298 AC - In Lhazar:
Nestled south of Vaes Dothrak in Essos, Lhazar is a tranquil land of sheep and goat herders. Its hilly terrain, unsuitable for horses, provides rich pastures for livestock, standing as a buffer between the Dothraki Sea to the north and Slaver's Bay to the southwest. The Khyzai Pass, carved by the Skahazadhan River through the coastal mountains, connects Lhazar to Slaver's Bay. The upper reaches of the Skahazadhan, on the interior side of the mountains facing the Dothraki Sea, provide Lhazar with enough water for basic agriculture, a rarity in the surrounding arid landscapes.
The peaceful Lhazareen, who worship the Great Shepherd, are ill-equipped for warfare. This makes them easy prey for the Dothraki, who scornfully label them 'Lamb Men' and raid their settlements for slaves. While Lhazar itself holds little tangible wealth, the Lhazareen are highly valued as docile and skilled slaves. The Dothraki either keep them as their own or trade them to the slave-cities in the region, exchanging their captured 'Lamb Men' for goods.
This tragic reality highlights the vulnerability of Lhazar to the predatory forces of the Dothraki Sea. Journeying through the Sea one may encounter Lhazareen villages besieged by marauding Khalasar hordes.
Though the Dothraki remained oblivious to Anakin and the Unsullied's voyage through the Sea, they soon found out the hard way. They made their arrival known in a spectacle, a trademark move of Anakin's in recent years.
After traversing the Khyzai Pass, he rode at the forefront of his Unsullied army, their polished armor gleaming amidst the endless sea of grass that stretched out before them. The rhythmic thud of steps on the earth echoed in the stillness of the expansive landscape.
The Khyzai Pass is a mountain pass in the sandstone mountains that allows travelers to travel between Meereen and Lhazar. It is south of the Skahazadhan.
They marched with a sense of purpose, their destination clear - a cluster of vulnerable villages imperiled by the ruthless raids of a marauding Khalassar.
Driven by a surge of righteous fury at the sight of Dothraki atrocities against innocent villagers, Anakin directly charged his men into the heart of the conflict. Under normal circumstances, such a strategy would have been reckless, inviting certain defeat. However, this would not be a normal circumstance.
During his last few weeks in Meereen, after he had wed Qezza and entrusted significant governance to her, he had dedicated his final days in the city to completing his most skeptical creation yet - a weapon that filled even him with awe. While his previous inventions aimed to better humanity, this was a tool of war.
This 'thermal detonator,' as he called it, was explosive-like and held a great amount of power for a small sphere that fit in someone's palm. In addition to being surprisingly powerful for their size, they would only explode when they were activated, and therefore a secure and stable weapon to carry. Most thermal detonators contained black powder, a low explosive material composed of potassium nitrate (saltpeter), sulfur and charcoal. The chemical compound was so unstable that, in certain situations, some detonators exploded after being accidentally dropped to the ground. This was due to them having been exposed to too much heat or manipulated harshly.
Acknowledging the immense destructive potential of these bombs, Anakin hesitated to deploy them. Nonetheless, amidst the horrors perpetrated by the Dothraki, he recognized that their use could be justified. With a newfound resolve, he unleashed their devastating power upon the enemy horde.
The Unsullied, appearing abruptly at the village's edge, maintained a tactical distance. Their hundreds of thermal detonators, expertly wielded, unleashed devastating payloads. Each blast decimated squads of Dothraki, taking out anywhere from one to two dozen warriors at a time. Anakin, witnessing the Unsullied's unwavering skill, found himself once again impressed by their prowess.
After the onslaught of explosives, devastating a significant number of Dothrakan, the clash was inevitable. The thunder of hooves and the war cries of the Dothraki Screamers echoed across the open plains as the Unsullied met the Khalassar head-on. The battlefield erupted into chaos - a whirlwind of steel, blood, and dust.
Anakin fought with the skill of a seasoned warrior, his sword flashing amidst the melee. Beside him, the Unsullied displayed unwavering discipline and ferocity, cutting down their foes with deadly precision.
As the battle raged, he moved with calculated grace amidst the chaos of warfare. His abilities in the force, a beacon of power and resolve. With a wave of his hand, Anakin unleashed a torrent of thermal detonators, dispersing groups of enemy Dothraki warriors in calculated formations. The ground shook beneath the relentless barrage, and the sky was filled with the deafening echoes of detonations.
Almost instantly, the tide of battle began to turn in favor of the Unsullied. Anakin's mastery of the Force allowed him to anticipate the enemy's movements with uncanny accuracy, countering their every maneuver with devastating efficiency. His sword cleaved through the air with deadly precision, deflecting arrows, parrying blows, and severing limbs with a fluidity that seemed almost supernatural.
The Dothraki, renowned for their ferocity and skill in mounted combat, found themselves outmatched by the disciplined coordination of the Unsullied and the unexplained series of explosions. Their war cries were drowned out by the resolute march of the eunuch warriors and the booms of thermal detonators.
At the battle's climax, the Dothraki ranks began to falter under the relentless assault. Anakin unleashed a surge of Force energy, ripping the last few mounted riders from their steeds and leaving them vulnerable to his men's attacks.
With their morale broken, a few Dothraki began to retreat in disarray, their once-ferocious onslaught reduced to desperate flight.
With the immediate threat vanquished, Anakin turned his attention to the villagers whose lives had been spared by their valor. He knew that true victory lay not only in battle but in the message it would send.
As the dust settled over the battlefield, he stood amidst the aftermath of the fierce clash between his forces and the marauding raiders. The once turbulent air now hung heavy with an eerie calm, broken only by the distant cries of birds and the soft rustle of wind through the golden grasses.
Anakin's gaze swept across the scene, his eyes taking in the sight of the humble village that had been on the verge of devastation. The huts, once threatened by flames and plunder, now stood defiantly against the backdrop of the Dothraki Sea. Villagers emerged cautiously from their hiding places, their expressions a mix of disbelief and relief.
Grateful faces turned towards the victorious Unsullied, their saviors, who stood with solemn dignity amidst the remnants of battle. The villagers, their eyes alight with profound gratitude, approached cautiously, their steps tentative yet filled with newfound hope.
An elderly woman, her weathered face a testament to a life marked by hardship and resilience, approached Anakin with trembling hands, falling to her knees and thanking him as her voice choked with emotion. Her eyes, glistening with tears, conveyed a depth of gratitude that words alone could not capture.
