The morning sun cast long shadows across the grassland as two legends faced each other, the weight of destiny hanging in the air like smoke from a dragon's breath. Behind each warrior stood forces that represented entirely different approaches to power—one rooted in ancient tradition and conquest, the other in magic and mystery that had supposedly died with the Doom of Valyria.
"*Before we begin,*" Varro said, his voice carrying the sort of ritual formality that preceded any formal combat among his people, "*honor demands that I know the name of the man I'm about to fight. You may be legend made flesh, but legends still have names.*"
The Dragonlord paused in his own preparations, and for a moment his formal bearing softened into something that looked almost like genuine warmth. It was a smile that somehow managed to be both dangerous and disarming—the sort of expression that had probably gotten him into and out of equal amounts of trouble.
"*Haerion Peverell,*" he replied, his voice carrying the sort of precise diction that suggested aristocratic breeding refined by years of commanding both men and dragons. "*Last heir of the Dragonlords of Old Valyria, partner to Aegerax the Eternal, and—as of this morning—apparently the self-appointed protector of people who probably didn't know they needed protecting.*"
He gestured toward the massive dragon circling overhead, whose golden scales caught the morning light like captured sunlight given form and substance. Even at this distance, Aegerax was clearly enormous—not merely large, but genuinely mountainous in scale, the sort of creature that redefined observers' understanding of what 'big' actually meant.
"*And that magnificent creature is Aegerax—not a mount, but a partner,*" Haerion continued, his tone taking on the sort of fond pride usually reserved for discussing beloved family members. "*The distinction is important, though I suspect it won't matter much for the purposes of our current business. He's rather protective of me, you see, and has strong opinions about fair play in combat.*"
*I have strong opinions about many things,* came Aegerax's mental voice, rich with the sort of amused affection that suggested centuries of partnership had created bonds deeper than mere friendship. *Most of which you ignore with cheerful determination.*
*Only when your opinions involve excessive property damage or intimidating people we're trying to negotiate with,* Haerion replied through their bond, his mental tone carrying the sort of fond exasperation that came from long experience. *Today we're trying for 'impressively competent' rather than 'absolutely terrifying.'*
*A pity,* Aegerax responded with mental laughter that felt like warm honey mixed with barely contained wildfire. *'Absolutely terrifying' is so much more efficient.*
"*Haerion Peverell,*" Varro repeated, testing the syllables with the sort of careful pronunciation that suggested he understood the importance of getting such things right. His voice carried the kind of deep resonance that came from years of commanding warriors across battlefields, and his physical presence was genuinely impressive—the sort of man who could dominate rooms through simple presence rather than threat. "*A name that will be remembered in song and story, regardless of how this morning ends.*"
"*Let us hope it's remembered fondly,*" Haerion replied with a grin that somehow managed to be both confident and self-deprecating, the sort of expression that suggested he found life's absurdities genuinely entertaining. "*Though knowing my luck with dramatic situations, it'll probably be remembered as 'that time the last Dragonlord did something spectacular and slightly ridiculous in defense of people who hadn't asked for his help.' Again.*"
Behind Varro, his bloodriders exchanged glances that suggested they were rapidly revising their initial assessments of their opponent. This wasn't the sort of formal, tradition-bound nobleman they'd been expecting—this was someone who approached potentially lethal situations with humor and self-awareness that spoke of extensive experience with impossible circumstances.
"*You speak as though defending strangers without being asked is a recurring problem,*" Cohollo observed, his scarred features showing the sort of curious interest that came from recognizing unexpected depths in a potential enemy.
"*You'd be amazed how often people end up needing help they haven't specifically requested,*" Haerion replied with the sort of cheerful resignation that suggested this was indeed a familiar pattern. "*Something about possessing the means to intervene in difficult situations apparently creates a moral obligation to actually do so. Terribly inconvenient, but there we are.*"
"*A philosophical position that explains much about your current circumstances,*" Varro said with what might have been approval, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "*Most men with dragons would simply take what they wanted and justify it afterward. You appear to have chosen a more complex approach.*"
"*Mostly because taking what I want would be boring,*" Haerion replied with the sort of casual honesty that suggested he'd given this considerable thought. "*Where's the challenge in solving problems through overwhelming force when you could solve them through clever application of limited resources? Anyone can intimidate people with a mountain-sized dragon. It takes actual skill to convince them you're worth listening to.*"
The weapons they drew spoke volumes about their respective natures and cultures, each blade telling stories of tradition, craftsmanship, and the sort of deadly expertise that came from years of practical application in lethal situations.
