Night had fully swallowed the plains, leaving only the glow of scattered bonfires to illuminate the scorched earth. The remnants of the once-mighty Khalasar now huddled silently in the ash. Shadows danced across their faces, etched with exhaustion, fear, and disbelief. Fires crackled, the smell of smoke and scorched flesh mingling with the acrid scent of trampled grass.
Damian Thorne sat cross-legged beside one of the largest bonfires, the furs beneath him still tinged with the metallic stench of blood. Before him knelt the only two Khass—elite lieutenants—still alive from the decimated Khalasar: Daka and Mazo.
The wind swept across the plains, stirring the ashes and carrying a faint metallic tang. Around the fire, over ten thousand surviving Dothraki warriors stood silently, their faces numb and unreadable. They were no longer warriors; they were livestock, waiting for the judgment of their new master.
"Daka. Mazo." Damian's voice was calm, low, but it cut through the night like the blade of a finely honed arakh. Silence fell heavier than the darkness itself.
From the crowd, the two Khass emerged, stepping forward with the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders. They knelt heavily, their foreheads pressed into the ash-stained earth, a gesture of surrender and devotion.
"You are now my Khass," Damian declared, his gaze still fixed on the flickering flames. "Swear your allegiance to me. Swear loyalty with your life and blood."
Mazo's body trembled; he could not meet Damian's eyes. Fear and awe warred within him. Daka hesitated for only a moment. Then, slowly, he raised his head. The firelight reflected in his almond-shaped eyes, illuminating a complex expression—fear, devotion, and a spark of fanatic reverence, as if he were staring at a god incarnate.
"I, Daka, offer you my arakh, my life," he swore, his voice hoarse, each word deliberate, weighted with solemnity. "I place my fate entirely in your hands."
For the first time, Damian raised his gaze from the flames, allowing his golden eyes to meet Daka's. The effect was instantaneous; Daka's eyes seemed to burn with a strange light, a mixture of fear and reverence that bordered on religious awe.
"Khal," Daka whispered. He laid his curved arakh horizontally on the ground before him, bowing his head deeply.
Mazo hesitated a beat longer, his eyes flicking to the pile of severed braids collected nearby—the tangible symbols of honor destroyed that day. His body shivered almost imperceptibly, but he soon mirrored Daka's actions, swearing his allegiance.
"Very good," Damian's voice was steady, even. No emotion betrayed his satisfaction. "You are now under my command. Serve me well, or perish."
He tapped Daka's arakh lightly with his toe, a gesture both ceremonial and commanding.
"Daka, Mazo," he continued, his eyes scanning the open plains beyond the fire, "Tomorrow, gather the warriors. The women and children will take the rear. Pack up the herds and supplies. We move."
"Yes, Khal," Daka said without hesitation, grasping his arakh and standing tall. Mazo followed, slower, more cautious, but eventually assented.
Night deepened around them. Damian remained alone in the large tent once belonging to the Khal, tearing pieces from a slab of horse sausage and washing it down with fermented mare's milk. The taste was pungent, sour, and gamey, but it filled him, grounding his body in the necessities of survival even as his mind raced with plans.
He finished the last bite, tossed the empty wineskin aside, and watched the firelight flicker against the tent's inner walls. His thoughts were already turning to strategy, to power, to faith.
The dragon form had been overwhelming, terrifying. Pure force, raw and brutal, was enough to decimate a Khalasar. Yet Damian knew that force alone was crude, finite. Control over airflow, subtle manipulation of fire—these were tools that elevated him beyond mere destruction.
He stretched out a hand, and a cluster of flames danced into being in his palm. With a subtle gesture, invisible currents of air twisted and compressed the fire, molding it. The flames stretched and reformed, and before him, a vivid horse of fire galloped in midair, hooves striking sparks against the darkness, mane flowing like molten gold.
"Faith…" Damian murmured under his breath. The realization struck him fully: the Dothraki worship power, but above all, they worship the horse god. A creature like him, descending from the sky, a godlike entity capable of shaping fire into their most sacred symbol, could bend faith to his will.
A holy war, justified in the name of faith, could sweep across Slaver's Bay, and the lands beyond. The thought brought a cold smile to his lips, ruthless and clear.
The fiery horse vanished at his fingertips. Damian lay back on the furs, the wind outside the tent whispering through the canvas, lulling him into a meditative slumber. Wisps of airflow spread from the center of the tent, carrying his presence, his will, to the plains beyond, even while he slept.
Outside, Daka meticulously wiped his arakh with an oiled cloth. The polished blade reflected his intense expression, though his thoughts were far away, back on the battlefield.
The shadow above the Khalasar, the deafening roar, the firestorm that reduced their proud Khal and his mount to ash… all lingered in his mind. He inhaled deeply, and the smell of sulfur seemed to cling to his senses, a memory burned into him.
"Burning steeds…" he whispered, reverently sheathing the blade. Following such a Khal, a god among men, what kind of conquest would he witness? The anticipation sent his blood racing, igniting a fire in his veins far brighter than any he had felt before.
Around the remaining warriors, the once-proud Dothraki sat in silence. Their long braids had been cut; symbols of honor and lineage lay discarded on the scorched grass. Shame clung to them like wet leather, heavy and suffocating. They waited for food, for orders, for guidance—their autonomy extinguished, their spirits crushed.
Nearby, Mazo whispered to an elderly Dothraki man, the two of them seated beside a flickering bonfire.
"What should we do?" Mazo's voice trembled, confusion and despair evident. "We've lost everything… our honor, our place in the world. And yet we must follow… a monster."
The old man stirred the flames with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the night. His face was lined with decades of experience, yet his eyes were clear, sharp. "Khass, you overthink. Strength is the only truth. If you cannot resist, obey. That is the law of life."
Mazo listened, swallowing hard. "Follow the strong… and we will be invincible?" he asked, uncertainty mingled with awe.
The old man nodded. "Especially when the power is irresistible. I have seen cities, mercenary companies, Free Cities of Myr. I have escaped death countless times, only to be captured again. But even in all I've seen, today surpasses all comprehension. The only path is obedience to the strong."
Meanwhile, miles away, in the Great Pyramid of Astapor, chaos reigned. Grazdan, the newly appointed governor, fully exploited his opportunistic nature. With the memories of the dragon's fiery judgment still fresh, he united the compliant families, swiftly extinguishing old factions and dissenters alike. Blood and fear had solidified his authority, and now his greed flared.
Standing atop the terrace, he gazed down at the city, its lights glimmering across the dust-choked streets. Mere governorship no longer satisfied him; he craved a deeper bond, a merging of House Nakroz with the Dragon King himself.
"My daughter…" he muttered under his breath, a spark of ambition igniting his eyes. If he could offer her to Damian Thorne, he could share in the glory of the Dragon King's conquests. But should Damian fall… the sacrifice would still be justified. In this world, ambition and survival were intertwined, and fear was currency.
The night deepened further, carrying with it the smoke of bonfires, the scents of ash and blood, and the silent promise of faith forged in fire. Damian Thorne lay in the tent, the wind whispering around him, the power of a god coursing beneath his skin, and the Dothraki plains stretched before him, a kingdom waiting for its true ruler.
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