The morning sun painted the grasslands in shades of gold and amber as Khal Varro surveyed the walls of Pentos from atop his massive war horse. Built like a fortress himself—six and a half feet of pure muscle and scars earned through twenty years of conquest—he sat his mount with the casual confidence of a man who had never met a problem that couldn't be solved with superior numbers and tactical brilliance.
His long black hair, woven with golden rings marking victories from the Dothraki Sea to the Rhoyne, caught the morning breeze as his dark eyes calculated distances and defensive positions with the practiced assessment of someone who had made a career of separating fools from their gold. The intricate tattoos covering his powerful arms told stories in ink and flesh—each mark a battle won, each scar a lesson learned in the harsh arithmetic of warfare.
Behind him, three thousand of the finest horse warriors in the known world waited with the sort of patient anticipation that came from absolute confidence in their leader's judgment. These weren't mere raiders—they were the elite of the Dothraki, men who had followed Varro across half the known world because he possessed that rarest of qualities: the ability to make victory inevitable through superior planning and overwhelming force.
"*Khal,*" called his cousin and bloodrider Jhaqo, a bear of a man whose grin could charm serving girls and terrify seasoned warriors with equal effectiveness, "*the magisters are raising their parley banners. Looks like they want to negotiate rather than test our steel against their stones.*"
"*Of course they do,*" Varro replied with the sort of dry amusement that came from years of playing this particular game. His voice carried the deep, resonant quality that had convinced three thousand warriors to follow him into the unknown, tinged with just enough humor to remind his men why they enjoyed riding with him. "*Amazing how the sight of three thousand mounted warriors tends to inspire diplomatic thinking in even the most stubborn city-dwellers.*"
His bloodrider Qhono—lean, quick, and possessed of the sort of tactical mind that could spot weakness in enemy formations from miles away—nudged his horse closer with the sort of anticipatory energy that suggested he was already planning the morning's entertainment.
"*How much do you think they'll offer in tribute, Khal?*" he asked, his scarred face splitting into the sort of grin that had preceded some of their most profitable negotiations. "*The Pentoshi are known for their... creative interpretation of tribute obligations. They always start by trying to negotiate as if we're merchants instead of warriors.*"
"*They'll begin with the usual insults,*" Varro predicted with the sort of experienced cynicism that came from countless similar encounters. "*A few chests of gold, some broken slaves, maybe promises of future considerations and exclusive trading rights. They'll act as if they're doing us a favor by acknowledging our existence.*"
His youngest bloodrider, Rakharo—barely twenty but already marked by enough scars to prove his worth in the brotherhood of warriors—let out a snort of derision that suggested he'd witnessed this dance before.
"*And when we point out that such offerings are insufficient for a khalasar of our reputation?*" he asked with the sort of eager anticipation that came from youth combined with proven skill in combat.
"*Then they'll remember that walls don't stop arrows, and stone doesn't burn any less readily than wood,*" added Cohollo, the eldest of Varro's bloodriders and the man responsible for turning enthusiastic young warriors into disciplined killers. His weathered face and patient demeanor hid a tactical mind that had planned some of their most successful campaigns. "*Eventually they'll realize we're serious and offer something appropriate to our standing.*"
"*And if they don't?*" asked Aggo, the final member of Varro's inner circle, whose reputation with blade and bow had earned him respect even among a brotherhood of legendary warriors. "*If they're foolish enough to think their magisters and hired swords can stand against Dothraki steel?*"
Varro's smile took on a predatory quality that had been the last thing many enemies had seen before learning the price of underestimating the horse lords of the grass sea.
"*Then we remind them why the Dothraki are the finest warriors in the known world,*" he replied with the sort of quiet confidence that left no doubt about his willingness to follow through on implied promises. "*Pentos has grown fat and lazy behind those stones. A little fire and blood might be exactly what they need to remember the natural order of things.*"
The morning air was suddenly split by a sound that seemed to come from the throat of the world itself—a roar that spoke of power beyond anything any of them had ever encountered, rolling across the grasslands like thunder given voice and purpose.
"*What in the name of the Great Stallion's—*" Jhaqo began, his customary confidence faltering as he looked up at the morning sky and saw something that challenged every assumption he'd ever made about the nature of reality.