Varro's arakh was a masterwork of Dothraki craftsmanship—curved steel that seemed to flow like captured moonlight, its edge honed to razor sharpness and its weight perfectly balanced for the sort of flowing, mounted combat that had made the horse lords legendary across the known world. The weapon moved in his grip like a living thing, an extension of his will that promised death delivered with artistic precision.
When Haerion looked up at Aegerax and whistled sharply, the great dragon began his descent with movements that shook the earth and filled the sky with golden radiance. The landing was surprisingly gentle for something the size of a mountain, but the impact still sent tremors through the grassland and caused several Dothraki horses to dance nervously despite their training.
"*Right,*" Haerion said with the sort of cheerful practicality that suggested climbing mountain-sized dragons was simply part of his normal routine, "*give me just a moment to collect the family heirloom. Can't very well have a proper duel without proper equipment.*"
He approached Aegerax's massive form with the sort of easy familiarity that spoke of countless such interactions, finding handholds in the intricate patterns of golden scales and beginning to climb with practiced efficiency. Even watching him ascend was impressive—the dragon was genuinely enormous, and the climb to reach the elaborately crafted saddle positioned between Aegerax's shoulders required both physical capability and complete comfort with heights that would have terrified most people.
*Show off,* Aegerax commented mentally as Haerion reached the saddle and began unfastening the weapon secured there.
*Says the dragon who insisted on the dramatic landing instead of simply hovering low enough for me to reach the saddle,* Haerion replied with mental amusement as he grasped Dragonbane's handle and lifted it free.
*Hovering is undignified,* Aegerax responded with the sort of injured pride that suggested his aesthetic standards were being questioned. *Besides, they need to understand what they're dealing with. First impressions matter.*
When Haerion raised Dragonbane above his head and leaped from Aegerax's back—a fall that should have been fatal but which he managed with supernatural grace, landing in a perfect crouch that absorbed the impact without apparent effort—the weapon's true nature became clear to everyone present.
Dragonbane sang as it moved through the air, the double-bladed axe seeming to drink in the morning light and transform it into something more intense, more focused. The crimson steel flowed with golden veins that pulsed like a heartbeat, while the Resurrection Stone set in its base glowed with inner fire that made the surrounding air shimmer with barely contained power. This wasn't just a weapon—it was a force of nature given form and purpose, crafted by methods that existed beyond normal understanding.
"*Mother of horses,*" Qhono breathed as he caught sight of the legendary weapon, his scarred face showing the sort of awe that came from recognizing true craftsmanship even when it took forms completely outside his experience. "*That's not just a weapon—that's a force of nature with a handle attached.*"
"*The stories speak of Dragonlords wielding weapons forged from starfire and dragon's breath,*" Aggo murmured with the sort of reverent tone usually reserved for religious observations. "*But I always assumed such things were singer's embellishments. Poetic exaggeration to make the tales more impressive.*"
"*Apparently not,*" Rakharo replied with the sort of dry observation that suggested he was rapidly revising his understanding of what constituted 'mythical embellishment' in the ancient stories. "*Though I suppose when you're dealing with actual dragons and actual Dragonlords, the line between history and legend becomes somewhat... negotiable.*"
"*Oh, the stories probably got most of it wrong,*" Haerion said with the sort of cheerful irreverence that suggested he found ancient legends mildly entertaining but not particularly authoritative. "*Singers have never been particularly good with technical details. But the basic concept—weapons that channel magical forces through crystalline matrices embedded in Valyrian steel—that part they managed to get more or less correct.*"
He spun Dragonbane through a series of practice forms that made the air itself seem to catch fire, golden light trailing from the blade in patterns that spoke of power barely contained within mortal frameworks.
