On the scorched expanse of the Dothraki Sea, Daka and Mazo knelt on one knee before Damian Thorne, their heads bowed low. The plains stretched endlessly around them, burned and trampled, the ground still smoldering from the previous day's horrors.
"Khal," Daka's voice came out hoarse, roughened by exhaustion and stress, "we've tallied the numbers. Approximately ten thousand warriors remain capable of fighting, and only five thousand slaves are left to handle logistics."
Silence followed. The only sound was the occasional whimper of wind slipping through charred grass roots, carrying with it the faint odor of smoke, ash, and blood. The elderly, the women, and children in the rear were largely unharmed, but the core fighting force—the lifeblood of a Khalasar—was almost shattered.
Damian Thorne gave no immediate reaction. His gaze swept the horizon, sharp and calculating. Finally, he asked, almost casually, "When do the Dothraki gather in the holy city?"
Daka tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "Only during the most significant events… Khals rarely gather multiple Khalasars at once in Vaes Dothrak."
A slow smile spread across Damian's face, devoid of warmth, more a blade of intent than expression. "Then now," he said quietly, "is the most significant event. Send your riders in all directions. Find every Khalasar you can. Tell them that I will be in Vaes Dothrak. Tell them that I, Damian Thorne, rule all the Dothraki."
Shock froze Daka and Mazo in place. Such a command was unheard of; it was practically a declaration of war on every other Khal. No Khal had ever dared to speak of dominion over all Dothraki, much less act on it.
Damian, however, showed no inclination to explain. He waved his hand with casual authority. "Go. Arrange it. And one more thing…" He gestured west, where a small grove of trees remained untouched by fire. "About ten li from here, there's a white lion I slew earlier. Its hide hangs from a tree. Retrieve it."
"Yes, Khal," Daka said, the shock in his eyes quickly transforming into fervor. He lowered his head and swiftly moved to obey. Mazo hesitated only briefly before following suit, both men moving with the solemnity of men bearing a volcano about to erupt.
---
Vaes Dothrak—the holy city of the Dothraki—lay quietly in the shadow of the towering Mother Mountain. That night, the Dosh Khaleen, the revered council of old women, sat in their vast grass-woven hall, voices hoarse from hours of prayer. Their ancient chants called out to the Horse God, prayers passed down across generations, echoing faintly among the wooden beams and woven mats.
The hall was thick with incense and the pungent aroma of burning herbs. The old women's minds began to drift, consciousness softening as the smoke swirled around them. Their vision blurred, merging with the fragments of prophecy and memory that had long shaped their understanding of the world.
And then, a vision unlike any before gripped them.
The sky tore apart with a monstrous force, a black demonic dragon descending from the heavens. Its vast wings eclipsed the sun, and beneath it, the Dothraki horses—sturdy, proud, and wild—galloped in panic. Among them, the largest stallion was caught in the dragon's claws, lifted high and seemingly torn apart. But instead of death, the fire that touched it acted like a baptism.
The horses calmed, forming a river of motion beneath the dragon, gathering obediently under its shadow, charging westward toward the setting sun. Entire cities vanished beneath the pounding hooves and the shadow of the dragon, leaving a trail of ruin and fire in their wake.
"Ah!" The oldest of the Dosh Khaleen snapped awake, her cloudy eyes wide. Her shriek cut through the hall like a bell tolling doom. The other women stirred, rubbing their eyes, and soon all were alert, trembling as they looked at each other.
"The Horse God's revelation!" the elder cried, her voice shaking yet commanding. "The Dothraki horses… they shall conquer the world!"
Softly, she muttered, as if speaking a sacred truth, "The proliferation of the Dothraki people… is the will of the Horse God."
---
Above the plains, Damian Thorne's Khalasar stirred. Teams of elite cavalry mounted their horses, gathered supplies, and prepared to gallop into the endless grass. Each group dispersed with precision, spreading out across the plains to intercept distant Khalasars, delivering the word of the Demonic Dragon Khal.
Mazo and his men found the white lion hide exactly where Damian had indicated, roughly ten li to the west. It had been crudely hung on a branch, sun-dried, with the edges still marred by blood. They carried it back with utmost reverence.
Damian took the hide, shaking it lightly before tossing it to a leatherworker standing nearby. "Make this into a cloak," he said simply. In his mind, the image of a 'White Lion Guard' formed, a symbol of authority, power, and divine protection, to be worn before the eyes of his warriors.
His gaze swept across the Dothraki, adorned in painted leather armor, curved arakhs at their waists, faces grim yet eager. He turned to Mazo. "No metal armor? Tradition, or lack of resources?"
"A Dothraki warrior scorns iron," Mazo replied, pride lacing his voice. "On horseback, it is cumbersome, slows movement. A skilled warrior can defeat five men clad in iron."
Damian nodded silently, noting the advantage yet silently thinking of all the ways he could adapt them. Leather could be reinforced, mobility retained—there were many ways to mold them into unstoppable force in the future.
Daka approached, the faint scent of blood still clinging to him. "Khal, the dead and the seriously wounded need attention."
"How do you usually handle it?" Damian asked casually, though his eyes were sharp.
"The dead are gathered and burned by the slaves," Daka answered flatly. "Those beyond saving are granted release by Jakarong's axe. It ends their suffering."
"The great axe falls," Damian repeated in his mind, almost softly, acknowledging the harsh mercy of the plains.
"Go arrange it," he said, his voice cutting through the dusk. "Once it's done, the entire force will proceed to Vaes Dothrak. We cannot keep the other Khalasars waiting too long."
---
Far to the west, in Volantis, the House of Merchants buzzed with activity. The largest tavern overlooking the docks reeked of fish, spices, sweat, and wine. Merchants haggled, exchanged rumors, and whispered news of fortune and danger.
In a shadowed corner, a slaver leaned toward his companion, voice hushed and urgent. "I just heard… Astapor was attacked by a Wild Dragon."
The fat man beside him took a swig of sweet wine, scoffing. "Nonsense. Every year someone claims to see a Wild Dragon. Outside of Dragonstone, where else could they exist?"
"Not this time!" the first slaver insisted, leaning closer, spittle flying. "I heard… they say the dragon burned the Good Masters' Pyramids and devoured most of the wealthy families!"
"Devoured? The Pyramids are stone! Did it… eat the stones too?"
"Who knows!" The first slaver snapped, frustrated. "Maybe it swallowed the Pyramids whole!"
The argument grew heated, attracting glances. A nearby attendant, tasked with refilling wine, quietly slipped away, keeping his head low. The noise and chaos of the tavern swallowed him as he disappeared into the throng, leaving the two men red-faced and arguing over impossible tales of dragons and destruction.
---
Above the plains, Damian Thorne surveyed his growing Khalasar. Horses pawed at the earth, warriors adjusted their armor and arakhs, and the white lion cloak hung in the wind as a symbol of rising authority. He was no longer merely a Khal; he was a living legend in the eyes of those around him, a god among men, and the Dothraki would follow him to the ends of the earth.
The night stretched on, alive with anticipation. Bonfires flickered against the wind, shadows danced, and the plains itself seemed to hold its breath. The Holy City awaited, and Damian's message was clear: the age of the Demonic Dragon Khal had begun.
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