Around them, other villagers gathered, drawn by the stirring of hope and the magnetic presence of their savior. The Unsullied commanders stood with unwavering stoicism, their polished armor a stark contrast against the backdrop of humble dwellings and golden fields.
The murmurs among the villagers grew louder, their expressions a mix of wonder and reverence. Anakin, the King of Meereen whose rumored sorcery had traveled far beyond the shores of Slaver's Bay, now stood as a tangible symbol of deliverance. The tales of his prowess - the whispers of his connection to the mystical Force - is one shrouded in mystery and speculation. But for those who had now witnessed its power firsthand, there was no doubt. Their voices rose in a chorus of gratitude and awe, echoing through the quiet aftermath of battle.
"He is the Chosen One," a man proclaimed in Lhazareen, his voice filled with reverence. "Sent to deliver us from darkness." Others nodded in fervent agreement, their eyes fixed upon Anakin with a mixture of awe and respect.
The air was charged with a newfound sense of faith - a belief in the extraordinary capabilities of their protector. In the hearts of the villagers, the legend of the King of Meereen would endure.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the boundless Dothraki Sea, Grey-Worm and Anakin found themselves amidst the defeated Dothrakan, who averted their gaze, visibly shamed by their loss. Anakin's presence was a formidable force as he surveyed the defeated warriors.
With unwavering conviction, he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "The Lhazareen villages north of Meereen are under my protection now," he proclaimed in the Dothraki tongue, his tone unwavering. "You make sure to tell your Khals they are forbidden from encroaching on my lands."
The defeated Dothrak shifted uncomfortably, their pride wounded by their defeat at the hands of Anakin's forces. Amidst the tension, a faint voice of doubt crept into Anakin's mind - a whisper of self-criticism that threatened to unsettle his resolve.
The metaphorical dragon within his mind, a manifestation of his inner conflict, taunted him relentlessly. It hissed accusations of folly, questioning his decision to spare the defeated Dothraki. "You are soft, boy," the dragon whispered, its voice echoing in the depths of Anakin's consciousness. "A true king would have shown no mercy."
He clenched his jaw, and walked away from the prisoners, attempting to silence the insidious voice of doubt. He had chosen mercy over ruthlessness, guided by a belief in justice tempered with compassion. But as he stood amidst the defeated warriors, his resolve was put to the test in an unexpected way.
To his astonishment, the same accusation that had plagued his thoughts was echoed aloud by one of the captives behind him. "A true king would have finished us," the Dothraki warrior declared defiantly, his voice laden with bitterness and pride.
Anakin's steps faltered momentarily, his expression hardening into a mask of cold determination as he turned to face the defiant Dothraki warrior. He couldn't stand being mocked, a feeling that has only intensified since becoming King of Meereen.
"You are soft. A true king wouldn't have spared his enemies," the Dothraki man taunted, his voice dripping with scorn.
Anakin's gaze was ice-cold as he met the warrior's challenge head-on. "A true king does not waste his strength on petty victories," he retorted, his voice a low growl. "You are but children against my men."
He leaned forward, his words carrying the weight of impending consequence. "The world is changing," he continued, his tone unwavering. "A tide of war is coming. And there is only death for your people…. Unless you submit."
Turning to Grey-Worm, Anakin sought confirmation of the cost of their victory. "How many of ours fell today?" he asked, his eyes fixed on his loyal commander.
"Eight, Your Grace," Grey Worm replied without hesitation.
Anakin's lips curved into a cruel smile, a glint of steel in his eyes as he counted the prisoners before him. "Execute four of them," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of his authority. The remaining eight Dothraki were released - a chilling message intended for their Khals.
The execution of four prisoners served as a grim reminder of the consequences of defiance, while the release of the others underscored the stark contrast in casualties between the two forces. It was a stark warning, a demonstration of the power Anakin wielded.
298 AC - In the Dothraki Sea:
Spanning across the continent of Essos, the Dothraki Sea, also known as the Great Grass Sea, is a boundless inland region situated east of the Free Cities, north of Slaver's Bay, and west of the Bone Mountains. This expansive landscape of steppes and plains serves as the abode of the nomadic Dothraki equestrian people, who are known for their constant battles and raids on neighboring territories.
The Sea begins in the west at the Forest of Qohor and extends eastward to the Bone Mountains and the Krazaaj Zasqa, reaching as far southeast as the barren desert wasteland called the red waste. To the south, it is bounded by the Painted Mountains, Slaver's Bay, and the Skahazadhan, with Lhazar lying just beyond the river, often subjected to raids. This vast region can support more than two dozen Khalasars, each riding its own circuit and taking what they need from the land.
A single massive mountain, known as the Mother of Mountains, stands at the heart of the Dothraki Sea, near the city of Vaes Dothrak. The Womb of the World, a lake, is also located nearby. Vaes Dothrak, the only inhabited city in the region, serves as the heart and home of the Dothraki people and culture. Apart from Vaes Dothrak and some Valyrian roads in the west near the Forest of Qohor, there are no other surviving roads, hills, or cities, creating an unbroken ocean of rippling grass that gives the Dothraki Sea its name.
Over a hundred types of grass grow on the plains, often reaching heights taller than a man's head and appearing like a sea from afar, as they undulate in the breeze. The grasslands are home to packs of wild dogs, jackals, herds of free-ranging horses, and the rare hrakkar.
For about two months now Anakin and his army have been traversing the unforgiving expanse of the Dothraki Sea, a journey fraught with hardship and grim discoveries.
As they ventured deeper into this harsh domain, they encountered trails of raided villages - echoes of Lhazar, where they had valiantly defended ravaged settlements against marauding Khalassars.
The scenes they encountered were hauntingly familiar yet uniquely tragic. Some villages lay beyond salvation, their inhabitants massacred, and their once-thriving homes reduced to smoldering ruins by the ruthless hands of the Dothraki raiders.
News of Anakin's formidable army spread like wildfire through the Dothraki Sea, eliciting fear from many who harbored a deep-seated animosity towards the Unsullied. The reputation of these elite warriors, shrouded in tales of unwavering discipline and lethal efficiency, preceded them like a foreboding shadow.