"*The Resurrection Stone provides structural reinforcement for the enchantments,*" he continued with the sort of casual expertise that suggested he'd given considerable thought to the theoretical principles involved. "*Without it, the weapon would simply melt from channeling this much magical energy. With it, Dragonbane becomes something rather more impressive than a simple cutting tool.*"
"*Rather more impressive,*" Jhaqo repeated with the sort of careful understatement that suggested he was trying to process information that challenged his fundamental understanding of what constituted reasonable levels of dangerous. "*Is that what we're calling weapons that make the air catch fire when you swing them? Rather more impressive?*"
"*I prefer understatement to excessive drama,*" Haerion replied with a grin that suggested he found his own response genuinely amusing. "*Besides, you should see what it can do when I'm actually trying to show off. This is just basic warming-up exercises.*"
The two warriors began to circle each other with the sort of predatory grace that spoke of decades of experience with mortal combat, each studying his opponent's stance, movement, and style with the focused intensity that could mean the difference between victory and death. The morning air seemed to thicken with anticipation as three thousand Dothraki warriors watched two legends prepare to test themselves against each other.
Varro moved like liquid violence barely contained—every step calculated, every gesture economical, his arakh held in a grip that could shift from defensive to aggressive in the space between heartbeats. This was a man who had survived twenty years of warfare not through luck or overwhelming force, but through superior skill and the sort of tactical thinking that turned battles into chess games played with steel and blood.
"*Twenty years of leading warriors across the grass sea,*" he said as they continued their careful dance of assessment and positioning, his voice carrying the sort of conversational tone that made lethal combat seem like friendly discussion. "*Victory over seventeen rival khals, conquest of cities from Norvos to Volantis, and enough scars to prove that none of it came easily.*"
"*Impressive resume,*" Haerion replied with genuine appreciation, Dragonbane moving through guard positions and ready stances as naturally as breathing. "*Though I should mention that I've had something of an unconventional education in the art of not dying during dramatic confrontations. Trial by fire, you might say, with rather more emphasis on the 'fire' part than most people prefer.*"
"*You fight like no Dragonlord in the ancient songs,*" Varro observed as they continued their ritual circling, his dark eyes cataloging every detail of his opponent's form and movement. "*They were described as proud, formal, bound by ancient traditions and established techniques. You move like someone who makes up the rules as he goes along.*"
"*Probably because I do,*" Haerion replied with the sort of cheerful honesty that suggested he found this approach perfectly reasonable. "*The old Dragonlords had the luxury of established schools and ancient masters. I've had to figure things out through trial and error, practical application, and a certain amount of creative borrowing from various sources. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you're not constrained by conventional wisdom about how things are supposed to work.*"
"*Creative borrowing,*" Varro repeated with what might have been amusement. "*A polite way of saying you've stolen techniques from every fighting style you've encountered and combined them into something uniquely yours.*"
"*I prefer to think of it as synthesis rather than theft,*" Haerion replied with mock dignity that suggested he'd had this conversation before. "*Besides, most of the people I learned from were trying to kill me at the time, so I consider it fair compensation for the inconvenience they caused me.*"
"*Unconventional thinking,*" Varro mused, his tone carrying the sort of respectful assessment that came from recognizing a genuinely dangerous opponent. "*Dangerous in battle, though I suppose it explains how you managed to emerge from the ruins of Old Valyria when everyone assumed the Dragonlord bloodlines had died with the Doom.*"
"*Oh, the bloodlines did die with the Doom,*" Haerion said with the sort of casual correction that suggested he'd long since made peace with complicated family history. "*I'm something rather different—call it an unexpected continuation of discontinued traditions, with significant modifications for changed circumstances.*"
*Are you planning to explain the time travel situation?* Aegerax inquired mentally, his tone carrying the sort of amused curiosity that suggested he was enjoying the conversation.
*Absolutely not,* Haerion replied through their bond with the sort of firm certainty that suggested he'd given this considerable thought. *Bad enough that we're dealing with dragons and magic weapons. Start talking about temporal displacement and we'll be here all day trying to explain theoretical mechanics to people who still think the world is flat.*
*Probably wise,* Aegerax agreed with mental laughter. *Though I do enjoy watching people try to process impossible information.*
The first exchange was explosive in ways that defied easy description. Varro's arakh flowed through a series of lightning-fast cuts that seemed to exist in multiple places simultaneously, each strike designed to test specific defensive capabilities while creating opportunities for follow-up attacks. His movement was pure artistry—twenty years of combat experience distilled into patterns of destruction that would have overwhelmed most opponents through sheer technical excellence.
