At the edge of the endless plains, the horizon split under the weight of two colossal statues, forming an arc-shaped gap that marked the entrance to Vaes Dothrak. The bronze giants, horses frozen mid-leap, with hind legs planted firmly on the ground and front hooves raised high, met a hundred feet above the soil, forming a pointed arch without a top. This was the fabled Horse Gate, a threshold that had witnessed centuries of conquest and worship.
Damian Thorne's procession rode through in silence. There was none of the usual clamoring of a Khalasar, none of the crisp, metallic jingling of bells that once adorned proud braids. Only the dull, rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth echoed across the plains. Behind him, over ten thousand warriors followed, their shorn scalps exposed to the wind like a brand of shame and rebirth alike. Each bald head was a symbol of disgrace left behind—and the first step into a new order.
Their arrival struck the city like a cold stone dropped into boiling oil.
Along the Avenue of the Gods, merchants from the Free Cities and Khalasar spies stationed among the irregular structures froze mid-motion. Eyes, sharp and probing, pierced the formation. Surprise, fear, and open contempt mingled in their gazes.
"They are the… Hairless Ones," a merchant whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"Is that Khal… the one who slew Rakalo?" another muttered.
"The Khal who rides a dragon," someone else added, awe and disbelief coloring his tone.
Daka reined in beside Damian, his bronze features tight with a mixture of tension and awe. Leaning close, he spoke quietly, "Khal, custom dictates that we first pay our respects to the Dosh Khaleen."
Damian's gaze swept over the city. Scattered across the grassland were structures of contrasting styles: stone pavilions, grass-woven halls, and precarious wooden towers that wavered in the wind. Each was a monument, a tombstone of a people subdued or forgotten, a testament to the ever-shifting power of the Dothraki.
"Lead the way," he said, two words that carried the weight of command.
The great hall of the Dosh Khaleen rose like a fortress of memory and tradition. Built from thick logs, its roof was open to the sky, a vast bowl meant to catch both stars and omens. Inside, dim light filtered through gaps, blending with the scents of dry grass, incense, and the faint, musky odor of old age.
Dozens of elderly women, their faces mapped with deep wrinkles, sat cross-legged on animal hides. They were the widows of all deceased Khals, living repositories of history and tradition. Their eyes, sharp as hawks, followed the three men entering the hall.
At the center of the group sat the matriarch, her hair entirely white, skin like cracked riverbed, gaze piercing and unyielding. She bypassed Daka and Mazo's respectful bows, fixing on Damian Thorne with unerring precision. Her eyes, cloudless and penetrating, seemed to strip away all pretense, examining the very soul beneath the flesh.
She was the same seer who, in a vision, had once seen a black dragon tear through the sky.
"Sky-Ripper," her voice was hoarse, rough as two stones grinding together, "do you bring fire… or ashes… to the plains?"
Daka and Mazo stiffened, instinctively lowering themselves, kneeling even. The question alone was a judgment.
Damian's face remained calm, his voice measured, almost casual. "I bring new life."
The hall fell into silence so deep it pressed against the ears. Only the wind whispered through the open roof, a mournful sound echoing off the timber walls.
The matriarch's gaze remained fixed on Damian, unblinking, assessing, measuring. Minutes stretched as Mazo felt cold sweat bead along his forehead. The hall seemed suspended in time. Finally, the old woman nodded, slow, deliberate.
"The Dosh Khaleen recognize you," she declared, voice firm, "Dragon King Khal. Vaes Dothrak welcomes you and your Khalasar."
Her tone hardened. "Yet remember, beneath Mother Mountain, no blood may be spilled. No brother's blade shall stain the holy ground. This is the horse god's law, unbroken for centuries."
"I understand," Damian replied evenly.
Emerging from the hall, the sunlight of Vaes Dothrak was blinding. Mazo instinctively squinted, his back damp with cold sweat, every nerve alert to the power and danger in the air.
"Khal," Daka whispered, reverence and lingering fear woven through his voice, "she… she acknowledged you."
Damian said nothing. His attention was drawn to the vast plains sprawling before the city. Large Khalasar camps dotted the horizon, tents like gray mushrooms sprouting from the grass. Banners snapped in the wind, each representing a Khal of legendary reputation.
Daka followed his gaze, pointing them out in a hushed tone. "Under the black horse banner is 'Bloody Hand' Moro's Khalasar. Twenty thousand warriors. Every raid leaves a mark—any Lhazareen who resists loses their left hand."
He gestured to another, larger camp. "That is 'Brute' Kolo. He trusts only his arakh. They say he can twist a bull's neck with bare hands."
Across these distant camps, countless eyes tracked Damian and his warriors. Raw hostility, pure and unfiltered, radiated from them. These were predators measuring an intruder. Damian's newly absorbed warriors, sensing the threat, instinctively tightened grips on their weapons, a feral gleam igniting in their eyes.
In Moro's camp, a Blood Rider murmured to his Khal, voice low but sharp, "A man who relies on a monster… his dragon is nowhere to be found. Without it, he is nothing."
Night fell over Vaes Dothrak. Thousands of bonfires lit the plains, casting a golden haze across the sky. Drums echoed, accompanied by singing, as if warming the land for the coming feast. Word had spread: all arriving Khals would gather at Mother Mountain's foot the next day, to decide the Dothraki Sea's fate.
Damian stood alone before his massive tent. The night wind whispered across the plains, teasing the white lion cloak draped over his shoulders. He surveyed the distant hostile campfires, eyes cold, unflinching.
Mazo remained behind him, silent, awaiting instructions.
Finally, Damian's voice broke the quiet, low yet piercing through the night air. "Mazo… tell me."
Mazo's brow furrowed. "If… if a person in the holy city is not killed by a sword…"
He hesitated, swallowing hard as if weighing the words against the fear curling in his gut.
"…but incinerated by fire from the sky," Damian continued slowly, savoring each word, "…does that count as bleeding?"
The blood drained from Mazo's face. He straightened abruptly, eyes wide, staring in horror at the unmoving figure of Damian Thorne. A choked gasp escaped him. Even in a city steeped in tradition and fear, even among the dead and living witnesses of power, Damian's presence alone bent reality. The Dragon King Khal was no mere man—he was the storm incarnate, and the Dothraki Sea would soon tremble at his coming.
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