Descending from the sun itself, like some vision torn from the ancient songs, came death incarnate wrapped in scales that gleamed like polished gold. The creature's wings spanned distances that seemed to eclipse the morning light, and its eyes—burning like molten gold even at this impossible distance—fixed on the khalasar below with the sort of predatory assessment that made seasoned warriors feel like prey.
"*By the Great Stallion's hooves,*" Qhono whispered, his voice carrying the sort of awe that came from witnessing something that existed beyond comfortable explanation. "*That's... that's actually a dragon. A real, living dragon.*"
Every horse in the khalasar began to panic simultaneously, their animal instincts recognizing something that their riders' minds were still struggling to process. Warriors who had faced armies without flinching found themselves fighting to control mounts that wanted nothing more than to flee from something that represented the apex of every natural hierarchy they understood.
Varro felt ice water replace the blood in his veins as the implications crashed into him like a physical blow. He'd heard the stories, of course—every child of the grass sea knew the ancient tales of Valyrian Dragonlords and their flying serpents that had conquered half the known world. But stories were comfortable things, safely contained in the realm of legend and song.
The reality bearing down on them from the morning sky was something else entirely.
"*Impossible,*" he breathed, though even as he spoke the word he knew it was a lie his eyes refused to support. "*The dragons died with Old Valyria. The Doom consumed them centuries ago. This cannot be real.*"
"*Tell that to the dragon, Khal,*" Rakharo managed, his voice tight with the strain of maintaining control over a horse that was actively trying to throw him in order to flee from something that violated every natural law it understood. "*I don't think it cares about our historical knowledge.*"
The great beast swept over the khalasar with movements that seemed to defy the laws of physics, its shadow falling across three thousand mounted warriors like an eclipse of doom. The sound of its passage was like the world's largest drum being struck by giants, and when Varro saw the figure mounted on its back, he felt his understanding of the situation shift into something even more impossible.
The rider was clearly human—armored in crimson and gold that seemed to contain captured sunlight, sitting his impossible mount with the sort of unconscious confidence that spoke of someone who had never encountered a situation he couldn't handle through superior capability and creative problem-solving.
"*A Dragonlord,*" Varro whispered, the words falling from his lips like prayer or curse. "*An actual Dragonlord. Here. Now. But they're all dead. They died four hundred years ago when the Doom took Valyria.*"
"*Someone should probably inform him of that,*" Cohollo observed with the sort of dry humor that came from having survived enough impossible situations to develop a philosophical attitude toward the absurd. "*He seems to have missed the relevant historical developments.*"
The dragon began to circle with the sort of lazy grace that spoke of absolute confidence in its own supremacy, and Varro found himself holding his breath as he watched the creature's movements. There was intelligence in every wingbeat, purpose in every turn. This wasn't some mindless beast driven by instinct—this was a partnership between rider and mount that spoke of capabilities that existed beyond normal tactical considerations.
"*Khal,*" Aggo called, pointing toward the walls of Pentos with hands that trembled only slightly, "*look at the city. They're as shocked as we are.*"
Varro followed his warrior's gaze and saw that his bloodrider was right. The walls of Pentos were alive with frantic activity, but it was the chaotic movement of people who had no more idea what they were witnessing than the Dothraki did. Guards ran along the battlements shouting contradictory orders, officers pointed spyglasses at the sky with the desperate intensity of men trying to understand something that defied comprehension, and he could see tiny figures that must be magisters gesticulating wildly as their carefully planned morning dissolved into impossible chaos.
"*So this isn't some Pentoshi secret weapon,*" he mused, his tactical mind automatically filing away information even while the rest of his consciousness struggled with the impossibility of the situation. "*Which means we're all in the same boat—facing something none of us expected, none of us prepared for, and none of us have any idea how to handle.*"
"*Wonderful,*" Jhaqo muttered with the sort of gallows humor that came from recognizing when circumstances had moved far beyond normal tactical considerations. "*Nothing like a mutual state of confused terror to bring people together.*"
The dragon completed another circle, banking with movements that seemed to mock every law of physics Varro thought he understood, and then began its descent toward the khalasar. The Khal felt his heart hammering against his ribs as the creature approached, those crimson eyes fixed on him with the sort of predatory focus that left no doubt about who it considered the most important target on the field.