But Haerion's response transformed what should have been overwhelming offense into something approaching performance art. Dragonbane moved through defensive patterns that seemed to bend space around its crimson blade, creating barriers of steel and golden fire that turned every attack into opportunities for counter-strikes. The legendary axe sang as it cut through air that sparkled with barely contained magical energy, each parry and deflection building toward combinations that existed outside conventional understanding.
Steel rang against steel with sounds like controlled thunder, and both warriors stepped back with the sort of respectful assessment that came from recognizing a truly worthy opponent.
"*Fast,*" Haerion observed with genuine appreciation, rolling his shoulders to work out the shock of impacts that had tested even his magically enhanced physiology. "*Considerably faster than anything I've faced before. If I'd been relying on normal human reflexes, that first exchange would have ended very badly for me.*"
"*And you hit like a siege engine wrapped in silk and good manners,*" Varro replied, examining his weapon for any damage from blocking strikes that had felt like being hit with controlled lightning. "*That's not just skill—that's enhancement, magical reinforcement. Your armor isn't just protection, it's amplification.*"
"*Among other things,*" Haerion agreed with the sort of casual confirmation that suggested he saw no point in denying obvious facts. "*Though I should point out that magical enhancement only goes so far. Skill, experience, and tactical thinking still matter more than raw capability. Overwhelming force without proper application just makes you a very dangerous amateur.*"
"*Spoken like someone who's had to learn that lesson the hard way,*" Varro observed with the sort of understanding that came from extensive experience with enhanced opponents.
"*Oh, spectacularly so,*" Haerion replied with the sort of rueful self-awareness that suggested entertaining stories lay behind the admission. "*There's nothing quite like overconfidence in your own capabilities to teach you humility at exactly the wrong moment. These days I try to approach every fight with the assumption that my opponent knows something I don't.*"
They engaged again, and this time the combat settled into the sort of deadly rhythm that separated truly legendary battles from mere skilled exchanges. Varro fought with the fluid grace of twenty years' experience, his arakh weaving patterns of destruction that seemed to exist outside normal time, while Haerion responded with innovations that transformed conventional defensive techniques into something approaching art.
The battle raged across the grassland with intensity that redefined observers' understanding of what human capability could achieve when pushed to its absolute limits. Varro's style was pure classical perfection—every movement economical, every strike calculated, every defensive position chosen to create opportunities for devastating counter-attacks. He fought like water taking the shape of violence itself, flowing around obstacles and striking where defense was weakest.
But Haerion's approach was something entirely different—controlled chaos that somehow achieved perfect balance between aggression and defense. Dragonbane moved through patterns that shouldn't have been possible with a weapon of its size and weight, creating walls of crimson steel that deflected attacks while simultaneously preparing devastating responses. His style incorporated elements from combat traditions that probably shouldn't have worked together but somehow created synergies that enhanced every individual technique.
"*Magnificent,*" Cohollo breathed as the two fighters broke apart again, both showing signs of exertion but neither willing to yield ground or acknowledge weakness. "*Win or lose, this is the sort of combat that singers will be trying to capture in verse for centuries to come.*"
"*And failing miserably,*" Qhono added with the sort of certainty that came from watching something that existed beyond the normal boundaries of human experience. "*How do you describe in words what we're witnessing? How do you capture in song the sound of that axe cutting through air, or the way the Khal moves like water given purpose and direction?*"
"*You don't,*" Aggo replied with the sort of practical wisdom that came from understanding the limitations of artistic representation. "*You just watch, remember as much as you can, and hope that someday you'll be skilled enough to understand what you're actually seeing.*"
As the fight continued, both warriors began to show the sort of adaptations that spoke of truly exceptional combat intelligence. Varro started incorporating feints and misdirections designed specifically to counter Haerion's enhanced reflexes, while Haerion began using Dragonbane's magical properties in increasingly creative ways—not just as a weapon, but as a focus for energies that could deflect attacks, create temporary barriers, and even briefly blind opponents with bursts of golden radiance.
"*Learning,*" Jhaqo observed with the sort of professional appreciation that came from watching masters at work. "*Both of them. Adapting their techniques in real time to counter what they're seeing from their opponent.*"
"*More than learning,*" Rakharo corrected with the sort of awe that suggested he was witnessing something genuinely extraordinary. "*Evolving. Creating new techniques based on immediate assessment of changing circumstances. This isn't just combat—it's innovation under pressure.*"
But as the battle continued, subtle advantages began to tell. Haerion's enhanced physiology—the result of months of careful magical enhancement, dragon partnership, and systematic preparation—meant his stamina remained high even as Varro began to show signs of the inevitable fatigue that came from pushing human limitations to their absolute breaking point. His armor, for all its elegance and beauty, was also providing protection and support that gradually shifted the balance of the engagement.
