The march across the endless Dothraki Sea was oppressive, heavy with the weight of silence, like a funeral procession stretching across the horizon. Hooves struck the scorched grass roots and soil with a dull, unceasing drumbeat, the rhythm relentless. The wind swept through the plains, causing the vast sea of grass to ripple, yet it carried none of the crisp, metallic jingle of copper bells from warriors' braids, now cut short and uneven.
Over ten thousand Dothraki rode in solemn quiet, each bearing the visible mark of shame. Their once-proud long braids were gone, leaving jagged remnants swaying with every step. Silence clung to them like a heavy cloak, pressing on their shoulders, suffocating and persistent.
Damian Thorne rode atop his black stallion, tall and unyielding. He seemed oblivious to the pervasive shame surrounding him. His eyes scanned the endless expanse of green ahead as if measuring not the plains but the continent itself.
"Who's next?" His voice was low, calm, yet carried clearly to Mazo riding beside him.
Mazo, newly appointed as Khass, was composed, his demeanor steady compared to Daka's barely contained zeal. He licked his chapped lips, mentally tracing the map of power across the Dothraki Sea. "If we follow this path to Vaes Dothrak," he said cautiously, "the most likely Khalasar we will encounter is Rakalo's. He is known as the 'Bone Breaker,' commands nearly ten thousand warriors, and is infamous for his brutality."
"Has he received my… invitation?" Damian asked without shifting his gaze from the horizon.
Mazo hesitated, then replied, "Your messengers have spread far and wide, Khal. The entire Dothraki Sea now knows that a new Dragon King Khal is traveling to the holy city to summon all the Horse Kings. But Rakalo… he will not bend so easily."
Before Mazo could finish, a scout galloped into view from the distant horizon, a blur of speed. He reined in sharply before Damian, dismounting with a harsh, labored breath.
"Khal! Ahead! Rakalo's Khalasar—blocking our path!" he shouted, voice rasping from exertion.
The column slowed, the oppressive silence finally broken. A tense murmur ran through the warriors, unease mingling with growing hostility.
Far across the grasslands, a black line appeared on the horizon, rapidly thickening into a tide of men and horses, a wave of arrogant power. They moved with the assurance of dominance, stopping only to face Damian's advancing Khalasar. They intended neither to wait nor to yield. The provocation was unmistakable.
Damian raised a hand, halting his own column. He calmly observed the enemy, then turned to Daka. "Prepare the warriors." His gaze swept over the short-haired soldiers beneath him. "We are about to collect a new batch of… gifts."
The two Khalasars faced one another, separated by no more than a hundred paces. The wind carried the sharp scent of sweat, grease, and horseflesh.
From the opposing ranks, Khal Rakalo spurred his horse forward, a broad-shouldered man with a long braid adorned with bells nearly reaching his waist. His face was twisted in mockery, lips curled in contempt.
"Who do we have here?" he shouted, his voice booming across the plains. "A flock of shorn sheep! Where is your Khal—the coward who dares not show his face?"
Blood rushed to the faces of Damian's warriors. Fingers tightened on sword hilts until knuckles turned white. The shame of their shorn braids, exposed before the enemy, burned hotter than any wound.
Rakalo's gaze finally settled on Damian, taking in the figure at the center of the formation. He laughed, cruel and mocking. "I hear you have a dragon? Very well. Let it show itself and serve as my mount. Then I might pardon your impudence in summoning the Khals!"
The warriors behind Rakalo erupted in laughter, thundering across the grasslands, as if witnessing the greatest jest imaginable.
Damian's expression remained cold, untouched by mockery. He turned slightly, meeting Daka's blazing eyes.
"I heard Dothraki respect only those who can defeat them with their own hands," Damian said evenly, a statement heavier than any command.
Daka's chest heaved, his blood surging at the command.
"Go," Damian ordered. "Bring me his head."
A subtle warmth coursed from Damian, saturating Daka's entire being. He felt clarity, focus, and raw bloodlust merge into one unstoppable force. There was no time to ponder—only action, precise and lethal.
"Roar!" Daka released a primal scream, digging heels into his horse's flanks. The beast surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.
Rakalo's mockery had barely left his lips when he saw a single Khass charging straight toward him. He spat contempt, raising his arakh to meet Daka, confident of an easy kill.
The moment the two horses closed in, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Rakalo's arakh swung down with a lethal whoosh, yet Daka's perception slowed the movement unnaturally. An unseen wind seemed to twist Rakalo's arm mid-swing, while Daka's horse sidestepped as if guided by invisible hands.
Now—Daka struck. His arakh rose from an impossible angle, lightning fast.
A muffled thud.
Rakalo's head erupted skyward, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Blood fountained, staining the horse beneath him. His body swayed atop the mount before collapsing heavily onto the grass.
The battlefield froze in silence. The mirth and arrogance of Rakalo's warriors vanished like mist in sunlight.
Then, from Damian's ranks, a single warrior raised his arakh and roared. The sound was contagious. Instantly, tens of thousands of voices joined, a tidal wave of sound that shattered the oppressive quiet. Eyes once clouded with shame now blazed with awe and bloodthirsty fervor.
Their Khass had decapitated a legendary Khal. Following the Dragon King Khal, Damian Thorne, promised strength, victory, and glory.
Daka held Rakalo's head aloft, eyes burning with fanatic devotion.
"Charge!" Damian's voice, cold and commanding, ignited the battlefield.
The Dothraki surged forward, a living flood of vengeance and newfound pride. The enemy formation collapsed under the precision strikes of Mazo and his Khass. His arakh swept methodically, taking lives with brutal efficiency.
Mazo sensed an unusual flow in the air. Arrows veered subtly away from his men; horses stumbled inexplicably underfoot. The battlefield itself seemed to obey Damian, tilting victory into their hands.
From the rear, Damian remained calm, unmoving amid the chaos. This was not divine intervention—it was the presence of a power colder and stranger than any god the Dothraki had known.
Rakalo's Khalasar was slaughtered or scattered, the few survivors fleeing into the plains, only to be hunted by cavalry set in ambush.
Damian did not order total annihilation. When resistance ceased, he rode into the aftermath. Thousands of surviving warriors surrendered, dropping weapons and falling to their knees.
"Cut off their braids," Damian commanded.
Warriors obeyed immediately. Long braids fell to the ground with sharp clinks of copper bells, accompanied by the low chorus of weeping. Symbols of pride and honor were reduced to insignificance before the new Khal.
The Khalasar had nearly doubled in size in a single day. Damian took Rakalo's head from Daka, the eyes still wide in disbelief. Casually, he hung it from his saddle, letting it sway as the horse moved.
"Keep moving," he said flatly, as if crushing an insect had required no effort at all.
The column resumed its march toward Vaes Dothrak. Silence was replaced by fervent reverence, devotion, and fanaticism.
News of this victory would spread faster than the wind, rippling across the Dothraki Sea. Every Khal would hear of the Demonic Dragon Khal and decide—submit immediately or marshal forces for inevitable war.
The march continued, a dark and unstoppable tide sweeping across the grasslands, carrying with it the promise of conquest, blood, and fire. Damian Thorne's reign had begun.
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