Chapter 216: Silver Dragon Khal
Not far from the banks of the Upper Rhoyne River, Khal Drogo's khalasar had fallen into complete panic. The tribe's most elite Dothraki Screamers had been decimated under the devastation of dragonfire.
"Warriors, charge with me!"
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live King's Landing!"
"Long live Sunspear!"
Six hundred armored knights led by Prince Oberyn Martell and Ser Barristan Selmy charged forward, their armor gleaming under the sun like a brilliant wave.
They were fully armored—helmets, gorgets, gauntlets, and steel plate—an unstoppable force of disciplined cavalry.
The first wave of destruction from the three Demon Dragons had already decided the battle. What remained was only the slaughter.
Behind them, the natives of Ghoyan Drohe and the bold freed slaves followed, shouting in support.
It was like mowing down grass.
The remaining Dothraki Screamers who refused to surrender were simply cut down.
Blood flowed everywhere.
Amid fire and screams, the iron-clad knights carried out a cold, efficient massacre.
The Dothraki were already broken by dragonfire and could not form any coherent resistance amid burning corpses and boiling steam.
Corpses filled both banks of the river and floated in its center—burned and drowned alike.
The river itself, not particularly wide, was beginning to clog with bodies.
Its flow had nearly stopped.
"Surrender and live!"
"Drop your weapons!"
The Westerosi knights, though slower than the Dothraki, now dominated in close combat.
The Dothraki fought almost naked, while the armored knights were heavily protected.
When it came to close-range slaughter, armor was decisive.
Ordinary strikes could not break steel, while a single opening from the knights meant death.
Above them, the Silver Dragon circled over the shattered khalasar.
The massive shadows of the three Demon Dragons loomed over the battlefield.
The women and children of Khal Drogo's khalasar began to kneel one after another.
The Silver Dragon landed near the plain beside the river.
The remaining Dothraki all knelt on the ground, awaiting the victor's judgment as they always did after a khalasar's defeat.
Silver, purple, and black dragons hovered like burning stars above them.
The Silver Dragon's scales shimmered like a flowing river of priceless light—beautiful, radiant, and terrifying.
It opened its maw, smoke and flame rolling out with the stench of sulfur.
Then it swooped down to the riverbank, grabbed a charred horse carcass, and began tearing into it.
The other two Demon Dragons followed, diving onto burned horse remains in the river and feeding.
To be honest, Rhaegar thought horse meat was mediocre—but clearly, the dragons were hungry.
"Khal!"
"Khal!"
The Dothraki shouted, gesturing wildly.
Among them, a Khal was the strongest warrior of the khalasar.
It was said that when a Khal could no longer ride, he lost his right to rule.
Their kingship was crude and simple.
A Khal's wife was called a Khaleesi.
To become a Khal, a warrior had to earn glory through countless battles.
A Khal's heir was called a Khalakka.
Now Khal Drogo had been defeated, and his pregnant wife had already died in the chaos.
He would leave no descendants.
The Dothraki respected only strength.
No technology.
No lineage.
Only power.
Because of this, khalasars rarely formed lasting dynasties.
Khalakka were not respected—many were killed early to prevent future rivalry.
"They are all Dothraki brothers in the end. If you can't fight, you are discarded immediately."
Rhaegar felt a faint sense of absurdity as he looked at the kneeling khalasar.
This was the Dothraki world—pure chaos, where only strength mattered.
A society like this could collapse from a single assassination or poison.
In history, Khal Drogo himself might have unified the Dothraki if not for his death from an infected wound and witchcraft interference.
He had commanded forty thousand Screamers.
Yet a single weakness ended everything.
The silver-haired prince in black-scaled armor stood where all eyes converged.
He looked almost divine.
Not far away, the three Demon Dragons fed on the battlefield.
The Silver Dragon's body shimmered with blended gold and silver tones—an elegant fusion of two precious colors.
Most Demon Dragons carried two or three hues.
The Silver Dragon's scales were pure silver, but its horns, wing bones, and dorsal crests were gilded.
The others were similar in composition—such as Balerion's black and red form.
"Silver Dragon Khal!"
"Silver Dragon Khal!"
"Dragon King!"
The Dothraki roared in surrender and awe.
They accepted defeat and chose to submit to the new Khal who commanded Demon Dragons.
Khal Drogo's death proved one thing clearly to them—he was not strong enough.
And in their eyes, a weak ruler was already dead.
"I accept it. You will become my loyal subjects."
At that moment, a follow-up force of two hundred armored knights led by Prince Oberyn Martell and Ser Barristan Selmy arrived, tightening control of the battlefield.
Their armor was stained with blood from the ongoing cleanup of survivors.
"Prince, a great victory. The Screamers are nearly annihilated. The five or six hundred survivors are all willing to surrender."
Prince Oberyn Martell reported.
The Demon Dragons had made the battle effortless—true aerial dominance.
A perfect victory.
As more cavalry arrived, the old, weak, and children among the khalasar became even more terrified.
The women of Khal Drogo's khalasar still carried a certain wild pride even in defeat, but fear now dominated their expressions.
Dothraki women, especially, seemed prepared for death—this was the fate of the defeated.
In normal Dothraki custom, they would already be fighting over loot and captives.
But now there was only silence under the dragons' shadows.
"The Dothraki are barbarians, but we are not."
Rhaegar spoke to Oberyn and Barristan.
"We cannot adopt their savage customs."
"We are operating in foreign lands, so discipline must be absolute. Horses and wealth taken in this victory can be distributed as rewards—but no plundering women, and no indiscriminate killing."
Barristan Selmy was trustworthy in this regard.
But Oberyn Martell was harder to judge.
The Dornish used ambushes and raids, and their methods were not always clean.
After Rhaegar left, discipline would depend heavily on Oberyn's control.
Still, Oberyn was intelligent enough to understand the expectation.
"As you command."
"As you command."
Both answered.
On the battlefield, there was only one voice.
Westerosi discipline, even at its worst, still looked restrained compared to the Dothraki.
Tywin Lannister's hounds—Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane—came to Rhaegar's mind as examples of what unchecked cruelty looked like.
"Drag out the dead horses. Some may still be edible after roasting. No waste."
Horse meat, after all, was valuable here.
"And cut the braids from all captured Screamers. I will send them to Magister Illyrio Mopatis. He will understand what this means."
Rhaegar's tone was calm.
If Khal Drogo's force had been destroyed, there was no reason to leave value behind.
Rhaegar surveyed the remaining khalasar.
It was mostly women and children.
The strongest warriors had already been burned away by dragonfire.
"The grown Dothraki cannot be tamed. But the children can be reshaped."
A new generation could be created.
Even if released, their fate would likely be worse.
Survival for Khal children was never guaranteed—especially if rival kos decided to eliminate heirs after a Khal's fall.
"Prince Oberyn, after this khalasar surrenders, they are our subjects."
Rhaegar looked at him directly.
"You are intelligent. You can govern them. I expect you to handle this properly."
"We must win not only the war, but also the people."
"If they submit voluntarily, I will not interfere in personal relations. But there will be no slaughter, no rape, no uncontrolled looting."
"We are not the Dothraki."
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