Vaes Dothrak had never been so crowded.
The Khalasars, who usually gathered here only for sacred occasions, now seemed to have been drawn together by an invisible hand. More than a hundred thousand Dothraki warriors, along with their horses, slaves, and herds, had devoured the surrounding plains until nothing remained but bare yellow earth.
The once-green grasslands were trampled into dust, the air thick with the scent of horse manure, sweat, and suppressed madness.
Inside the grand tent of the new Khal, Damian Thorne sat upon a simple throne draped in white lion skin. His presence filled the space with an oppressive calm.
Before him knelt Dhaka and Mazhuo, the only two men he trusted completely — the first to have pledged their loyalty after his divine ascension. Both bowed on one knee, their voices low and respectful as they reported.
"Khal," Mazhuo began, "all the khalasars near the Holy City have been brought under your command. But…" His brow furrowed slightly. "Several powerful khalasars have not answered your summons. The khalasar of 'Iron Hoof' Kargo has already marched west. Their destination seems to be Qohor."
Damian was silent for a long moment.
A band of marauders chasing plunder in the west was of no concern. There would be time enough to deal with them later — time to make them kneel.
He looked down at the map spread across the low table before him. His tone was calm, but every word carried the weight of a commandment.
"What lies beneath my feet is no longer a loose alliance of tribes."
Dhaka and Mazhuo straightened instantly, spines stiff as if a storm wind had struck them.
"From this day forward," Damian continued, "you and I are one. And I will lead you to bring a new order to this world."
He rose from his throne and stepped outside, the wind parting the tent flap. Beyond it stretched an ocean of people — warriors, horses, banners, firelight — a living sea that trembled at his presence.
He looked out at them and spoke again, voice calm and resolute.
"All warriors will unite under one legion. From now on, you are the Minions of the Dragon. You will be my claws."
Dhaka and Mazhuo exchanged glances, repeating the words softly — "Minions of the Dragon." The sound alone stirred something ancient and primal in their blood.
The name carried weight — heavier than any title of khalasar.
"Give me your first order," Dhaka said, his voice trembling with anticipation.
Damian turned toward them, his expression unreadable.
"All warriors," he said, "must wear armor."
The words dropped like stones into a silent lake.
The two men froze.
Dhaka's head snapped up, his excitement replaced by disbelief. "Khal! Armor is a coward's shell! The Dothraki trust in speed, in their horses and their blades. The strong need no iron to hide behind!"
"Is that so?" Damian's voice was quiet — dangerously so.
Without answering further, he stepped outside the tent. The moment he appeared, every head turned. A sea of eyes followed him.
Damian pointed at an old warrior among the crowd — a grizzled man whose braid was thick with gold bells, each one earned through victory.
"You," Damian said. "Come here."
The warrior strode forward proudly. He had once been khas to a powerful khal, and the weight of his name carried through the murmuring ranks.
He bowed his head slightly in respect, though his tone was firm. "Khal, armor will slow the warhorse and bind a warrior's limbs. The Horse God protects only those brave enough to face death bare."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered soldiers. Centuries of belief stood against this single order.
Damian didn't argue. His calm was unshakable. He turned to Mazhuo.
"Bring what you took from the merchants. Put it on him."
Mazhuo hurried away and returned moments later with a set of gleaming armor — a masterpiece of blackened iron, polished to mirror brightness. Damian had reforged it himself, strengthening it with his dragonfire until it gleamed with faint crimson veins.
Dhaka helped strap the armor onto the old warrior, who grunted under the unfamiliar weight. The plates were heavy, the metal cold against his skin.
He looked like a man trapped inside a cage.
"Now," Damian said softly, "strike him. With all your strength."
The old warrior's eyes widened. The crowd gasped.
To strike a brother — even for a test — was unthinkable.
"Khal…" the old man began, unsure.
"Strike," Damian repeated. His voice carried the finality of law.
The warrior hesitated no more. Roaring like a beast, he drew his arakh and swung with every ounce of strength he possessed. The curved blade whistled through the air and smashed into the armored chest with a blinding spark.
CLANG!
The sound of impact echoed across the plain.
The onlookers flinched — expecting blood. But when the dust cleared, the result silenced even the wind.