Yet amidst the fear and animosity, a select few were drawn to Anakin's strength and the enigmatic power of the Force he wielded. These individuals viewed him with a mixture of awe and reverence, sensing a transformative presence amidst the chaos.
Anakin, ever vigilant, rarely attacked the Dothraki Khalasars himself. Instead, he focused his efforts on defending innocent civilians and vulnerable villages from harm, using his superior weapons and the awe-inspiring capabilities of the Force to thwart threats.
Despite their intended course, delays often punctuated their journey as his impulse to intervene overrode practical considerations. Upon witnessing Dothraki raids ravaging peaceful establishments and enslaving captives, his determination to rescue the endangered villages grew fiercer with each passing encounter.
The Dothraki's brutal enslavement of captives only fueled his resolve, igniting a righteous fury in him. He saw not only the devastation wrought by the raiders but also the spark of hope that flickered within those he saved.
As the weeks stretched on, the fall in pillaged villages served as an indicator of their proximity to their first stop in Qohor - a city known for its mastery of metalwork and resilience against Dothraki incursions. His advisor informed him that the city would grant his army passage west towards Pentos, as the Qohorik apparently held both him and the Unsullied in high esteem.
Anakin, his eyes fixed on the horizon, felt the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. In the quiet moments between skirmishes, amidst the ceaseless march across the vast expanse of the Dothraki Sea, he found himself grappling with the weight of his actions. The lull provided a rare moment of reflection - a respite from the relentless cycle of conflict where the echoes of battle still rang in his ears.
The memories of countless Dothraki lives taken weighed heavily upon him, their faces haunting his thoughts as silent witnesses to the carnage wrought by his hand. Many had pleaded for mercy, their voices echoing in the depths of his consciousness - a haunting reminder of the choices he makes for the greater good.
Initially, Anakin had spared some Dothraki prisoners, hoping to convey a message. Yet it was only after decimating entire Khalassars, after proving the undeniable might of his Unsullied forces, that they began to back off. Some among them, people who revered strength above all else, started to see in him a leader worthy of their allegiance.
A growing band of nomadic villagers, displaced by the relentless tide of war, and a score of Dothraki Riders, drawn by Anakin's aura of strength, pledged their loyalty to him. They saw in him a leader, who wielded not only martial prowess, but a mysterious power that some dared to liken to the prophesied 'stallion who mounts the world.'
The stallion who mounts the world - an ancient prophecy woven into the fabric of Dothraki culture, whispered in hushed tones around campfires and carried on the winds of the Dothraki Sea. According to the prophecy, the Stallion is the 'Khal of Khals,' destined to unite all the disparate Khalassars under his single banner and lead them to conquests that span the ends of the earth.
Anakin's prowess in the Force, his mastery over a power that transcended their understanding, solidified his position as the figurehead of this motley band of warriors and nomads.
As their voyage continued, the rhythmic tramp of marching feet echoed through Anakin's thoughts, pulling him back to a familiar introspective state.
Of all the titles bestowed upon him since assuming kingship, 'the stallion who mounts the world' unsettled him most. Unlike the prophecies of salvation and justice, this one spoke of a conqueror, an invader.
The echoes of Meereen's whispers lingered: 'invader,' they'd called him, their fear and resentment palpable. He couldn't fault their judgment. He was a man who wielded a power even he fully did not understand, his methods varying from peaceful to extreme, yet his end goal remained unwavering: a world bathed in peace and freedom.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a red-orange glow over the vast marshlands, his reverie was interrupted by the majestic sight of Qohor, a city perched upon the distant horizon.
298 AC - In Qohor:
Qohor, also known as the City of Sorcerers, is the easternmost of the nine Free Cities located in western Essos. Northwest of Qohor is Norvos, and Volantis is to the far south. The Qohorik rule the Qhoyne River north of the ruins of Ar Noy and the eastern bank of the Darkwash, although that river's western bank is within the domains of Norvos.
The city stands on the banks of the Qhoyne River, a tributary of the Rhoyne, on the western edge of the Forest of Qohor. It is seen as a gateway to the east. It is surrounded by strong stone walls.
Maesters consider Qohor the most exotic of the Free Cities due to its status as the western terminus for overland trade networks stretching all the way to Yi Ti (though this contact is often indirect). The dark arts, such as divination, blood magic, and necromancy, are believed to be practiced in the City of Sorcerers.
The Qohorik believe in a dark god, the Black Goat of Qohor, who demands a daily blood sacrifice. Sacrifices can be calves, bullocks and horses, on regular days, but condemned criminals on holy days. In times of crisis, the nobles of the city are willing to sacrifice their own children in the hopes that their god will defend the city. Followers of the Lord of Light can also be found in Qohor.
The city is also famous for its hunters, foresters, and artisans. The Qohorik have a small City-Watch. Ever since the events of the Three Thousand of Qohor, the city's defenses have instead been entrusted to Unsullied from Astapor, each carrying a spear with a braid of human hair. Occasionally, they also hire free companies, and is one of several Free Cities to offer gifts to Dothraki Khals so that Khalasars will leave them be.
Due to its location, Qohor functions as the gateway to the Dothraki Sea and the lands beyond. Trading caravans bound for or returning from Vaes Dothrak provision themselves in Qohor before heading towards the Dothraki sea. In turn, overland merchant caravans from Yi Ti head west over the Bone Mountains to Vaes Dothrak, where they trade with merchants from the Free Cities. The overland trade routes are long and can be dangerous, but they are preferred by merchants who wish to avoid the exorbitant taxes that Qarth imposes on the shipping lanes that pass through its straits to the south. Trade has helped make Qohor one of the richest of the Free Cities, although the city was richer before the Kingdom of Sarnor was destroyed.
The Forest of Qohor is the principal source of wealth of the city. Timber is shipped down the Qhoyne to Dagger Lake, Selhorys, Valysar, Volon Therys, and Volantis. Many other valuables can be found in the Forest of Qohor. Qohorik tapestries are comparable to those made by the Myrish, though cheaper. Exquisite wooden carvings are sold in the city's markets as well.
Qohorik forges are considered to have no equal. The armor they create is seen as superior to the armor made in Westeros. They are capable of infusing a deep color into the metal with beautiful results. Additionally, the Qohorik are the only ones in the world who still possess the knowledge on how to rework Valyrian steel, a secret they guard strictly. According to Maester Pol, blood sacrifices are used when the Qohorik rework Valyrian steel.