More importantly, Dragonbane itself was proving to be more than just an enhanced weapon. The Resurrection Stone's power flowed through the enchanted steel in ways that reinforced Haerion's capabilities while simultaneously draining strength from his opponent through methods that existed beyond conventional understanding. Not enough to determine the outcome through magical interference alone, but sufficient to create cumulative advantages that slowly tipped the scales.
"*Tiring,*" Varro observed with the sort of honest assessment that came from extensive experience with his own limitations. "*Not from lack of skill or will, but from fighting an opponent whose capabilities exist slightly outside normal parameters.*"
"*If it's any consolation,*" Haerion replied as they circled each other once more, "*you're the most skilled opponent I've ever faced. Without the enhancements, this fight would have ended badly for me within the first few exchanges.*"
"*Consoling, but not particularly helpful for current circumstances,*" Varro replied with what might have been humor despite the seriousness of their situation.
The end came not through any single decisive strike, but through the accumulation of small advantages that finally reached critical mass. Varro, his remarkable skill and decades of experience finally overwhelmed by facing an opponent whose capabilities existed slightly outside normal human parameters, found himself a half-second too slow on a crucial parry.
Dragonbane's blade swept past his guard in a movement that seemed to bend light around its edges, coming to rest against his throat with such perfect control that it drew only the finest line of blood while making it absolutely clear that the combat was over. The weapon hummed with barely contained power, its proximity to vital areas creating the sort of immediate, visceral understanding that arguments were no longer relevant.
"*Yield,*" Haerion said quietly, his voice carrying the sort of respectful acknowledgment that honored his opponent's courage while accepting the necessity of victory. "*You fought with honor and skill that would be legendary in any age, Khal Varro. But this battle is done.*"
For a moment, absolute silence held the grassland as three thousand Dothraki warriors waited to see how their leader would respond to defeat, while the morning air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what would come next.
Then, with movements that spoke of dignity maintained even in defeat, Varro slowly nodded his acceptance of the outcome.
"*The victory is yours, Dragonlord,*" he said formally, though his voice carried no shame or bitterness—only the acknowledgment of a warrior who had tested himself against the best possible opponent and found an honorable limit to his capabilities. "*I yield the field and accept the terms of our combat.*"
But what happened next surprised everyone present, including Haerion himself. Instead of stepping back and accepting victory with the sort of gracious formality that would have ended the matter appropriately, Varro deliberately reached for the knife at his belt with movements that made his intentions unmistakably clear.
"*Wait,*" Haerion said, immediately lowering Dragonbane and stepping back with the sort of genuine alarm that suggested he had no idea what was happening. "*What are you doing? The combat's over. You don't need to—whatever you're thinking of doing, there are probably better alternatives.*"
"*By the laws of the grass sea,*" Varro interrupted with the sort of formal solemnity that made it clear they were moving into ritual territory that existed beyond simple combat, "*when a khal is defeated by a superior warrior, the defeated must choose. Death with honor, or service to the victor who has proven himself worthy of loyalty through superior strength and courage.*"
The knife's blade caught the morning light as Varro raised it to the base of his long braid—the symbol of his victories, his status, his entire identity as a leader of the Dothraki. The gesture carried weight that seemed to echo across the grassland like thunder, making it clear that they were witnessing something of genuine historical significance.
"*You fought with honor, showed mercy to my warriors, and proved yourself worthy of the ancient titles you bear,*" he continued, his voice carrying across the grassland with the sort of ritual cadence that ensured every warrior present would remember these words for the rest of their lives. "*I choose service, Dragonlord Haerion Peverell. I offer you my braid, my khalasar, and my oath of loyalty.*"
"*Oh, bloody hell,*" Haerion said with the sort of aristocratic exasperation that suggested he was beginning to understand the implications of accepting combat challenges in cultures he didn't fully understand. "*Are you telling me that by winning this fight, I've accidentally acquired responsibility for three thousand people and their horses?*"
The braid fell to the grass with symbolic weight that seemed to resonate through the ground itself, and Varro knelt before his former opponent with the sort of dignified submission that somehow enhanced rather than diminished his stature.