"*HOLD POSITIONS!*" he roared, his voice cracking with the strain of trying to impose order on chaos while his mind reeled from what he was witnessing. "*No one moves unless I give the command! If we're going to die today, we die as Dothraki—with courage and our weapons in our hands!*"
The dragon landed with earth-shaking force perhaps fifty yards away, its massive claws digging furrows in the grassland as it settled into a position that somehow managed to be both relaxed and utterly threatening. Up close, the creature was even more magnificent than distance had suggested—scales that shifted color in the morning light like captured fire, muscles that spoke of power beyond mortal comprehension, and an intelligence in those golden eyes that was clearly evaluating everyone present with the sort of predatory assessment that made experienced warriors feel like children.
The rider dismounted with fluid grace that spoke of extensive practice with such maneuvers, revealing himself to be a figure that seemed to have stepped directly from the ancient songs. Tall and powerfully built like some classical statue given life, he moved with the sort of unconscious confidence that came from never having encountered a situation he couldn't handle through a combination of superior ability and what appeared to be an absolutely unshakeable sense of his own competence.
When he removed his helmet, Varro felt his breath catch in his throat. The face revealed was that of a man in his prime—sharp, aristocratic features that spoke of noble blood stretching back generations, dark hair that caught the morning light like polished steel, and eyes that burned with emerald fire touched by violet flames. This was what the ancient Dragonlords must have looked like, Varro realized—power and intelligence and absolute certainty united in a form that commanded respect through sheer presence rather than threats or bluster.
When the impossible figure spoke, his voice carried across the morning air with perfect clarity despite the distance, the words flowing in flawless Dothraki delivered with an accent that suggested either extensive study or supernatural linguistic capability:
"*Well, well,*" the Dragonlord said, his tone carrying that particular combination of courtesy and absolute confidence that suggested he was being polite entirely by choice rather than necessity, "*what have we here? Three thousand of the grass sea's finest, all dressed up for what I can only assume was intended to be a rather robust negotiation with our friends behind those walls.*"
Varro found his voice after a moment that felt like an eternity, though he was pleased to note that it emerged steady despite the circumstances and the way his war horse was trembling beneath him like a leaf in a hurricane.
"*I am Khal Varro of the Windswept Plains, leader of this khalasar,*" he replied with as much dignity as he could muster while facing down something from legend. "*We ride to collect tribute from the magisters of Pentos, as is our right by ancient custom and established precedent.*"
"*Ah yes, tribute,*" the Dragonlord replied with the sort of understanding nod that suggested he was entirely familiar with such arrangements. "*That wonderfully flexible concept that allows powerful people to extract wealth from less powerful people while maintaining the comfortable fiction that it's all perfectly legitimate and above board. How delightfully traditional.*"
There was something in the man's tone—a dry amusement that suggested he found the entire situation more entertaining than threatening—that made every instinct Varro possessed scream warnings. This wasn't a man who was intimidated by the sight of three thousand mounted warriors. This was someone who was genuinely curious about their intentions while being utterly confident in his ability to deal with whatever those intentions might prove to be.
"*I'm terribly sorry,*" the Dragonlord continued with the sort of polite regret that somehow managed to sound more ominous than outright threats would have been, "*but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to reconsider your morning's activities. You see, I've recently taken what you might call a professional interest in the continued health and prosperity of the people behind those walls, and your current approach does seem rather... robust for simple diplomatic discourse.*"
"*Professional interest?*" Varro asked, though he suspected he already knew where this conversation was heading and didn't particularly like any of the probable destinations.
"*Oh yes,*" the Dragonlord confirmed with the sort of cheerful agreement that was somehow infinitely more unsettling than anger would have been. "*Call it a recent career development, if you will. I find myself in the protection business these days, and I have to say, the prospect of thousands of innocent people suffering because diplomatic negotiations break down does rather conflict with my new professional standards.*"
Behind Varro, he could hear his bloodriders exchanging the sort of quiet comments that suggested they were all reaching the same grim conclusions about their drastically altered circumstances.