After a grueling journey Anakin and his Unsullied army finally arrived at the gates of Qohor, a city nestled between the Narrow Sea and the vast expanse of Dothraki controlled grasslands. For them, Qohor represented not only a crucial waypoint on their path but also a respite from the relentless march of war.
As they entered the city, they were greeted with hospitality. The Unsullied were held in the highest regard in Qohor, their reputation as fearless warriors preceding them like a herald of honor.
Walking through the city, Anakin took note of the architectural grandeur of palaces, forts, and civic buildings adorned with intricate carvings and ornate facades. The craftsmanship of ancient artisans is evident in every detail, reflecting a rich cultural heritage and a commitment to beauty and excellence.
In the residential districts, the streets are lined with houses made of baked brick or wood, clustered around courtyards where families gather to socialize and share meals. Children played in the narrow alleyways, while women went about their daily chores, weaving cloth or drawing water from communal wells.
Despite the hustle and bustle of urban life, there is a palpable connection to the natural world, with gardens, parks, and water features interspersed throughout the city. Trees provide shade from the scorching sun, while fountains and ponds offer respite from the heat, creating serene oases amidst the urban landscape.
The streets of Qohor fluttered with life as Anakin, flanked by Grey-Worm and a handful of Unsullied guards, made their way through the winding alleys towards the imposing palace of King Orea Talordis. The palace loomed ahead, its ornate architecture a testament to the city's wealth.
As they approached the grand entrance, guarded by stern-faced Unsullied sentinels, Anakin's gaze swept over the courtyard, taking in the vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds that surrounded him. The air was filled with the scent of spices and the distant hum of activity, a stark contrast to the desolate landscapes they had traversed.
Stepping through the threshold of the palace, he was greeted by a retinue of courtiers and attendants, their eyes alight with curiosity at the Targaryen king. At the heart of the chamber stood King Orea Talordis, his regal presence commanding respect as he extended a welcoming hand to his honored guest.
"King Anakin Targaryen," the king exclaimed in the Qohorik dialect of Low Valyrian, his voice warm with hospitality. "I've heard so much about you. It is an honor to receive you in our city. Please, consider this your home during your stay."
Anakin inclined his head in gratitude, his expression one of appreciation. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice steady with respect. "Your hospitality is most gracious. We are grateful for it."
King Orea smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. "The honor is ours," he said, his tone sincere. "The Unsullied have long ago earned the admiration and respect of the people of Qohor. It is only fitting that we extend our hospitality to their esteemed leader."
With that, King Orea motioned for servants to attend to their guests, ensuring their comfort and well-being during their stay in the palace.
As Anakin settled into his temporary quarters, surrounded by the luxury and opulence of the royal chambers, he couldn't help but feel a sense of incongruousness.
In celebration of the King of Meereen's arrival, a magnificent feast was held in the grand halls of the palace that night. The air was alive with music and laughter as guests from near and far gathered to pay homage to their esteemed guest.
Anakin felt like a fish out of water, similar to his wedding, amidst the throng of noble lords and wealthy merchants, their polished manners and effortless social graces a stark contrast to his own. Despite Ser Willems efforts to teach him etiquette, it was apparently the only thing he never learned. As they exchanged stilted greetings and forced pleasantries, he couldn't help but grow tired with the ordeal.
The merchants, eager to curry favor with Meereen's new king, bombarded him with questions about the city's famed medicinal exports. Each inquiry only served to deepen his sense of disengagement, his mind wandering to thoughts of Qezza and her effortless charm in social situations.
"I must admit, Your Grace," one of the merchants remarked, his voice tinged with enthusiasm, "We have heard much about Meereen's renowned tinctures. Many speak highly of the city's renovations. It is truly an honor to have you grace us with your presence."
Anakin managed a polite smile, his mind elsewhere as he searched for a graceful way to extricate himself from the conversation. With a mental sigh, Anakin resolved to endure the remainder of the gathering as best he could. Perched on the raised platform beside King Orea Talordis and his Queen, they observed the feast below.
A flicker of movement caught his eye - Grey-Worm, standing guard nearby. Anakin felt a hint of amusement as he swore he saw the Unsullied warrior shoot a smirk in his direction. Grey-Worm, who knew him well, likely recognized his discomfort amidst the opulent ceremony, a stark contrast to his usual battlefield experiences.
Amidst the revelry, Anakin found himself pulled into a lively conversation with King Talordis as he narrated the Battle of Qohor:
"When the Doom claimed Valyria, the great freehold fractured into warring cities and upstart nations ripe for the taking. Out of the east swarmed the Dothraki, the horse-lords of the plains who feared only defeat and dragons, and now the dragons were all gone. Under the great Khal Temmo, they sacked and burned every town and city in their path. No army could stand against them, because the Dothraki do not stand. The horse-lords do not draw up battle lines or hide behind shield walls or layer themselves in armor. The Dothraki charge. Their blades are more scythe than sword, and better to cull the infantry ranks without breaking stride. Even their archers fire from horseback so that advancing or retreating, the arrows never cease. To the Dothraki, a man who does not ride is no man at all, without honor or pride. When the Qohor realized Khal Temmo was coming, we strengthened our walls, doubled our own guards and hired two full companies of sellswords."
"The Second Sons," Anakin interjects, betraying his limited understanding of the Battle of Qohor.
"Aye, the Dothraki were used to glorified farmers with spears; Qohor would show them a proper army, with armored and mounted cavalry to match the horde's own. As an afterthought, the city leaders sent an envoy to Astapor to buy Unsullied. The slavers had always claimed that the Unsullied were the great Ghiscari legions come again. Few cared. The dragon-burned ruins of Old Ghis were a stark reminder that the age of the foot-soldier was over. The envoy had his orders, however, and quickly bought three-thousand Unsullied for the long march back, for Unsullied do not ride."
Anakin's chuckle reverberated at the memory of Grey-Worm and his men's distaste for horsemanship, adding, "That they don't."
