The Dothraki Blood Ceremony was a spectacle of raw, untamed power. Under the vast Pentosian sky, illuminated by roaring bonfires and the flickering light of countless torches, Khal Drogo's entire Khalasar assembled. Not just his bloodriders, but the ko and their kos—the tribal leaders and their sub-leaders—the fighting men, and even the women and children, formed a massive, silent circle around a central, raised platform.
Maegor stood at the heart of it all, his silver hair gleaming like a beacon in the firelight, Balerion perched regally on his shoulder. The dragon, no longer hidden, let out soft, rumbling growls that echoed the primal beat of Dothraki drums. Kaeto stood at Maegor's side, his hand on his sword, his face set with a grim pride.
The rituals were ancient and brutal. Horses were sacrificed, their throats slit, their blood steaming in the cool night air. Drogo, with a profound solemnity, smeared the blood on his own face, then on the faces of his bloodriders. Then, to the stunned silence of his Khalasar, he knelt once more before Maegor.
"Maegor Targaryen, Lord of Dragons," Drogo intoned, his voice resonating with fierce conviction, "I am Drogo, son of Bharbo, son of Zeggo. I break my upcoming marriage to the Westerosi princess, for I am unworthy of the Fire and Blood. My horse, my blood, my arakh, my heart, I give to you. I am your blood of my blood. My Khalasar is your Khalasar. We will ride for your glory, and conquer for your name."
He then cut a gash on his own arm, offering the dripping blood to Maegor. Maegor, without hesitation, reciprocated, cutting his palm with the edge of the Serpent's Sting. He clasped Drogo's forearm, their blood mingling, a powerful, unspoken oath binding them. The raw energy of the moment surged through Maegor, invigorating him. His Flame Adaptation (Tier 2) pulsed, a deeper connection to fire and blood.
Next, the ko and kos under Drogo's command, a dozen of the fiercest Dothraki leaders, stepped forward. One by one, they knelt before Maegor, repeating a version of Drogo's oath, cutting their own arms, and taking Maegor's blood. The ancient Maegor within him reveled in the ritual, recognizing the raw, visceral power of these oaths. He had come to control a portion of the Khalasar; he had gained their absolute submission.
As the ceremony concluded, the Khalasar erupted in a thunderous roar. "Khal Maegor! Khal Maegor!" they chanted, their voices filled with a new, terrifying fervor. The sheer, overwhelming power of thousands of yelling Dothraki, now sworn to him, sent shivers down his spine. This was an army.
Later, as the fires died down and the stars wheeled overhead, Drogo stood before Maegor, his face grim but resolute. "My Khal," he began, using the new, honorific title. "My Khalasar, the fighting men who can ride and take up an arakh... they number twenty-thousand warriors. The non-combatants, the women, children, and old, are forty thousand more. We are sixty thousand strong, in total."
Maegor digested the numbers. Twenty thousand fighting men. It was a force that could lay waste to entire regions, a terrifying army that dwarfed any single lord's muster in Westeros. "An impressive force, Khal Drogo," Maegor acknowledged, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"My Khal," Drogo continued, "where do we ride? What do we conquer for your glory?"
Maegor unrolled a map of the Free Cities, which he had acquired in Braavos and studied extensively with Kaeto. His finger landed on a small, fertile region south of Pentos, nestled between the Blackwater Rush and the Velaryon Hills, just north of the Free City of Myr.
"We will ride south, Khal Drogo," Maegor declared, his voice ringing with a cold certainty. "We will not go to Westeros yet. We will conquer a land for ourselves. A place to establish our base, to train, to grow. We will take Myrosh."
Drogo's eyes widened slightly. Myrosh was known for its fertile lands, its small, thriving towns, and its strategic location. "Myrosh," he rumbled, "it is good grass. It is rich. It is ours."
"There is a town there, with a small, stone castle," Maegor elaborated. "It will be my seat. Our land. We will settle there, consolidate our strength, and prepare for the true campaign. Kill all who resist. Show them no mercy. And when you raise your banners over the castle, let them be the banners of the dragon. Let the world know the Dragon Lord has returned to Essos."
He looked at Drogo, a grim satisfaction on his face. "The Khalasar is yours to command, Khal. Take Myrosh. Make it ours. I will join you when the time is right."
Drogo bowed deeply. "It shall be done, my Khal. Myrosh will burn."
As the Dothraki began to break camp, an eager anticipation replacing their earlier fear, the System chimed with triumphant clarity.
[ Mission Complete: Forging the Khalasar ]
Objectives Fulfilled:
Participate in a formal Dothraki Blood Ceremony with Khal Drogo to cement your alliance. (✓)Gain control of a significant portion of Khal Drogo's Khalasar (minimum 5,000 warriors). (✓) - Gained 20,000 warriors!
Reward Granted:
Ability Upgrade: Flame Adaptation (Tier 2) - Minor fire manipulation fully unlocked; increased heat resistance.Special Unit Access: Dothraki Bloodriders (Tier 1 - Requires Oathbound Recruitment)Reputation Gain: +300 (The Fire and Blood Lord) - Total Reputation: 7003 Game of Chance Cards received!
Maegor felt the subtle shift within him as Flame Adaptation (Tier 2) settled. A faint warmth spread through his skin, and he could almost feel the energy of fire at his fingertips, a ready weapon. He now had access to the elite Dothraki Bloodriders, a unit of unparalleled ferocity. And three more cards awaited him.
He turned, leaving the roaring chaos of the Dothraki Khalasar in Drogo's capable hands. His own path was different. He needed his immediate followers, his true kin. He needed to establish his hidden base.
He made his way swiftly back to the docks, the first rays of dawn painting the sky. The Sea Serpent awaited, a humble vessel that now carried the future of a dynasty. As he stepped onto the gangplank, Kaeto greeted him, a faint smile on his face.
"My lord," Kaeto said, "all are here. Captain Jorah is ready to depart on your command."
Maegor stepped onto the deck. Gathered before him were his initial five loyal subordinates, their faces tired but resolute. And then, his eyes fell upon his newfound family: Daenerys, looking small and fragile, but with a flicker of nascent hope in her purple eyes; and Viserys, pale, subdued, utterly cowed, a shadow of his former arrogance. With them stood the ten silent, imposing slave guards.
"Good," Maegor stated, his voice calm, yet resonating with authority. "Captain Jorah, set sail. We make for the small port south of Pentos, closest to Myrosh. From there, we travel east, to meet Khal Drogo and witness our new land being forged in fire and blood."
The Sea Serpent unfurled its sails, a modest vessel carrying an impossible dream, now backed by the promise of a Dothraki storm and a truly awakened dragon. The conquest had begun