"*So he's claiming Pentos as his territory?*" Qhono whispered with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was trying very hard not to sound either challenging or panicked. "*A Dragonlord is staking a claim to one of the Free Cities?*"
"*Appears so,*" Cohollo replied with the sort of philosophical resignation that came from having survived long enough to recognize when circumstances had moved far beyond normal tactical solutions. "*Which means all our careful planning just became completely irrelevant.*"
"*You would interfere in matters between the Dothraki and the Free Cities?*" Varro asked, his voice carrying the sort of careful formality that suggested he was testing the waters rather than making accusations.
"*Interfere?*" the Dragonlord repeated with the sort of mild offense that suggested the terminology was somehow inadequate. "*My dear Khal, I prefer to think of it as providing clarification regarding the current balance of forces. After all, circumstances have changed rather dramatically in the last few minutes, wouldn't you agree? The strategic situation has become significantly more... complex.*"
The man's tone remained perfectly courteous, but there was steel beneath the politeness that left absolutely no doubt about his willingness to back up his words with action. Varro found himself in the unprecedented position of trying to negotiate with someone who held every conceivable advantage while somehow maintaining his own dignity and the honor of his khalasar.
"*And what would you have us do?*" he asked finally, the words tasting like ash in his mouth but necessary if he wanted to avoid a confrontation that could only end in the complete destruction of his people.
"*Well now, that's an excellent question,*" the Dragonlord replied with the sort of thoughtful consideration that suggested he was genuinely evaluating various options rather than simply playing with his prey. "*I suppose it rather depends on what sort of man you are, Khal Varro. Are you a pragmatic leader who can recognize when circumstances have shifted and adapt accordingly? Or are you the sort of romantic who would sacrifice three thousand brave warriors in a hopeless gesture rather than acknowledge that the rules of the game have changed?*"
The question hung in the morning air like a blade, and Varro found himself studying the Dragonlord's face for any sign of weakness, uncertainty, or mere cruelty. What he saw there was somehow worse than any of those things—he saw genuine curiosity, as if this impossible figure was truly interested in discovering what sort of leader he was dealing with, combined with the sort of patient confidence that suggested he was prepared to wait all day for an answer.
"*I didn't survive twenty years of warfare by being either stupid or inflexible,*" Varro replied after a long moment, his voice carrying the sort of hard-earned dignity that came from acknowledging difficult truths without surrendering honor. "*I can recognize when the tactical situation has shifted beyond any reasonable hope of conventional victory. But I'll not simply retreat like a whipped dog without understanding exactly what you're offering in place of what we came here to claim.*"
"*Now that's much more like it,*" the Dragonlord said with the sort of genuine approval that suggested Varro had passed some kind of test. "*A rational commander who can see the larger strategic picture while maintaining his personal dignity. I do so prefer dealing with intelligent opponents—it makes everything so much more civilized and reduces the need for unnecessarily dramatic demonstrations of capability.*"
Behind him, Varro could hear his bloodriders murmuring among themselves with the sort of nervous energy that came from watching their leader navigate completely uncharted diplomatic waters.
"*At least he seems reasonable,*" Rakharo whispered with the sort of desperate optimism that suggested he was looking for any positive aspects in their impossible situation. "*He could have just burned us all and been done with it.*"
"*Reasonable men with dragons are somehow more terrifying than unreasonable ones,*" Jhaqo replied with the sort of philosophical observation that came from years of studying their enemies for exploitable weaknesses. "*Unreasonable men are predictable. This one... this one thinks before he acts.*"
The Dragonlord paused for a moment, seeming to consider his next words with the sort of careful deliberation that suggested they were moving into serious negotiation territory, and when he continued his tone carried a different quality—something that almost sounded like respect.