King Orea continued, "But while they marched, Khal Temmo arrived at Qohor. You can imagine how pleased the Khal was to finally face a challenge. By the end of the battle, crows and wolves feasted on what remained of Qohor's heavy horse. All the sellswords had fled. Qohor knew that the Dothraki would very soon break through the gates to rape, slave and burn at their pleasure. Yet the next day Khal Temmo woke to find before the gates three-thousand eunuchs in formation, armed with only spears, shields and spiked helms. The Unsullied had slipped past the Khal's army in the night while the Dothraki feasted. Khal Temmo had many times their number and could easily have flanked the small forces, but to the Dothraki, men on foot are made only to be ridden down. Eighteen times the horselords charged and eighteen times the Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears and held the line against twenty-thousand Dothraki Screamers. When the Khal's archers rained arrows on them, the Unsullied lifted their shields above their heads until the swarm passed; and then they held the line. In the end, only six-hundred Unsullied remained, but more than twelve-thousand Dothraki lay dead, including Khal Temmo and all of his sons. The new Khal led the survivors past the city gates where one by one each man cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Unsullied, defeated and shamed forever. Since that day, the Unsullied fill the ranks of cities and households wealthy enough or desperate enough. Sellswords fight for gold, knights for glory and Dothraki for blood. To a man, the Unsullied fight only to obey. With the right master over them, imagine how the forces of chaos would break against their shields. The conquerors, the madmen, the usurpers."
Anakin's attention sharpened as Orea uttered the final word. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, questioning whether Orea was daring to suggest a possibility he dared not say aloud. The prospect of reconquering Westeros had indeed lingered in the back of Anakin's thoughts, but it was an aspiration he had to suppress, at least for the time being.
"You know many still don't believe the King of Meereen is a Targaryen. Not that it matters much in Essos," said King Talordis.
It was during their conversation that the King dropped a piece of news that sent a chill down Anakin's spine. He spoke of rumors circulating through the city - a whisper of a Dothraki Khalassar on the move, heading towards Pentos, Anakin's next destination.
Anakin cleared his throat, his tone professional and unassuming as he asked, "Do you know why they were heading there?"
"Who knows. But the Dothraki are known for only one thing," Talodris says, implying that they are well known for their savagery.
Agreeing with a solemn nod, Anakin was well aware of the horrors that the Dothraki were capable of, having traveled through the harsh Dothraki Sea. Their savage philosophy of the strongest prevailing made them formidable foes.
In that moment, realization dawned upon him like a bolt of lightning. The army he had heard the Red Priestess speak of - the army he was destined to lead against the coming darkness and the wars to come - could very well be the Dothraki.
With this revelation weighing heavily on his mind, he resolved to cut his stay in Qohor shorter than he had planned. The urgency of his mission loomed large, driving him to press onward towards Pentos.
298 AC - In Pentos:
Anakin's time in Qohor had been abruptly truncated, news of the approaching Khalasar spurring him into action sooner than anticipated. His stay was cut short to just two days. As the Unsullied, stoic and unyielding, recuperated from their recent skirmishes, he couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency prickling at the back of his mind.
The Flatlands stretched out before them, a desolate expanse devoid of the dangers that had plagued their travels thus far. Compared to the tumultuous Dothraki Sea, this journey was eerily uneventful. There were no bands of marauders lurking in the shadows, no captive souls crying out for salvation. Just sand, for miles and miles, much to Anakin's annoyance.
The few wanderers they encountered on their path seemed to shrink away at the sight of the Unsullied, their wary gazes speaking volumes about the reputation that preceded them. And so, without hindrance or delay, they pressed onward, their footsteps echoing across the barren landscape.
It wasn't long before the spires of Pentos loomed on the horizon amidst the vastness of the Flatlands. But even as they drew nearer to the city, Anakin knew that their journey was far from over. The Dothraki awaited them, their presence a looming threat that could not be ignored.
They stood at the edge of Pentos, from the mountainside, his eyes fixed on the sprawling Dothraki camp outside the city gates. The horizon seemed to bristle with the energy of a Khalasar, a vast ocean of tents and banners fluttering in the wind. It was a sight to behold, but Anakin knew all too well the chaos that lay beneath that majestic facade.
"Oddly large Khalasar," Grey-Worm spoke up to Anakin who was still taking in the sight before him. A Khalassar four times the size of any he has encountered yet.
The Targaryen's mind however, was busy formulating a plan, his thoughts swirling within his troubled conscience. This Khalssar indeed dwarfed any they had seen on their journey, leaving him to ponder the identity of their Khal. He could not afford to act hastily, not when the fate of countless lives hung in the balance.
And so, with Grey-Worm by his side, he issued his command to two of his most discreet Unsullied men (Ash-Insect and Menial-Snail).
"Go," he said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Find me a Dothrak. Bring him to me, do so discreetly."
The two Unsullied soldiers, Ash-Insect and Menial-Snail, nodded in compliance, their faces devoid of emotion as they set off to follow his orders.
The sun stood high, casting radiant light across the landscape, Anakin stood at the edge of a mountainside with Grey-Worm and his army of Unsullied as well as various nomads and Dothraki Riders who chose to follow him. His eyes fixed on the distant sight of the Dothraki camp.
Swiftly, the Unsullied recon team returned with a stray Dothraki man. Stumbling and visibly intoxicated, the captive was unceremoniously dumped at Anakin's feet, surrounded by Unsullied guards.
Despite his drunken state, the Dothraki's indomitable spirit flickered, even as they beat him relentlessly for refusing to divulge information. Ash-Insect stood rigidly by, his fists clenched in a fist, while Menial-Snail restrained him with an iron grip.
Anakin watched the interrogation. The captive's defiance had withstood even the harshest of beatings. Ash-Insect had shown no mercy, yet the man's lips had remained sealed. He knew they needed a different approach, something beyond brute force.
"Enough," he commanded, his voice echoing through the plains. Ash-Insect stepped back as Menial-Snail stopped holding the man up, letting him collapse on the ground.
Anakin's thoughts turned to his first encounter with the Green Grace, Galazza Galare, the High Priestess who had opened his mind to new possibilities. She had spoken of powers lying dormant within him, abilities he had yet to fully comprehend.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, his eyes locking onto those of the captive, who was too weak to even stand. The vast flatlands fell silent, the tension palpable. The Unsullied guards remained in a circle around them, their faces impassive but their eyes betraying a hint of curiosity.
Anakin focused his mind, drawing on the Force that surged within him. He felt its power coursing through his veins, a torrent of energy waiting to be unleashed. Slowly, he knelt down and extended his hand towards the captive's head, his fingers trembling with the intensity of the connection he was about to forge.
