A month later, when Lo Quen and Jaelena rode their dragons at the head of their army and flew over the mountain-encircled sacred land known as the "City of the Horselord," they witnessed a grand bonfire ceremony unfolding below.
In the vast plaza at the heart of the holy city, Dothraki from across the plains had gathered, setting aside their rivalries to take part in the ritual. Warriors danced wildly around the flames, beating on animal-skin drums and unleashing primal roars. Women offered up whole roasted oxen and sheep.
The air was thick with the scent of strong wine and roasting meat. Beneath the "Mother of Mountains," the enormous bronze horse statue loomed silently in the firelight. The crowd was lost in a feverish state of worship, utterly unaware of the doom about to descend upon them.
After repeated scouting, Lo Quen confirmed that the central woven-grass palace housed the Dosh khaleen and the gathered Khal celebrating their feast.
Lo Quen turned to Jaelena, seated atop Silverfall. "Do it."
Jaelena nodded. The two dragons spread their wings wide, diving straight toward the central palace of Vaes Dothrak and unleashing their assault.
In an instant, flames roared to life, consuming the palace-sized structure. Screams of terror echoed within as it collapsed into a sea of fire.
Outside, the Dothraki worshippers around the bonfires looked up in disbelief, their faces lit by the reflection of the inferno.
Before their eyes, the home of the Dosh khaleen and the great feasting hall of the Khal were annihilated—devoured by fire, along with the faith of the Dothraki themselves.
They roared in anguish, eyes bloodshot, refusing to accept what they saw.
Then they looked upward. In the blackened sky, two colossal shadows circled like omens of death.
"Dragons! Run!!"
Panic erupted. The Dothraki scattered in every direction, screaming.
Outside the city, Lo Quen gave the order for his cavalry to close in and seal off their escape.
The outcome was never in doubt.
The khalasar, leaderless and broken by the desecration of their holy ground, was already teetering on collapse. Under the relentless rain of dragonfire and the crushing charge of the cavalry, they soon shared the fate of Khal Zekko.
Skirmish after skirmish erupted across the plains surrounding the holy city, each ending the same—complete annihilation.
When the final Dothraki warrior fell beneath the blades of the Dragon Soul Guards, Lo Quen's army of captives swelled once more.
Endless lines of prisoners, bound together with ropes, wound like a serpent across the long road back to the Three Daughters, herded forward under the watchful eyes of mounted soldiers.
With the power of his dragons, Lo Quen had executed a flawless decapitation strike—utterly destroying the proud and savage Dothraki civilization.
...
On the return journey, the setting sun melted into liquid gold, staining the endless sea of grass in shades of crimson.
The long chain of captives moved slowly along the valley floor, their cries and the restless neighing of horses echoing between towering cliffs.
The Dothraki, who had once enslaved other races beneath their hooves, now trudged forward as Lo Quen's prisoners.
As dusk deepened, the army halted to make camp.
Lo Quen and Jaelena's tent had been carefully erected by the Dragon Soul Guards on a high plateau overlooking the gorge.
Days of unbroken warfare and travel had finally left their mark; even Lo Quen's formidable strength and iron will could not mask his fatigue.
He stood at the tent's entrance, his gaze fixed downward, watching the countless campfires burning across the valley below like a river of stars.
Jaelena approached silently and stopped beside him.
The evening wind caught her long, silvery hair, and her cool, striking features softened under the fading light.
She studied the weariness etched on Lo Quen's face, her heart stirring with conflicting emotions. The growing number of young women around him had kindled a faint, restless unease within her.
From their desperate flight from Valyria's ruins to their sweeping conquests across distant lands, she had never realized—until now—that her feelings for Lo Quen had long surpassed loyalty. They had become something deeper.
Thinking of the eager young women awaiting him back at the castle, Jaelena took a slow breath and summoned her courage.
Her voice was softer than usual. "Your Grace, it's late. The tent is ready. Will you rest now?"
Lo Quen turned at the sound.
In the fading twilight, Jaelena's violet eyes caught the last trace of red in the sky—and his reflection within them. The dust of travel had done nothing to dull her beauty; instead, it lent her a quiet, mature allure.
After years together, she was no longer the distant, unyielding warrior he had first met. Though her features still held that cool sharpness, Lo Quen could clearly see the emotion that had taken root for him in the depths of her gaze.
A sudden heat stirred in his chest.
Without warning, he reached out, wrapping an arm around Jaelena's slender yet strong waist and pulling her firmly into his embrace.
"Ah!"
Caught off guard, Jaelena let out a small gasp. Her eyes widened in surprise—but deep down, she felt no urge to resist. A flicker of anticipation, faint but undeniable, rippled through her heart.
Realizing it, her cheeks flared hot. She murmured softly, almost shyly, "Your Grace… inside…"
Lo Quen let out a low chuckle. Keeping one arm around her, he turned and strode into the warmth of the tent, shutting out the chill wind of the gorge behind the heavy curtain.
Inside, a single oil lamp hung from the center pole, casting a golden glow across the thick pelts covering the ground.
Lo Quen loosened his hold but didn't step back. Instead, he moved closer.
In silence, his fingers found the clasps of Jaelena's armor.
Her body tensed. Each faint click of metal unlocking sounded like a drumbeat against her heart. She tried to lift her hands to stop him—but they felt too heavy to move.
When the last of the breastplate came away, the cool air met the damp linen clinging to her skin, sending a shiver through her and flooding her with embarrassment.
Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest. The same woman who had struck fear into armies now stood frozen, nervous and unsure.
Lo Quen didn't pause.
He gently parted her arms, his warm fingers brushing the curve of her neck, feeling the quickened pulse beneath soft, smooth skin. His touch trailed downward, over her collarbone, then along her waist through the thin fabric.
He traced the contours of her body, feeling the tremor she couldn't suppress. His voice was low, rough, and heated. "Jaelena, don't be afraid. One day I will make you my Queen. We'll have children—heirs who will inherit all these lands."
As he spoke, his mind drifted to visions of the future.
The world of ice and fire was too vast for a single throne to rule by central decree. Even if immortality were his, he had no wish to drown in endless bureaucracy.
He would adopt a feudal order like Westeros—granting crowns to vassal kings who would rule their own realms under his dominion. Yet to maintain true power at the center, he would reshape the system—creating an order of learned officials, dispatched from the capital to oversee the regions and collect tribute, ensuring no lord grew too strong.
Under his words and touch, Jaelena's tension slowly melted away. Her voice came out soft and husky, carrying a tremor of sweetness. "But Valyria is gone… and so few Lysene remain. You'll have to move most of the great houses to Westeros. Where will our children rule then?"
Lo Quen smiled, his gaze burning as he took in her form, pale and flawless in the lamplight, his eyes filled with desire. "Then we'll create a people of our own."
Jaelena understood instantly. Her face flushed scarlet, and she lowered her head, shy and silent.
The night deepened. The oil lamp flickered once, then went dark.
Within the tent, the world fell still—until two bodies, burning with life and heat, found each other and became one.
...
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