"*I don't understand,*" Haerion continued, looking between the fallen braid and the kneeling khal with the sort of genuine confusion that suggested Dothraki customs were significantly different from anything in his previous experience. "*You're offering to... what, exactly? Serve me? Follow me? I don't want to conquer anyone or rule over people who didn't volunteer for the experience.*"
*This is fascinating,* Aegerax observed mentally, his tone carrying the sort of amused interest that suggested he was enjoying watching his partner navigate completely unexpected diplomatic territory. *You went out this morning planning to prevent a massacre, and you've accidentally acquired an army.*
*Not helping,* Haerion replied through their bond with the sort of mental exasperation that suggested he was beginning to appreciate the full scope of his miscalculation.
"*He's offering you the traditional oath of a defeated khal to his conqueror,*" Aggo explained with the sort of careful formality that suggested he was serving as cultural interpreter between two very different worldviews. "*By Dothraki law and custom, when a khal is defeated in honorable combat, he may choose death or service. If he chooses service, his entire khalasar becomes part of the victor's forces.*"
"*Three thousand warriors,*" Rakharo added with the sort of practical observation that suggested he was already working through the implications, "*their horses, their families, their accumulated wealth, their skills and knowledge. Everything that was Khal Varro's becomes yours by right of conquest and his choice to serve rather than die.*"
"*And if I refuse this... generous offer?*" Haerion asked with the sort of careful curiosity that suggested he suspected he wasn't going to like the answer.
"*Then he dies,*" Cohollo replied with the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that made it clear this wasn't a negotiating position. "*Honor demands it. A khal who cannot lead, cannot serve, and will not die is... well, such a thing doesn't exist. The categories are comprehensive.*"
Haerion looked around at the sea of mounted warriors, all watching him with the sort of intense attention that suggested they understood their entire future was being decided in this conversation, then up at Aegerax circling overhead, then finally back down at Varro kneeling in the grass.
"*This is... considerably more complicated than I was expecting when I decided to intervene in what I thought was going to be a simple rescue operation,*" he said finally, his tone carrying the sort of bemused uncertainty that suggested he was rapidly revising his understanding of what accepting single combat challenges might entail. "*I was thinking in terms of territorial agreements and mutual non-aggression pacts, not acquiring entire populations and responsibility for their welfare.*"
*Give me a moment to think this through,* he added through his mental link with Aegerax, his thoughts carrying the sort of careful consideration that came from recognizing that decisions made in the next few minutes could have consequences lasting decades.
*Take your time,* Aegerax replied with the sort of patient amusement that suggested he was enjoying watching his partner discover the complexities of medieval politics. *Though I should point out that refusing such an offer would be culturally catastrophic, and accepting it means you're now responsible for several thousand people who have very different ideas about appropriate ways to make a living than you might prefer.*
*How different are we talking?* Haerion asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
*Think Vikings with horses,* Aegerax replied with mental laughter that carried undertones of fondness and resignation. *Raiding, pillaging, taking slaves, the complete spectrum of activities that would give you moral indigestion if you tried to ignore them.*
After a long moment of consideration that seemed to stretch across the grassland like held breath, Haerion made his decision.
"*Stand up, Khal Varro,*" he said formally, his voice carrying the sort of natural authority that made it clear the words were a command rather than a request. "*If you're to serve me, you'll do it as a partner and adviser, not as a supplicant. I don't want defeated enemies—I want allies who can help me understand this world and navigate its complexities.*"
Varro rose with fluid grace, his expression showing the sort of cautious hope that came from discovering that defeat might lead to opportunities rather than mere survival.
"*I accept your offer,*" Haerion continued, his tone taking on the formal cadence that such occasions demanded, "*but with conditions that we'll need to discuss and agree upon. The most important being that certain traditional Dothraki approaches to... resource acquisition... will need to be modified significantly.*"
The silence that followed this statement was the kind that suggested several thousand people were trying to process euphemisms that probably meant their entire way of life was about to be restructured without warning.
"*Modified how?*" Jhaqo asked with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he suspected he wasn't going to like the answer but was committed to hearing it anyway.