The Dothraki's eyes widened in fear as he felt an invisible force invade his mind. He struggled against his bonds, but there was no escape. Anakin closed his eyes, his consciousness merging with that of the captive. The environment around them faded away, replaced by a swirling vortex of memories and thoughts.
The captive's mind was resistant, walls built high to protect his secrets, but Anakin was relentless, his will unyielding. He pushed deeper, breaking through the barriers, and in that instant the captive's shrieks of agony echoed through the empty expanse.
Images began to flood Anakin's mind, disjointed and chaotic. He saw the vast expanse of the Dothraki Sea, the towering figure of Khal Drogo, and the fierce Khalasar. But beneath it all, a single vision crystallized: Viserys Targaryen, his eyes burning with ambition, bartering his sister Daenerys for the loyalty of the Dothraki.
Anakin's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The captive slumped on the dirt floor, unconscious but alive.
Anakin straightened, the weight of the revelation settling upon his shoulders. Viserys' desperate gambit threatened to plunge both him and his sister into chaos. He turned to Grey-Worm and the Unsullied around him, his voice steady but urgent. "Prepare the men. We move at dusk."
The Unsullied nodded, their expressions resolute. As they dispersed to carry out his orders, Anakin stood alone, his mind racing with the knowledge he had wrested from the captive.
Daenerys, a pawn in her brother's reckless game, was being offered as a bargaining chip to the Dothraki. The Red Priestess had been right - his uncle's ambition for the Iron Throne knew no bounds, and his naivety was boundless if he believed the Dothraki would hand over an army without a display of power.
Viserys is a fool, Anakin thought bitterly, anger simmering just below the surface. He envisioned the scene in his mind: Viserys, desperate and deluded, trying to barter away his sister. The Dothraki Khalasar, fierce and proud, would never respect a man who showed no strength.
Anakin's thoughts spiraled, often circling back to his uncle and the convoluted web of politics and ambition that ensnared them all. But there was no time to dwell on personal grievances. Action was needed, and swiftly.
He drew a deep breath, pushing aside the turmoil within him, and focused on devising a plan. The memories he had extracted from the captive revealed much. Daenerys did not want this marriage, her reluctance evident. This sliver of hope gave him a way to proceed.
Anakin called for a council of Grey-Worm and his trusted commanders to huddle around, his decision swift and resolute. "1,000 men, along with our new Dothrakan friends, will follow me," he began, his voice firm, "The remaining 5,000 will encircle the settlement. I will seek an audience with their Khal. This will serve as a distraction, allowing you all to position yourselves around the outskirts of their camp and prepare for combat if necessary."
His commanders nodded, their faces steeled with determination. Anakin turned to the men who would be stationed around the camp. "A flare in the sky will be your signal."
The flare gun, a testament to Anakin's ingenuity since becoming king, had quickly become an essential tool in their arsenal. It is essentially just a packed tube with explosive chemicals that burn very brightly and give off a red smoke. The Unsullied had adapted to its use with remarkable efficiency, incorporating it into their strategies and communications.
As Anakin briefed his men, he felt a flicker of eagerness amidst his anger. This plan had to work. They would rescue Daenerys, and perhaps in doing so, they could begin to dismantle Viserys' delusions of grandeur. Though the circumstances were far from ideal, his heart soared with anticipation at the thought of reuniting with his family.
However, this reunion was fraught with challenges. Khal Drogo's Khalassar loomed as a formidable force, numbering an estimated 40,000 riders, far exceeding any other Khalassar he had witnessed throughout the vast expanse of the Dothraki Sea.
Before dusk settled Anakin's force arrived at the outskirts of the Dothraki encampment. The soldiers moved with purpose, their presence an undeniable statement. As expected, they were halted by the guarding Dothraki warriors.
Anakin, his cloak billowing in the breeze, stepped forward and addressed the guards in fluent Dothraki. "Would you be so kind as to go and get Khal Drogo for me," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of a threat.
The Dothraki guards exchanged glances before one of them disappeared into the encampment. Anakin stood still, his eyes scanning the area, while the rhythmic sounds of his troops settling into position filled the air. The tension was palpable, with each second stretching longer and longer.
Soon, a commotion from within the camp signaled the approach of Khal Drogo, mounted on his steed. As he arrived, the ground pulsed with the synchronized tapping of spears, a cadence that heralded the Unsullied presence. The Unsullied soldiers parted, creating a path that led Drogo directly to Anakin.
Khal Drogo, a towering figure of raw power and authority. His presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of all who stood before him. As Drogo dismounted his horse, Anakin's eyes swept over the assembled figures.
There, flanked by the Dothraki warriors, stood Viserys Targaryen, Daenerys, and two unfamiliar men, one of whom was clearly a knight with short, graying hair and a well-groomed beard. His face, though lined with the marks of countless battles, held an air of quiet dignity.
Anakin's gaze lingered on the knight, a surge of nostalgia washing over him. A Westerosi knight, he realized, memories of his guardian, Ser Willem Darry, flashing through his mind. The resemblance in their bearing and the aura of steadfast loyalty was unmistakable. Seeing his aunt and uncle in the company of the man brought back an old familiar feeling of home.
Khal Drogo's voice in Dothraki cut through the silence, a low, commanding rumble. "You have your audience. Speak your purpose."
The dusky sky cast a golden hue over the Dothraki encampment as Anakin stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. The air was thick with tension, the ground humming with the murmurs of the gathered warriors.
He addressed Khal Drogo in fluent Dothraki, his voice steady and respectful. "Mighty Khal, I am Anakin of House Targaryen, the King of Meereen, the Andals and the First Men."
Khal Drogo's eyes narrowed, his imposing figure unmoving. "I know who you are. Why are you here?"
Anakin allowed a faint smile to play on his lips. "Weddings are a family thing. You should've known the house you were marrying better."
Before Drogo could respond, Viserys emerged from behind him, his eyes wide with wonder and disbelief. "So it's true. You are alive," he exclaimed, striding towards Anakin. "Where have you-" but before he could ramble on, Anakin silenced him with a sharp gesture, a pointed finger and a firm hush that cut through Viserys' words as he gestured for him to step back to his spot.
