Well, this is my first ever fanfic. It's set in the era after the Doom came upon Valyria, maybe about a century later, but long before the rise of the Targaryens in Westeros Comments are welcome, just please be constructive. Thank you for reading!
Ashes and Dust
This is the way the world ends, Not with a bang but a whimper. T.S. Eliot
When the Dothraki came, they came from nowhere. A shadow on the horizen, a distant roar of thunder. A storm, they said, no more than a thunderstorm, as though trying to reassure themselves that it was just that. Nothing to fear, they told their children, for what else could they say? If they admitted their fear, they would make it real, as real and indestructible as the walls between them and true safety within Norvos. Nowhere to run to. The only one not joining in the encouragement is the odd woman who'd arrived there only weeks ago. Dark skin, like amber, coarse hair and a musical gibberish on her tongue that sounded like prayer. She sang as she worked and the men watched her, staring at her throat, at her unbound hair, frizzy in the sticky heat, at her shrouded figure, and toyed with their moustaches. The women muttered darkly, and gave her stinging looks, but she hardly seemed to notice, or to care if she did. They saw her, and murmured of fallen empires, shattered cities, a scattered people and the one deadly word that no-one ever mentioned: Ghiscari. They hissed it at her when she passed. She seemed to be separate from it all, however, as though a veil of delicate silk hung between her and them, shielding her. Now, her eyes were filled with bleak hopelessness. As though she knew what was coming. Not, of course, that they would admit that anything was coming.
When the arrows began to fall, it was, indeed, like the beginning of a storm. One man fell, with a cry of sudden agony, then an old crone by the fire, then a child who screamed. Then they began to fall in earnest, and the deadly rain fell on them all. Soon, they blotted out the sun. The few who survived the first onslaught wished they had fallen when the horselords themselves arrived. Another few hours, and it was over. The shanty-town was ash. The bells in the city itself fell on the silence of the dead and dying. The body of a coarse-haired woman was thrown to the ground. Her eyes showed nothing but an odd resignation, and the Dothraki stared for a moment at the ravaged remains of the last, bastard child of old Ghis. One wiped the blood from his face and grunted. "Chiori devol hilelat chek.". Then, the crowd moved away, leaving the end of an empire in the dirt of a far-off city.
And that's all, peeps! The Dothraki translates roughly as "the woman could f*%$k well". All dothraki purists, I'm sorry, I'm new to the you for reading, and have a lovely day!