Astapor shrank rapidly behind him, a tiny black dot swallowed by the horizon. Damian Thorne paid it no mind. Cities, pyramids, the petty squabbles of men—they were insignificant. He knew perfectly well that the Good Masters, who thrived on the commerce of flesh and blood, would begin scheming the moment he left. Fear might have kept them restrained for a brief time, but greed was stronger than terror. By the time he returned, there would likely be another batch of fools in need of correction. He even looked forward to it—perhaps Grazdan, the now terrified governor, could offer him some new entertainment. A Faceless Man, maybe, or some overambitious slave master who dared defy him.
Days of high-speed flight drained him, though not as much as it would a mortal. The wind whistled past his ears, carrying the scents and noises of the world below. The jagged, scorched coast of Slaver's Bay gradually gave way to endless emerald plains. The Dothraki Sea stretched infinitely in every direction, a living carpet of swaying grass, dotted with herds, scattered fires, and the small figures of moving men.
Damian's heart pulsed with a long-forgotten thrill. It wasn't merely the physical exertion or hunger for sustenance; it was something far older, more primal. His gut tightened with a sense of anticipation, a memory from deep within his dragon nature. It had been centuries since he had felt this pure, predatory hunger. The vast, open land, the scent of life and movement below—it all called to something dormant within him.
He descended, wings slicing the air, letting the currents convey whispers of life from the ground. Every tremor, every scattered heat signature, every flicker of movement reached him like an extension of his senses. Prey, and perhaps challenge, lay below.
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Khal Olek, leader of one of the most formidable Khalasars in the East, felt the first stirrings of dread before seeing anything. He reined in his horse, the mount stamping nervously against the earth. At twenty-two, he had inherited the entire Khalasar from his late father, ruling with an iron fist and a merciless arakh. Any who defied him had been made examples—heads displayed in the sands of his tent, their eyes frozen in terror. His leadership was absolute, unquestioned, earned through blood and fear.
Yet, a shiver ran through him. A sudden, inexplicable chill that made his scalp tingle and his instincts scream. He trusted his gut. It had saved him countless times.
He raised a hand, signaling his elite scouts to spread out ahead, slicing across the vast, undulating grasslands like arrows shot from a bow. The men moved quickly, scanning the plains for any hint of danger, unaware that they were being observed.
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High above, Damian Thorne pressed his knees into the neck of the massive beast beneath him, peeling away its thick white pelt. The creature, a rare apex predator called Heraka, had been the rightful terror of this land, a beast few dared to hunt. Yet Damian's movements were precise, efficient, methodical. His hands worked as extensions of his will, tearing and shaping, all while he maintained awareness of his surroundings.
A subtle shift in the currents alerted him—movement ahead. Not sound, not smell, but pure energy patterns, scattered but distinct. Hundreds of small tremors, hoofbeats, heat signatures, bodies moving with coordination.
Humans. And many of them.
Damian tilted his head. The currents confirmed it: a Khalasar, sprawling across the grasslands, moving deliberately toward the horizon. The shadows of dozens of mounted warriors, the dust rising behind them, the subtle flicker of blades and leather—it was all laid bare to him.
A low growl escaped his throat as he exhaled fire, not yet against them but as a signal, a taste of what was to come. With a thought, he expanded, and his body surged into the familiar form of a colossal black dragon. Nearly forty meters long, scales darker than night, wings stretching wide enough to eclipse the sun.
From this vantage, he surveyed the entire field. The Khalasar's formation was elegant, disciplined, yet fragile. His currents penetrated their very movements, their focus, their intentions. The man at the head, adorned with braided hair and riding a massive black mount flanked by Blood Riders, was immediately recognizable—the Khal himself.
Damian's golden eyes narrowed. He bellowed—a deafening, magical roar that rolled across the plains, drowning out the wind, the hooves, the murmurs of thousands. A prelude.
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The Khalasar froze. Every man, horse, and beast turned instinctively, gazes rising. Khal Olek's pupils contracted sharply. The shadow above was no myth, no exaggeration. A black dragon, enormous beyond imagination, circled above them, each wingbeat stirring gales that made horses rear in panic and arrows shake in quivers.
"Draw bows!" Khal Olek roared, his voice cracking across the field.
Thousands of Dothraki warriors, trained in the art of the longbow since childhood, reacted. Arrows hissed through the air, aimed at the behemoth above. This was instinct, the only response a mortal could manage when confronted by godlike power.
Damian analyzed instantly. Targeting the Khal, he let the air currents carry his awareness. The Blood Riders, the strongest mounts, the golden braid trailing behind the Khal—all revealed themselves as priority targets.
He roared again. Not merely a bellow, but an eruption of internal energy manifested as a shockwave of terrifying sound and heat. Horses panicked, warriors faltered.
"Lovely stars fly and crash," he mused internally, feeling the thrill of imminent destruction.
The next moment, Damian folded his wings, diving from the sky like a meteor. The ground rushed to meet him. Dust and air tore past in blinding speed, and the shadow of death expanded across the Khalasar with every heartbeat.
Boom!
The impact shook the grassland. A crater formed instantly beneath him, ripping through horses, riders, and earth alike. The shockwave of the collision radiated outward, scattering men and beasts in all directions. Then, fire erupted. A towering wall of flame, precise and controlled by his currents, swept across the battlefield. Horses and warriors were consumed in an instant, blackened and smoking, unable to scream.
Chaos erupted. Blood Riders roared in terror. 'Ko' tried to regroup, firing arrows at the dragon—but each missile struck scales as hard as stone, clanging harmlessly, shattering on impact. Mortal weapons were nothing.
Damian's eyes followed every motion. Attempted escapes were met with aerial precision. Flames spread in walls, encircling the survivors, leaving no path of retreat. The Khalasar, once disciplined, was trapped in a ring of annihilation.
Primal rage ignited among the surviving riders. They charged, desperate, seeking vengeance against the godlike predator. Damian hovered above, observing coldly. Another sweep of fire incinerated the first ranks, then he unleashed precise blasts on the flying arrows. One by one, the brave and the foolish alike fell into ash.
When the last of the charging warriors crumbled into nothing, only scorched earth, the smell of burning hair and leather, and the gasps of terrified survivors remained.
Damian landed lightly, his massive claws sinking into the blackened grass. His form contracted back to human, black robes flowing as he surveyed the remaining Dothraki. His voice, calm yet piercing, rang in their minds directly:
"Submit to me. I am your new Khal."
Fear replaced pride. Eyes once wild with the freedom of the grasslands now reflected raw terror.
One by one, weapons clattered to the ground. The first arakh fell, followed by the second, then the third. Survivors trembled, cutting their proud braids with shaking hands. The long braids, symbols of honor and victory, fell across the blood-soaked grass, evidence of complete surrender.
Damian's golden eyes swept over the kneeling Khalasar. His presence was absolute. The wind carried the acrid scent of fire and ash, and the grasslands, once alive with the pride and freedom of warriors, lay quiet under his dominion.
The once-mighty Dothraki warriors were now insects beneath a god, their screams reduced to whispers in the mind of Damian Thorne. And in that silence, only one thought remained: the empire he would build across Essos, beginning with these scorched plains, would bow to no mortal.
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