He turned his attention back to Khal Drogo, his tone authoritative. "In accordance with our house's tradition, the household leader arranges marriages for our children and unmarried kin. I am the head of House Targaryen, not Viserys. He does not have the power to offer Daenerys to you."
Khal Drogo's eyes flickered with recognition and interest. Stories of Anakin's prowess as a warrior had reached even the farthest corners of the Dothraki Sea. However, the Khal, known for his own strength and dominance, was not one to easily yield. "You mean to take my Khaleesi from me?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
Anakin shook his head, his gaze unwavering. "No, I mean to tell you she was never your Khaleesi to begin with. Nor does she want to be."
With that, he turned and walked towards Daenerys, who stood small and silent among the towering figures around her. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch soft yet firm.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice gentle but clear, referring to the arrangement imposed by Viserys.
Daenerys, who had long been denied any semblance of choice, struggled with the question. Her voice was almost inaudible as she finally whispered, "No."
Anakin turned back to Khal Drogo, a look of vindication in his eyes. The Khal's expression darkened, his refusal to let go of Daenerys evident in every taut muscle of his body. He stepped closer to Anakin, the tension between them crackling like lightning in the air.
"Dothraki give nothing away," Drogo declared, his voice filled with defiance. His eyes darted to Illyrio, who had orchestrated this entire situation. The magister shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the Khal's piercing gaze.
Behind Anakin, the front row of Unsullied soldiers raised their spears in unison, the sound of their precise movements resonating through the encampment. The Dothraki warriors, recognizing the formidable threat posed by the enemy, instinctively raised their guard. Though they were a fierce and proud people, even they understood the deadly efficiency of these elite soldiers.
Anakin stood firm, his eyes locked on Drogo's. "I do not seek unnecessary bloodshed. But I will have what I came for."
The tension in the air was almost palpable, the standoff between the two leaders a precarious balance of power. Drogo's eyes burned with the challenge, but there was a grudging respect in his gaze. He understood strength, and Anakin had shown it in both his presence and his resolve.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world holding its breath as the two men faced each other. Khal Drogo pondered, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts. He weighed his choices, the implications of each heavy on his shoulders.
To set Daenerys free and walk away would be seen as weakness, something that could undermine his authority among the fiercely proud Dothraki. Yet, a battle could result in a devastating loss of lives. His gaze flickered to Anakin, who stood tall and unyielding, a silent challenge in his eyes.
Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, Khal Drogo stepped back, signaling his warriors to lower their weapons. The Dothraki, though still wary, followed their leader's command, the immediate threat of violence dissipating.
Anakin, having learned much about the Dothraki during his journey, anticipated Drogo's inner turmoil. He knew the warlord's pride would never allow a peaceful resolution without a show of strength.
Finally, Khal Drogo's decision crystallized. With a bold step forward, he issued his challenge. "We settle this like warriors," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. "You and me."
Anakin nodded, accepting the challenge with a calm demeanor. "Very well."
As these words were spoken, the air around them seemed to electrify. The Dothraki and Unsullied warriors began to gather, forming a wide circle around the two leaders. The ritualistic murmuring of the Dothrak's created a tense atmosphere, filled with anticipation.
Meanwhile, Viserys, Daenerys, Illyrio and Ser Jorah stood on the fringes of the encampment, unaware of the unfolding events.
It was the magister who broke the news to them, his expression betraying a mix of anxiety and intrigue. "Drogo has challenged your nephew to a duel," he said, his voice low and hurried.
Viserys's eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and fear. "A duel? Now?"
Daenerys, her face pale but resolute, turned her gaze towards the center of the circle. "He can't," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Ser Jorah, ever the seasoned warrior, clenched his jaw and said nothing. His eyes, however, were fixed on Anakin, silently willing him to succeed.
In his side of the circle, Khal Drogo was handed his two arakhs, the curved blades gleaming ominously in the fading light. He tested their weight, the familiar feel of the weapons and comfort in his hands.
These are the typical weapons utilized by Dothraki fighters. Each arakh boasts a unique shape resembling a crescent moon and a curved blade measuring approximately two and a half feet. The handle is also notably thick and nearly the same length, giving it a dual purpose as both a sword and a scythe. While it may not be effective against armor, the arakh grants its wielder exceptional wrist dexterity and mobility.
Anakin, on the other hand, readied himself, drawing on the Force to center his mind and body. He had faced countless foes, and was more than confident he could beat the Khal without his abilities in the force. It was not just about strength, but about honor and the future of his family.
Ser Jorah stood in silence, absorbing Illyrio's words. Every rumor he'd heard about Anakin Targaryen, every whispered tale of his prowess and his army, appeared true. He felt a sudden respect for the man who now stood ready to duel Khal Drogo for Daenerys' freedom.
Viserys, however, was less impressed. "This is senseless," he sneered at Illyrio. "Anakin should just accept the marriage and incorporate the Dothraki into his army. It's the logical move."
Ignoring his uncle's outburst, Anakin removed his hooded cloak and handed it to a nearby soldier. His attire is a blend of practicality and style.
Anakin's attire is a blend of practicality and style, reflecting his dual role as a warrior and king. His traditional brown robe conceals a dark brown sleeveless tunic, designed for freedom of movement during combat and undercover missions. Layered atop this is dark brown and gold shoulder armor, enhancing his imposing presence while providing extra protection. Armored gold bracers clasp his forearms, adding to the ruggedness of his appearance while offering some defense. A utility belt, holding various gadgets and tools, including his sword, completes the ensemble. Dark brown gloves cover his hands, emphasizing his combat readiness. His tall, dark boots are both functional and stylish, adding a final touch to his signature look. Occasionally, he drapes a cape or a cloth wrap over his shoulders, shrouding himself in mystery and allowing him to blend in with the shadows.
With the sun set the citronella torches lit by the Dothraki glint off the polished metal. Daenerys, witnessing Anakin walk closer to the circle, approached him with urgency. "You don't have to do this," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "I'll marry him, you can have an arm-"
Before she could finish, he unsheathed his sword. The weapon had a golden grip, a small diamond-shaped pommel, and no crossguard, a unique and deadly tool. He pointed it towards her, pausing to take in her appearance fully.
"You know, I never thought I'd see you again. But now that you're here it's… you're just like I remember you. So angelic," Anakin murmured, completely taken aback by her beauty. In that moment, he openly acknowledged to himself that his aunt was the most stunning woman he had ever seen.