"*No more raiding,*" Haerion said with the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that made it clear this wasn't a negotiating position but a fundamental requirement. "*No more slavery, no more attacking innocent settlements for tribute or resources, no more solving problems through violence against people who can't adequately defend themselves. If you're going to follow me, you're going to do it without leaving trails of suffering and destruction behind us.*"
The silence that greeted this announcement was so complete that individual blades of grass rustling in the wind seemed loud by comparison.
"*But,*" Cohollo protested with the sort of confused urgency that came from watching his entire worldview being restructured without adequate preparation, "*raiding is how we prove our worth. How we gain honor, wealth, status. How we show that we're warriors rather than... than merchants or farmers or some other sort of lesser people. Without raiding, what are we?*"
"*Exactly the question I was hoping you'd ask,*" Haerion replied with the sort of pleased satisfaction that suggested he'd been expecting this particular objection and had prepared for it accordingly. "*Because the answer is that you're the finest horse breeders in the known world, trainers of animals that are legendary for their speed, endurance, and intelligence. You're also some of the most skilled riders, fighters, and tactical minds on the continent. Why limit yourselves to simple theft when you could build something genuinely impressive?*"
He gestured toward the magnificent war horses that carried the khalasar, animals that even to his relatively inexperienced eye were clearly superior to anything he'd seen in either of his worlds.
"*Dothraki horses are renowned from the Summer Isles to the Shivering Sea,*" he continued, his tone taking on the sort of enthusiastic certainty that suggested he was genuinely excited by the possibilities he was outlining. "*People would pay extraordinary sums for animals of such quality, for training in your techniques, for the sort of expertise that turns ordinary riders into legends. You could establish breeding programs, training academies, competitions that would draw participants from across the known world.*"
"*People would pay... to learn to ride horses?*" Aggo asked with the sort of skeptical incredulity that suggested he was trying to understand how such basic activities could possibly be profitable.
"*People would pay extraordinary sums to learn to ride horses the way Dothraki ride horses,*" Haerion corrected with the sort of patient emphasis that suggested he was making an important distinction. "*There's a significant difference between 'sitting on a horse without falling off' and 'becoming one with your mount to achieve impossible feats of speed, precision, and combat effectiveness.' Most of the world's riders are competent. Dothraki riders are legendary.*"
"*Competitions?*" Varro asked with the sort of careful curiosity that suggested he was trying to understand a concept that didn't quite translate into his cultural framework. "*What manner of... competitions?*"
"*Contests of skill, strength, speed, and courage that don't require killing anyone or burning down cities,*" Haerion explained with growing enthusiasm that suggested he was genuinely excited about the possibilities. "*Races to determine the fastest horses and most skilled riders. Combat tournaments using blunted weapons to test martial prowess without permanent casualties. Tests of accuracy with bow and blade, demonstrations of horsemanship, competitions of strategy and tactical thinking.*"
He paused, studying their faces to gauge their reaction to concepts that were clearly foreign to their experience but which he seemed to find genuinely exciting.
"*Think of it this way,*" he continued, his tone taking on the sort of persuasive energy that suggested he'd had considerable practice convincing people to attempt impossible things. "*Instead of proving your worth by taking things from weaker people, you prove it by demonstrating superiority in skills that everyone can witness and admire. Instead of being feared for your destructive capabilities, you're respected for your achievements and expertise. Instead of making enemies everywhere you go, you create relationships that benefit everyone involved.*"
"*And people would... pay to watch such competitions?*" Qhono asked with the sort of dubious interest that suggested he was trying to understand how such activities could possibly generate significant resources.
"*People pay extraordinary sums to watch skilled competitors test themselves against each other,*" Haerion confirmed with the sort of confident certainty that came from having grown up in a world where sports were major cultural and economic forces. "*Especially when the competitions involve genuine skill, courage, and the sort of spectacular displays that get people talking for years afterward. Done properly, competitive events could generate more wealth than traditional raiding, with the added benefits of enhancing your reputation and creating lasting relationships instead of burning bridges.*"
"*Athletes,*" Rakharo said slowly, clearly working through the linguistic and conceptual challenges of translating foreign ideas into familiar frameworks. "*This is the word you used before. What exactly is an... athlete?*"
"*Someone who competes in tests of physical skill for the entertainment and admiration of others,*" Haerion explained, his tone taking on the sort of patient enthusiasm that came from sharing concepts he genuinely found exciting. "*The finest athletes in my former world were celebrated like heroes, wealthy beyond imagination, respected by kings and common people alike. They proved their worth through achievement and excellence rather than conquest and destruction.*"
Varro and his bloodriders exchanged glances that suggested they were trying to process concepts that challenged fundamental assumptions about how worth and status were determined, while around them three thousand warriors listened with the sort of intense attention that came from understanding that their entire future was being negotiated in this conversation.