The old warrior's blade had bounced away, the shock numbing his hands. A faint white scratch marked the armor, nothing more. Dhaka, unharmed, stood tall and calm, looking down at his unbroken breastplate.
A low murmur rolled through the crowd — disbelief turning into awe.
Damian stepped forward slowly, his gaze fixed on the trembling old warrior.
"Tradition exists to keep you alive," he said evenly. "If a tradition brings only death — then it is not sacred. It is worthless."
He turned his head slightly, eyes sweeping over the crowd like twin blades.
"From this day forth, my words will be your only tradition."
No one dared to speak.
The silence of surrender spread like wildfire.
---
Thus began the great reform — a wheel of change grinding mercilessly against the bones of ancient custom.
One by one, Damian Thorne issued his commands, and the Dothraki Sea trembled.
"Mazhuo," he said, "I appoint you Chief of Logistics. Take this wealth and buy every scrap of ore from the merchants. Hire every blacksmith, every craftsman, every laborer you can find. Build me a forge — a thousand furnaces if you must. Vaes Dothrak will no longer be a city of tents, but of iron."
"Yes, Khal!" Mazhuo bowed deeply and hurried off.
Soon, the clanging of hammers echoed across the holy city for the first time in its history. Smoke rose from newly built furnaces. Merchants flooded in, smelling profit, bringing metals, tools, and workers.
The Dothraki had always destroyed, never built — but now the fires of creation burned beside the fires of war.
Next came Damian's second decree.
"Dhaka," he said, "scatter all the khas. I don't care whom they served before. From this moment on, every warrior serves me alone."
He outlined his new structure with military precision.
"Ten men form a squad. Ten squads make a hundred — a centuria. Ten centuria form a thousand — a khou. Each khou will have its commander. Discipline, unity, and obedience will replace chaos and pride."
The Dothraki resisted fiercely. They had always followed their bloodlines, their brothers, their familiar leaders. Now they were being forced into order — into a system alien to their freedom.
Fights broke out.
Damian ended them himself.
When several leaders rose against his rule, he walked among them without a word — and turned them into ash with a flicker of dragonfire.
The sight silenced the rest. Fear replaced rebellion.
Gradually, the scattered khalasars merged into one disciplined force.
But Damian was not finished.
He handpicked one hundred of the strongest and most promising young men from every tribe — sons of former khals, swift riders, skilled killers. From these thousand chosen, he formed his personal guard.
He called them the Longwu Army — the Dragon's Martial Guard.
They answered to him alone.
Day and night, training shook the plains. Warriors drilled in formations, learned to move as one, to obey signals and horns, to fight not as wild riders but as soldiers — a new breed of Dothraki forged in iron and fire.
Weeks turned to a month.
The once-chaotic horde had transformed.
At the foot of Our Lady's Mountain, a new army stood — rows upon rows of armored riders, their leather and iron plates gleaming under the sun. They stood in perfect formation, silent, unyielding — a forest of steel where once there had been only wild grass.
Dhaka climbed the hillside to where Damian stood watching them, his eyes burning with pride and calculation.
"Khal!" Dhaka said urgently. "The pastures near the Holy City are almost barren. The horses are losing strength. If we stay here, we'll starve before we march."
Damian nodded. His gaze drifted to the horizon — the distant west where smoke and gold awaited.
"It's time," he said quietly.
He descended the slope, walking to the front of his assembled host. A hundred thousand eyes followed his every step.
He drew his arakh — the curved Valyrian steel blade he had taken from the ashes of a fallen khal. Under the sunlight, the metal shimmered with waves of dark fire.
Raising the blade high, Damian pointed it toward the west — toward the lands of wealth and chains.
"Our first stop is Meereen," he declared, his voice like thunder rolling over the plain.
"Go forth — and paint that jeweled city in the colors of our banners!"
"ROAR!"
A deafening chorus erupted from a hundred thousand throats. The very earth seemed to quake beneath the weight of their cries.
The grasslands trembled as the sea of horses began to move — an unstoppable tide of hooves and steel.
For centuries, the Dothraki had been a storm.
Now, under Damian Thorne — the Dragon King — they had become a war machine.
The world itself would soon learn to kneel.
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