"Great Horse God above, what just happened?"
The surviving riders, aside from those thrown to the ground, all felt a fleeting surge of terror—as if flames had briefly scorched their very souls, or as if some demon from the land of night had gripped their hearts with barbed claws and squeezed.
They were terrified, bewildered, and panic-stricken. They pulled at their reins, frozen in place, until they saw the lone figure standing ahead—a knight in a blue robe and silver armor, wielding a greatsword.
Her face was hidden, but the elegant curve of her breastplate revealed she was a woman.
Yet, for the horsemen who treated women as mere mounts, not one dared show her disrespect. From her emanated a pressure that felt real and crushing—at that moment, even if Drogon was detached from his spirit bond, Daenerys herself was still fused with the souls of four dragons.
Their hearts felt unbearably heavy, as if weighed down by lead or an iron weight. Even the air itself seemed thick and heavy, like a soaked coat pressing down on them.
The horsemen's throats went dry. They longed to loosen their collars—but Dothraki vests had no collars to tug.
They soon realized something else. All the fallen horsemen and mounts formed a fan-shaped pattern on the ground, with the tall, sword-bearing knight at its very center.
Horsemen might be hard-headed, but they were not fools. They shared a wealth of instinctive, tribal common sense.
They didn't understand what she had done, but they knew, without a doubt, that all of it was her doing.
"Witch! Sorceress!" one of them screamed.
"Loose the arrows! Kill the witch!"
A hundred meters away, the khal raised his curved blade and roared his command.
Thwang! Whizz!
In an instant, the sky filled with arrows raining down like a storm upon Daenerys.
Clang! Clink!
The armor forged by the Smith among the Seven fit the Dragon Queen perfectly, leaving not a single gap for an arrow to slip through.
Forged from Valyrian steel, it could not be pierced by bone, bronze, or black-iron arrowheads—let alone by the crude wooden or bamboo-tipped arrows of many Dothraki warriors.
"You're courting death!"
The attacks didn't harm her in the slightest, but they did ignite her fury.
She had intended to make a grand display before her bastard son—to command his awe and submission.
Boom!
From her silver armor unfurled a pair of vast wings, pure and radiant like those of a dove, formed from white, sacred flame. Every feather gleamed with tangible weight and blazing majesty.
This time, she didn't suppress the fire's power.
The angelic wings gave a single beat. The green grass around her instantly turned yellow, curling and drying before erupting into fire.
In that moment, the laws of physics were defied. Newton himself would have covered his face in shame as the Dragon Queen cast off the burden of gravity.
With a metallic clang, she leaped forward, soaring several meters, unsheathing her greatsword and leaving the scabbard behind.
The gleaming four-foot blade reflected a chilling light in the blaze's glow.
Her pace quickened—the "winged woman" moved faster and faster, freed from nearly all gravity, galloping like a celestial steed, as light as a startled swan.
The refined grace of Eastern martial arts met the ferocity of magic: where she passed, the ground blazed, leaving behind a trail of fire.
As she sprinted, the white sword she dragged along the ground began to glow—runes of red light flaring from the guard toward the tip.
In an instant, the steel blade became a living flame.
It took only four or five seconds—from the moment Daenerys drew her sword to when she charged into the two thousand Dothraki horsemen still loosing arrows.
In four seconds, she crossed a hundred meters. Her speed reached its peak, her magic flared, and the last of her gravity transformed into upward force. She leapt, soaring ten meters high, her radiant wings gliding her another thirty meters forward.
With cries of horror from the Dothraki, she landed in the very center of their ranks.
"Kill!"
Empowered by the souls of five dragons, her soul-destroying strike rippled outward like waves across a pond.
Boom! The divine heat of the Smith's forge surged through her royal sword, warping the air around it.
Slash! With a single swing, several riders within three meters were cleaved clean in half. Their bisected bodies didn't even bleed—only bursts of orange flame erupted, consuming flesh and hair alike.
Neighing. Screams.
Within a hundred meters, chaos reigned. Horses reared and collapsed in terror; Dothraki warriors fell, writhing and wailing.
Daenerys stood at the center of it all, the blazing royal sword in hand, momentarily dazed by the sheer devastation she had wrought.
Her display of power had already annihilated the weak. The flames were almost unnecessary—her dragons' soul strike had done enough.
"Pathetic," she muttered.
These horsemen were too weak to even make her performance worthwhile. Losing interest, Daenerys summoned Drogon down from the sky.
"Ah! The Mother of Dragons!"
"Khaleesi!"
"The Khaleesi from beyond the Sunset Sea!"
Those who had regained their senses recognized the figure who had just unleashed such divine fury.
Many still called her Khaleesi.
Jhaqo's bloodriders, the men of Qarth, and even the Dothraki who once followed Drogo—all were present among her foes.
Once, these horsemen had abandoned Drogo to follow Jhaqo. Now, they followed a new khal, hunting the remnants of Jhaqo's bloodline.
One could not truly call them disloyal; among the Dothraki, the law of the strong ruled all.
To follow the strong was the only law of the Great Grass Sea.
"Which of you is khal?"
After Drogon's flames had devoured hundreds of fleeing riders, the remaining two thousand finally surrendered, trembling and obedient.
Daenerys lifted a blazing fireball high above her hand, sweeping her gaze across the captives as she called out in the Dothraki tongue,
"Since Jhaqo's death, five new khals have risen. Step forward—all of you!"