"*You're asking us to abandon everything that defines us as Dothraki,*" Varro said finally, his voice carrying the sort of careful consideration that suggested he was trying to understand rather than simply reject the proposals. "*Our culture, our traditions, our understanding of what it means to be warriors. In exchange for... what? The hope that people might pay to watch us ride horses in circles?*"
"*I'm asking you to become more than what you were,*" Haerion replied with the sort of sincere conviction that made it clear he genuinely believed what he was proposing. "*To expand your understanding of what strength and courage can accomplish when they're directed toward creation rather than destruction. The finest aspects of Dothraki culture—your horsemanship, your martial prowess, your courage and loyalty—those things would be enhanced, not diminished. It's the parts that require causing suffering to others that need to change.*"
He paused, studying their faces with the sort of careful assessment that suggested he understood the magnitude of what he was asking.
"*Look,*" he continued, his tone becoming more personal and less formal, "*I understand this isn't an easy thing to consider. You've built your lives around certain assumptions about how the world works, and I'm asking you to question those assumptions based on the word of a stranger with a dragon. But I've seen what's possible when people channel their capabilities toward positive goals instead of destructive ones. The results can be... extraordinary.*"
"*And if we try this approach and it fails?*" Rakharo asked with the sort of practical concern that suggested he was genuinely considering the possibilities rather than simply rejecting them. "*If the world isn't ready for Dothraki who don't raid and conquer? If people aren't willing to pay for the things you say they'll value?*"
"*Then we adapt,*" Haerion replied with the sort of confident flexibility that suggested he'd dealt with similar challenges before. "*We find other approaches, other ways to apply your skills and knowledge that don't require causing suffering to innocent people. The one thing we don't do is go back to solving problems through violence against those who can't defend themselves.*"
Varro was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving between the mounted warriors who had followed him across the grass sea and the impossible figure who had just restructured their entire worldview in the space of a morning.
"*One season,*" he said finally, his voice carrying the sort of formal commitment that suggested he was making a binding promise. "*We'll try your approach for one full season. If it proves successful, if we can maintain our honor and provide for our people without traditional raiding, then we'll consider making the changes permanent. If not...*"
"*If not, we'll find another solution that doesn't involve attacking innocent people,*" Haerion finished with the sort of firm certainty that made it clear some boundaries were not negotiable. "*But I think you'll be surprised by what's possible when people of your capabilities decide to build rather than destroy.*"
Before anyone could respond to this tentative agreement, Jhaqo pointed toward the walls of Pentos with the sort of urgent attention that suggested new developments were requiring immediate consideration.
"*Khal—Dragonlord,*" he corrected himself quickly, clearly still adjusting to changed circumstances, "*someone's coming from the city. Looks like a delegation under parley banners.*"
Indeed, a small party had emerged from the gates of Pentos and was approaching across the grassland with the sort of careful formality that suggested diplomatic mission rather than military action. Even at a distance, the richness of their garments and the elaborate nature of their escort suggested magisters or other high-ranking city officials.
"*Well,*" Haerion observed with the sort of amused satisfaction that suggested he found the timing perfectly appropriate, "*it appears our morning's entertainment has attracted exactly the sort of attention we were hoping for. Nothing like a dramatic intervention followed by impossible negotiations to get people talking about changed circumstances.*"
"*They're probably coming to thank you for saving their city,*" Varro said with the sort of practical assessment that came from extensive experience with urban politics. "*And to try to understand what your protection will cost them in terms of ongoing tribute and obligation.*"
"*Then I suppose we should prepare to receive them appropriately,*" Haerion replied with the sort of anticipatory energy that suggested he was looking forward to the next phase of their unexpectedly complex morning. "*After all, first impressions in diplomatic situations can have consequences that last for decades.*"
As the Pentoshi delegation approached, both the former khal and the new Dragonlord began preparing for conversations that would determine not just their immediate arrangements, but the broader implications of Old Valyria's return to the world stage—with all the opportunities and complications such developments might entail.
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