"*Here's what I propose, Khal Varro,*" he said, his voice taking on the sort of formal cadence that suggested they were about to move beyond preliminary posturing into actual terms of agreement. "*You've demonstrated considerable courage by bringing your khalasar here, and your reputation as a warrior and leader precedes you even into circles that don't normally concern themselves with the affairs of the grass sea. I have no desire to diminish that hard-earned reputation or waste the lives of brave men who are simply following the customs of their people.*"
"*However,*" he continued, raising one gauntleted hand to forestall any immediate response, "*the people of Pentos are now under my protection, which means the traditional arrangements between the Dothraki and the Free Cities no longer apply in quite the same way. The old rules of the game have been... updated.*"
Varro felt his heart sink as the implications became clear. This wasn't just an unexpected complication in an otherwise straightforward extraction of tribute—this was a complete transformation of the strategic situation that made all of his careful planning irrelevant.
"*But,*" the Dragonlord continued with the sort of dramatic timing that suggested he enjoyed these moments of revelation, "*I'm not an unreasonable man, and I recognize that you've invested considerable time and effort in this expedition. Your warriors deserve some recognition of their valor, and you deserve the opportunity to maintain your honor while adapting to changed circumstances.*"
"*Which brings us to my proposal,*" he said, his emerald eyes meeting Varro's with the sort of direct challenge that made it clear they were approaching the heart of the matter. "*Single combat between you and me, winner takes all. If you emerge victorious, Pentos pays tribute as originally planned and I withdraw my protection permanently. If I win, your khalasar departs in peace with honor intact but empty-handed. Clean, simple, and appropriately dramatic for what will undoubtedly become a legendary story regardless of the outcome.*"
The challenge hit the morning air like thunder, and Varro felt his blood quicken despite the impossible nature of the situation. Single combat was something he understood, something that fit within the traditional framework of Dothraki honor and custom. It was also, he realized with growing amazement, probably the most generous offer he could possibly expect under the circumstances.
"*Single combat,*" he repeated slowly, his mind already working through the implications and possibilities. "*You would face me blade to blade, man to man, despite having a dragon that could reduce my entire khalasar to ash and memory?*"
"*Well, I can hardly claim to be testing my martial prowess if I'm riding Aegerax while we fight, can I?*" the Dragonlord replied with the sort of dry humor that suggested he found the very idea somehow offensive to his sense of fair play. "*Dragon against khalasar would hardly be sporting. I may be many things, Khal Varro, but unsporting isn't one of them.*"
The offer was so generous it was almost impossible to believe. A Dragonlord willing to dismount from his impossible advantage, willing to face a Dothraki khal with conventional weapons and nothing but personal skill, wagering everything on individual capability rather than relying on overwhelming supernatural superiority.
"*And if I refuse your challenge?*" Varro asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"*Then I demonstrate why dragons were once the undisputed masters of the known world,*" the Dragonlord replied with the sort of matter-of-fact tone that made it clear this wasn't a threat so much as a simple statement of obvious consequence. "*Your khalasar would be remembered as brave but foolish, and the singers of the grass sea would compose songs about warriors who chose death over wisdom. Dramatically satisfying, perhaps, but ultimately rather wasteful.*"
Varro found himself caught between admiration and frustration. This impossible man was offering him the best conceivable outcome under completely hopeless circumstances—a chance to maintain honor while acknowledging reality, an opportunity to test himself against living legend while protecting his warriors from certain destruction.
"*You speak of honor and fair combat,*" he said, genuine curiosity coloring his voice, "*but what guarantee do I have that you'll honor such terms? What's to stop you from simply having your dragon incinerate us all regardless of the outcome?*"
"*My word as a Dragonlord and my oath as a man,*" came the immediate reply, delivered with the sort of formal solemnity that suggested the distinction was genuinely important to him. "*Should you emerge victorious, you'll have earned your tribute through courage and skill, and I'll withdraw permanently from Pentoshi affairs. Should I win, your khalasar rides away with full honors, their reputation enhanced rather than diminished, and their courage unquestioned by anyone with sense.*"
The Dragonlord paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued.
"*You see, Khal Varro, strength without honor is merely brutality, and brutality without purpose is simple waste. You're not evil men—you're warriors following the ancient customs of your people, trying to provide for those who have chosen to follow you. That deserves respect, even when circumstances require that I oppose your current intentions.*"
The words hit Varro like a physical blow, not because they were cruel but because they were unexpectedly kind. In all his years of warfare and conquest, no enemy had ever acknowledged that the Dothraki might have motivations beyond simple savagery, might be acting from a code of honor rather than mere greed.