The nearest horseman was still twenty meters away from her. They all stared wide-eyed, their almond-shaped eyes filled with terror as they watched the blazing fireball unleash light and heat in the air—beneath it stood the inhuman Khaleesi, and above it, a massive dragon swept across the sky like a shadow of doom.
"Dragon Queen, I am Tep Kao! I surrender to you!"
He was a tall horseman in his early forties, his face marked with blue paint shaped like the character "门." His braid was half a meter long, and with each step, the bells woven into it jingled softly.
When he reached ten meters in front of the Dragon Queen, Tep Kao knelt on one knee, drew his curved arakh from his waist, pressed it to the back of his head, and sliced off his greasy black braid. He threw it at Daenerys's feet.
"Only you?" Daenerys asked.
"I am the strongest Khal since Khal Jako. I command three thousand Screaming Riders. I was the one who hunted down Khal Jako's bloodriders and his son—they can rest easy now," Tep said.
"Where are your bloodriders? Tell them to come out," Daenerys said.
Tep Kao hesitated for a moment, then gestured to the crowd. From it emerged one young and two middle-aged, strong horsemen.
Daenerys raised her foot and kicked Tep Kao's long braid back toward him. The bells jingled with a crisp chime.
Under the astonished, furious, and confused gazes of the four horsemen, she said, "I don't want your surrender. I want your khalasar."
"You are not a Khal!" Tep roared.
"I am not," Daenerys nodded, her voice loud and clear. "I am the rider of the world's great steed, the supreme Khaleesi of the Dothraki Sea. All the horsemen must bow to me."
It sounded a bit awkward, but Daenerys wasn't trying to steal that rather absurd title from her would-be son.
"The rider of the world's great steed" was the literal translation; its true meaning was "Heavenly Khagan."
Even if Rhaego truly was the prophesied rider of the world's great steed, he would still be a second-generation successor—he'd have to wait for the Dragon Queen to retire first.
Tep Kao was first shocked, then furious. He shouted, "You're delusional! You're a woman. A woman can never be the rider of the world's great steed. Everyone knows that!"
"Everyone knows that!" his three bloodriders echoed loudly.
"Everyone knows that!" The surrounding horsemen looked at one another, and scattered voices rose among them.
"Come then! This is a Khal's challenge!" Daenerys raised her sword and pointed it at Tep Kao. "I am Khaleesi, you are Khal, and we each have a khalasar. We fight to the death—the winner takes all. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone knows that!" her bloodriders shouted as they drew their blades and stood beside her.
"Ev-ery-one-knows-that!" From the heavens above, Drogon's thunderous voice echoed in agreement.
The gathered horsemen trembled, staring up at the sky with wide, white-filled eyes.
"Everyone knows that!" the black dragon roared again.
"Everyone knows that! Everyone knows that!" The horsemen began to chant. At first, their voices were scattered, but gradually, they joined together in unison, the sound carrying far across the open plain.
Tep Kao and his bloodriders turned pale, their faces twisted with rage and fear.
That was the nature of a Khal's khalasar—easy to gain, easy to lose. Only strength endures.
Such was the Dothraki custom. Everyone knew it. No one defied it.
"Fine, I will fight you. But you must not use witchcraft," Tep said, still fierce and unyielding. Even after witnessing Daenerys's overwhelming power, he had the courage to draw his sword.
"Agreed."
Daenerys nodded and advanced.
Tep was strong. His arakh moved like a living thing, his body agile and light. Sparks flew across Daenerys's chest, shoulders, and back as he struck again and again.
But his attacks were useless—aside from chipping his own blade in a few places, he couldn't even make her bleed.
Daenerys fought with power and grace, her swordplay open and bold, fast and unrelenting. Within seven or eight seconds—barely a dozen exchanges—her blade struck the horseman's shoulder.
Like a woodcutter swinging an axe, her sword cleaved from his left shoulder down to his right chest. The horseman was split cleanly in two with a single blow.
He hadn't even been wearing armor—just a Dothraki-painted vest made of tanned sheepskin.
Daenerys moved lightly, stepping aside two paces to avoid the spurting blood.
The field fell silent.
The Screaming Riders stood in mute astonishment. Jhogo looked calm and collected, while the three surviving bloodriders glared with bloodshot eyes.
Daenerys then killed another bloodrider herself, and Jhogo, clad in Valyrian steel chainmail, cut down the remaining two.
"Khaleesi, the rider of the world's great steed!"
Two thousand two hundred Screaming Riders knelt in unison, lowering their heads and offering their horsewhips to Daenerys.
This was the sign that they acknowledged the result of the Khal's duel and formally swore allegiance to her.
Daenerys smiled, stepping past her newly claimed horsemen until she found Mago, who sat slumped on the ground, dazed and pale.
The former bloodrider of Khal Jako saw her approaching. His almond-shaped eyes widened as he tilted his head back and shouted, "Call your dragon! Let it eat me—burn me alive with its fire!"
"Do you still remember the girl's name?" Daenerys asked.
The question came out of nowhere, but Mago, who had never forgotten his grudge with the Dragon Queen, immediately knew which girl she meant.
"I never knew her name. I don't even remember what she looked like. All I remember is that she was a sheepherder girl with big tits! Hahaha!"
(End of Chapter)
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