses screamed and toppled, men howled and fell. Within a hundred meters around her, the world was filled with fire, ash, and terror.
Daenerys stood motionless at the center of the storm, holding the blazing royal sword, momentarily dazed by her own display.
That alone should have been enough. The soul-breaking strike of the dragon spirit was more than sufficient to wipe out the rabble—the flaming sword almost seemed excessive.
"These weaklings…" she muttered with disappointment.
Losing all interest in further showmanship, she summoned Drogon down from the skies.
"The Mother of Dragons!" someone cried.
"Khalessi!"
"It's the Khaleesi from beyond the Sunset Sea!"
Those who still retained their senses finally recognized her—the one who had unleashed that devastating power.
Many shouted her title: Khaleesi.
Among the fallen were Jhaqo's bloodriders and the warriors of Qarth who had once followed Khal Drogo. Many of these very horsemen had been Drogo's men, now serving a new khal and hunting the remnants of their old leader.
It was not treachery that guided them, but the law of the Dothraki Sea—where the weak serve the strong.
"To survive, one must follow power."
Daenerys's eyes swept over them.
"Who is your Khal?" she asked coldly.
After Drogon burned several hundred horsemen who tried to flee, the remaining two thousand knights all surrendered obediently.
The Dragon Queen raised a blazing fireball in her hand, looked around, and shouted in Dothraki, "After Khal Jhaqo's death, five new khals emerged. Step forward, all of you!"
The nearest horsemen were twenty meters away. Their almond-shaped eyes widened in terror as they stared at the fireball radiating light and heat in midair, at the inhuman Khaleesi beneath it, and at the great dragon sweeping above like a shadow of doom.
"Dragon Queen, I am Khal Tepu. I yield to you!"
A tall horseman in his forties stepped forward. His face was painted with blue oil in the shape of a gate symbol, and a half-meter-long braid trailed behind him, jingling with a line of bells each time he moved.
When he came within ten meters of the Dragon Queen, Khal Tepu knelt on one knee, drew his arakh, pressed the blade to the back of his head, and sliced off his greasy black braid. He threw it at the Queen's feet.
"Only you?" Dany asked.
"I was the strongest khal after Khal Jhaqo," Tepu said. "I command three thousand screamers. I hunted down Jhaqo's bloodriders and his sons. They have no cause for worry."
"Where are your bloodriders? Call them out," said Dany.
Tepu hesitated, puzzled, but still beckoned toward the crowd. Three strong horsemen—one young, two middle-aged—stepped forward.
Dany lifted her foot and kicked Tepu's severed braid back toward him. The bells rang sharply as it fell.
Looking at the four Dothraki, whose faces were filled with shock and confusion, she said, "I don't want your surrender. I want your khalasar."
"You are not a khal!" Tepu shouted angrily.
"I am not," Dany nodded, raising her voice, "I am the rider of the world's great stallion. I am the supreme Khaleesi of the Dothraki Sea. All horsemen must bow before me."
It sounded rather awkward, but Dany wasn't trying to steal that somewhat ridiculous title from her supposed son.
"The rider of the world's great stallion" was a literal translation; the true meaning was "Heavenly Khagan."
Even if Rhaego truly was the prophesied rider of the world's great stallion, he could only be the second of his kind—he'd have to wait until the Dragon Queen retired.
Khal Tepu was stunned, then furious. "You're delusional!" he roared. "You're a woman. A woman can never be the rider of the world's great stallion—everyone knows that!"
"Everyone knows that!" his three bloodriders echoed loudly.
"Everyone knows that!" murmured the surrounding horsemen, glancing at one another, their voices rising in scattered agreement.
"Then come," Dany said, raising her sword and pointing it at Tepu. "This is a khal's challenge. I am Khaleesi, you are Khal, and we each have a khalasar. We fight to the death, and the victor takes all. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that!" her bloodriders shouted, drawing their blades and standing at her side.
"Ev-er-y-one-knows-that!" boomed Drogon's thunderous voice from above the stars.
The gathered horsemen shuddered and looked up at the sky, their eyes rolling white in terror.
"Everyone knows that!" the black dragon roared again.
"Everyone knows that! Everyone knows that!" The horsemen began to chant. At first it was scattered, but soon the entire host was shouting together, their voices echoing far across the plains.
Khal Tepu and his bloodriders turned pale, their faces twisting in fear and fury.
That was the way of a khal's khalasar—easily won, easily lost, and only strength endured.
Such was Dothraki custom. Everyone knew it, and no one defied it.
"Fine! I'll fight you—but no sorcery!" Tepu barked. Fierce as he was, even having seen Dany's unstoppable might, he still had the courage to draw his sword.
"Agreed," Dany replied, nodding. She advanced to meet him.
Tepu was no weakling. His curved blade moved as if alive, and he fought with agile, darting motions, striking sparks from Dany's chest, shoulder, and waist.
But his attacks did little more than nick his own blade. They didn't even force Dany to shed a single drop of blood.
The Dragon Queen's swordsmanship was grand and fluid, full of power without losing speed. After only seven or eight seconds—perhaps a dozen quick exchanges—her sword came down upon the horseman's shoulder.
It was like a woodsman chopping a tree. From left shoulder to right chest, the man was cleaved clean in two with a single blow.
He hadn't even worn armor, only a Dothraki-painted vest of tanned sheepskin.
Dany stepped lightly aside, moving two paces to avoid the gushing spray of blood.
The entire field fell silent.
The screamers said nothing. Jogo stood calm and still. The three bloodriders glared with red-rimmed eyes.
Then Dany cut down one of the bloodriders herself, while Jogo, clad in Valyrian steel mail, slew the remaining two.
"Khaleesi! Rider of the world's great stallion!"
More than two thousand screamers dropped to one knee in unison, bowing their heads and offering their horsewhips to Dany.
That gesture meant they acknowledged the result of the khal's duel and formally swore allegiance to her.
Dany smiled faintly, stepped past her newly claimed horsemen, and found Mago collapsed on the ground, dazed and dizzy.
The former bloodrider of Khal Jhaqo noticed her approach, glared at her with wide almond eyes, and shouted hoarsely, "Call your dragon! Let it eat me—burn me alive with dragonfire!"
"Do you still remember that girl's name?" Dany asked.
The question came out of nowhere, but Mago immediately understood whom she meant. He had never forgotten his feud with the Dragon Queen.
"I never knew her name," he said, laughing madly. "I don't even remember her face—only that she was a sheepherder with big tits! Hahaha!"
(End of Chapter)
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