The vast plain at the foot of Our Lady's Mountain was crowded with khalsars from every corner of the Dothraki Sea.
Tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors stood in a massive circle, facing each other in tense silence. The air itself seemed to hum with the smell of sweat, dust, and the invisible sparks of battle about to ignite.
On a raised dais, the ancient crones of the Dosh Khaleen sat like withered statues, their hollow eyes fixed on the scene below. They had witnessed countless trials and deaths in their lifetime, but what was about to unfold would be unlike any before.
A colossal man, broad as a bear, rode forward on a massive stallion. His braid was thick and heavy, adorned with golden rings that jingled as he moved. This was "Blood Hand" Moreau, a Khal whose strength and cruelty were legend across the grasslands.
He pulled the reins sharply and stared down at the lone man standing in the open field — Damian Thorne.
Moreau's voice exploded like thunder.
"Outsider!"
His laughter boomed across the circle. "Your braids haven't even grown out, and you dare dream of ruling every stallion beneath the sky?"
A storm of jeers and laughter erupted from the khals behind him.
"Go back to your Valyrian ruins!" one shouted.
"Leave before the grass itself eats your bones!"
The roar of mockery swept through the ranks like wildfire. Yet Damian stood unmoving, calm as a still lake amid the chaos. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
Then, slowly, a faint smile appeared.
It was not the smile of arrogance, nor of defiance — but one of certainty, the expression of a man who already knew the ending of this story.
He turned slightly and gave a quiet command to his companions, Dhaka and Mazhuo, who stood a few paces behind him.
"Lead our people back to the edge of the field."
They obeyed without question, retreating with their men.
To the watching khals, it looked like cowardice.
Their laughter grew louder, the circle tightening as if to crush him under ridicule.
They believed Damian Thorne was afraid.
But Damian merely walked forward, step by step, toward the center of the circle — alone.
The air thickened with tension. All around him were hundreds of khals and their most elite bloodriders, the deadliest warriors of the plains. Yet his pace never faltered.
At last, he stopped and looked around the circle, his gaze sweeping over their faces one by one.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud — but it cut through the silence like a blade of ice.
"You're right," he said softly. "My braids haven't grown out yet."
He paused, his eyes landing on Moreau's thick braid, the golden bells clinking faintly in the wind.
"Because my achievements do not need to be recorded with hair."
A cold murmur rippled through the crowd.
Moreau's face flushed red, his nostrils flaring with fury. But before he could reply, Damian continued, his tone calm and even.
"Tell me, Moreau — has your horse god never told you that the sky is his forbidden realm?"
The khals exchanged uneasy glances. For the first time, uncertainty crept into their eyes.
And then — the world changed.
Without warning, Damian threw back his head and released a sound that was not human.
It was not a roar. Not even a scream.
It was a pulse of raw spiritual energy — an invisible hammer that struck deep into every soul present.
A thunderous buzz filled the air as the warhorses screamed and reared in panic. Their hooves tore at the earth as they tried to escape, foam spilling from their mouths in terror.
The khals' bravado cracked instantly. Panic flickered in their eyes as they struggled to control their mounts.
Then came the light.
A searing white brilliance burst from Damian's body, so intense that it drowned out the sun.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The sound of bones breaking and reforming echoed hideously, a symphony of transformation.
Before the horrified eyes of tens of thousands, Damian's body began to change. Black scales rippled across his skin like liquid metal. His shoulders broadened, his muscles swelled, and from his back erupted a pair of enormous wings that blotted out the sky.
The transformation was complete in moments.
Where a man once stood, a dragon now towered — a vast, black serpent of legend nearly forty meters long.
The wind from his wings tore across the plain, sending sand and dust swirling into a suffocating storm. Warriors shielded their faces, unable to even look directly at him.
Damian Thorne — or what he had become — rose slowly into the air, the shadow of his immense wings stretching across the circle of khals like a living eclipse.
The pressure that descended upon them was unbearable — the primal terror of a predator that ruled the very food chain of creation.
One by one, the warhorses collapsed, screaming, their bodies shaking uncontrollably. Foam dripped from their mouths as they fell to their knees in submission.
The khals, too, trembled. Their hands shook so violently that some dropped their weapons.
The Dosh Khaleen on the dais stood up in unison, their eyes wide in shock.
In the air, the dragon's golden eyes glowed like molten suns. He looked down upon the mortals below — tiny, fragile creatures crawling in the dust.
Then he opened his jaws.
What poured out was not flame as mortals knew it — but a radiant force of annihilation, pure and blinding. It was the light and heat of a star's heart, unleashed upon the earth.
The world went silent.
There was no explosion, no thunder — only light.
The circle of khals and their bloodriders vanished in that radiance, their screams cut short.
The fire did not burn as much as it erased — flesh, bone, and steel dissolved into nothing. The heat was so great that every drop of blood in their bodies vaporized before it could fall to the ground.
Not a single stain marked the soil of Vaes Dothrak.
It was not a battle. It was divine punishment.
Those words echoed in Damian's mind as the light faded.
When the brilliance finally died away, all that remained were blackened silhouettes burned into the earth — charred human-shaped shadows still smoking faintly.
Silence followed.
A silence so absolute that even the wind seemed afraid to blow.
Tens of thousands of surviving Dothraki stood frozen, staring in horror at the dragon hovering above the plain.
And then — something strange happened.
The charred marks on the ground flickered with embers. The shapes of horses formed from fire and ash, running in circles around the dragon before scattering like sparks into the sky.
The sight shattered the last remnants of disbelief. The Dothraki's ancient faith — broken and reborn in an instant — turned upon itself and took a new shape.
On the dais, the oldest of the Dosh Khaleen, her white hair trembling, lifted her scepter high.
Her voice cracked with age, but her words carried across the entire holy city.
"He shed not a single drop of blood!"
Her voice rose, filled with awe and wild reverence.
"The Horse God's oracle has come to pass!"
Every face turned upward, eyes wide, breath held.
"He is the stallion who mounts the world!" she cried.
Her declaration struck the air like a hammer — sealing Damian Thorne's victory not just by strength, but by faith itself.
The dragon descended slowly, landing upon the scorched field. As his talons touched the earth, his form shimmered, shrinking back into human shape.
When the light faded, Damian stood once more as a man — dark-haired, naked, untouched by flame or harm. His expression was calm, almost serene, as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
"Khal!"
Dhaka was the first to move. He threw aside his weapon and ran forward, holding Damian's white lion cloak. Kneeling, he draped it over Damian's shoulders and pressed his forehead to the ground.
"Khal of Khals!" he cried.
Mazhuo followed, kneeling beside him.
Their devotion spread like fire through dry grass.
The warriors who had lost their khals — the same men who had mocked Damian minutes ago — now threw down their arakh and longbows, dropping to their knees in waves.
First hundreds. Then thousands.
And finally — tens of thousands.
Their unified voices thundered across the holy city.
"Khal of Khals! Khal of Khals!"
The chant rose and fell like the beating of a thousand drums, echoing off the mountains and shaking the heavens themselves.
Damian stood at the foot of Our Lady's Mountain, the winds whipping his cloak behind him. Before him stretched a sea of kneeling warriors — the greatest host the Dothraki had ever gathered.
He turned his gaze westward, his eyes hard and calm.
Beyond the horizon lay kingdoms waiting to fall — and thrones waiting to burn.
For now, the Dothraki Sea belonged to him.
And soon, the world would too.
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