Behind him, his bloodriders were exchanging glances that suggested they were all reaching similar conclusions about their unprecedented situation.
"*He's offering us a way out with dignity,*" Cohollo murmured with the sort of wondering tone that suggested he was still processing the impossibility of their circumstances. "*Win or lose, we go home as heroes rather than failures.*"
"*Assuming he keeps his word,*" Aggo added with the sort of professional suspicion that came from years of dealing with enemies who made promises they had no intention of keeping.
"*What choice do we have?*" Qhono asked with the sort of philosophical resignation that came from recognizing when all alternatives had been eliminated. "*It's single combat or dragon fire, and I know which option gives us better odds of seeing another sunset.*"
Varro studied the Dragonlord's face with the sort of careful assessment that had kept him alive through two decades of warfare, looking for any sign of deception, weakness, or hidden agenda. What he found there was somehow more unsettling than any of those things would have been—he saw genuine respect, honest curiosity about what his answer would be, and the sort of patient confidence that came from someone who had never encountered a situation he couldn't handle through superior capability.
"*You would risk your life for the people of Pentos?*" he asked, genuine puzzlement coloring his voice. "*Strangers who mean nothing to you personally?*"
"*I would risk my life for the principle that innocent people shouldn't suffer for the political machinations and power games of their supposed betters,*" the Dragonlord corrected with the sort of precision that suggested the distinction was philosophically important to him. "*Whether they're Pentoshi merchants, Dothraki warriors, or anyone else caught in the crossfire when powerful men decide to test their strength against each other. Power without responsibility is just tyranny with better armor.*"
The challenge now hung between them, formal and binding in the way that such things were among peoples who understood honor, and Varro found himself faced with a choice that would define not just his own legacy, but the future of everyone who had chosen to follow him across the grass sea.
"*If I accept your challenge,*" he said slowly, his tactical mind working through every implication even as his warrior's heart began to quicken at the prospect of testing himself against living legend, "*and if I should fall, you swear by whatever gods you honor that my warriors go free? No retribution, no pursuit, no attempts to extract vengeance for the inconvenience we've caused?*"
"*On my honor as the last Dragonlord of Valyria and my word as a man who has seen enough pointless death to last several lifetimes,*" the impossible figure replied with the sort of formal solemnity that made it clear he understood the full weight of such promises. "*Your khalasar rides away with full military honors, their reputation not merely intact but enhanced by the courage their khal showed in impossible circumstances. All I ask is that the story be told truthfully—that Khal Varro faced odds that would have broken lesser men and chose honor over survival.*"
It was, Varro realized with growing amazement, not just the best possible death for a Dothraki khal, but possibly the best possible outcome for his people regardless of whether he won or lost. Single combat against a worthy opponent, fighting for his warriors and his principles, with the absolute guarantee that his followers would survive to carry his memory and his legacy forward into legend.
"*I accept your challenge,*" he declared, his voice carrying across the grassland with the sort of ringing clarity that ensured every warrior in both forces would hear and understand the magnitude of what had just been agreed to. "*Single combat, winner takes all, as the ancient laws and customs demand. Let it be witnessed by the Great Stallion and recorded in song and story for as long as men remember the meaning of courage.*"
The Dragonlord—Haerion, he'd called himself—inclined his head with the sort of formal respect that suggested he understood they had just committed to something that would be remembered long after both of their names had passed into legend.
"*So be it,*" he replied, his voice carrying the weight of ritual and ancient tradition. "*Let the grass sea remember that Khal Varro chose honor over expediency, and that on this day, the age of legends returned to walk among mortals once more. May the best warrior win, and may the story of our combat inspire courage in generations yet unborn.*"
As both leaders began their preparations for what might well be the last true single combat between heroes of legend, their followers settled in to witness something that would be sung about for centuries to come, while overhead, Aegerax the Eternal circled like a golden star against the morning sky, ready to carry word of their deeds to whatever gods might be watching from their distant thrones.
The age of dragons had returned to the world, and with it, the possibility that legends might once again walk among men.
---
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