Daenerys, momentarily thrown by his remark, could only stare back in surprise and confusion.
Anakin turned and walked towards the center of the 'stage,' lit and marked by torches, where Khal Drogo awaited him amidst the assembled Dothraki. The warriors had formed a wide circle, their expressions a mix of curiosity and respect.
As Anakin neared, he spoke over his shoulder to Daenerys, his voice calm and reassuring. "Don't you worry about me."
The circle tightened, the atmosphere charged with anticipation. Khal Drogo stood ready, his twin arakhs gleaming in the torch light.
Ser Jorah watched from the sidelines, composed. He understood the significance of this duel - not just for the Princess, but for the balance of power in their fractured world. The outcome would shape the future, and he knew he would have to relay every detail to Varys.
The air grew thick with anticipation. Daenerys took her place beside Ser Jorah once again, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. The crowd of Dothraki warriors and onlookers formed a tight circle around the two combatants, their faces lit by the flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the ground.
Ser Jorah's curiosity was piqued; he had never witnessed the Targaryen king's prowess in combat. However, he knew Khal Drogo's fearsome reputation all too well - the long list of warriors who had fallen to his blades was legendary. Yet here stood Anakin, calm and resolute, prepared to face the mighty Khal.
Anakin stepped forward, wielding his sword with a confident grip. He took the initiative, swinging his blade with precision. Drogo skillfully blocked the strike with his arakh, the sound of clashing metal ringing through the night.
Instead of pressing the attack, Drogo turned his back on Anakin, addressing the crowd with a booming voice. "The rain will fall on your rotting skin…until nothing is left of you but bones!" he declared, his words met with a roaring cheer from the Dothraki.
Anakin smirked, his voice calm and steady. "Poetic one, aren't you?"
With a sudden burst of speed, Drogo charged towards him, his arakhs slicing through the air with deadly intent. Anakin's sword moved almost imperceptibly, parrying the attacks with minimal effort. Their duel was a mesmerizing dance of speed and power, each warrior displaying their distinctive skills.
Anakin's combat style was defined by forceful, precise attacks, quickly transitioning to a defensive stance before launching a retaliatory strike. His movements were fluid and deliberate, each one calculated to keep his opponent off balance.
Drogo, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of aggression and cunning. His selection of arms and combat techniques made him a formidable and unpredictable opponent. Each of his strikes carried the intent to kill, his ferocity tempered by a warrior's instinct.
The fight intensified as Anakin parried Drogo's relentless attacks with ease, his blade a blur as it met the twin arakhs. The Dothraki watched in awe, their cheers and shouts creating a cacophony of excitement and tension.
In a sudden decisive move they engaged in a blade-lock, and using his free hand Anakin delivered a powerful backhand strike to Drogo's face. The force of the blow sent the Khal staggering backward, a murmur of shock rippling through the crowd.
Drogo's eyes blazed with fury as he regained his footing, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. The brief moment of vulnerability had only fueled his anger. He charged again, his movements even more ferocious and calculated.
The Dothraki warlord's eyes flashed with fury as he retaliated, slashing through the sand at Anakin's feet. A blinding cloud of sand exploded into his face, forcing him to stumble back, momentarily disoriented.
"The fuck!" Anakin exclaimed, his voice laced with frustration as he struggled to clear his eyes. He could hear Drogo's rolling footsteps nearby, sensing his presence circling him. Blinking furiously, Anakin tried to regain his vision, but the grit clung stubbornly to his lashes.
Drogo, seeing an advantage, seized the moment. He raised his arakh high and brought it down with lethal intent towards Anakin's face. Instinctively, Anakin twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blade, but not without consequence. A sharp pain seared through the right side of his face as the arakh sliced across his eye.
Staggering back, Anakin winced, pressing his fingertips gingerly to the gash. His gloved hand came away stained with blood, the sight triggering a distant memory.
Pain like this had been a constant companion during his time as a slave, and later, in the brutal fighting pits of Meereen. Each throb of pain was a stark reminder of those harrowing times. Khal Drogo had proven to be a far more formidable adversary than he had anticipated.
The sight of his bleeding face made the Targaryen siblings and Ser Jorah all wince, each reacting in their own way.
Ser Jorah, ever the seasoned warrior, carefully observed the battle, noting that Anakin was easily holding his own despite the injury. Daenerys, on the other hand, was visibly concerned, her eyes wide with fear. She didn't want her nephew to die because of her refusal to wed a Khal. In stark contrast, Viserys was impatient, his gaze fixed on Anakin with a mix of eagerness and frustration. He longed to converse with his nephew, particularly about the use of his army.
When the crucial strike is finally delivered, the entire crowd watching the fight is in shock.
Anakin moves with fluidity, rolling forward and evading Khal Drogo's lethal swings before thrusting his blade deep into Drogo's chest. The Khal drops to his knees, his fierce eyes wide with disbelief.
He extracts the blade with a swift, clean motion and stands over his fallen opponent. Anakin surveys the crowd, his gaze locking with that of Ser Jorah's. He knows without being told what must follow; the Dothraki recognize only one language: strength.
With determination, he strides towards Drogo's fallen arakh, intent on using it to end the Khal's life once and for all.
As Anakin reaches for Drogo's weapon, the Khal's lips part with a hushed murmur. His gaze locks onto him, a sense of unreality washing over him. The whisper seems almost like a hallucination, as if intended solely for his ears.
Curiosity overcomes him as he leans closer, his ear pressed against Drogo's lips. A cryptic warning echoes through the silence: "If you ride like lightning, you're going to crash like thunder."
Hearing these final words he is left no time to process them as with a last surge of defiance, plunges a hidden dagger into Anakin's lower abdomen.
Pain sears through him, but Anakin reacts swiftly, decapitating Khal Drogo with one powerful blow of the arakh, sending the head rolling across the blood-stained sand.
A myriad of emotions sweeps through the gathered Dothraki. Enraged and reverent, they are left astounded by Anakin's strength and prowess.
The crowd buzzes with whispers, uncertainty rippling through them as they grapple with the sudden loss of their Khal and turn on each other in heated disagreements over who should take charge.
Ser Jorah, his seasoned eyes taking in every detail, is impressed by the Targaryen's resilience and ability to endure the injury without showing any sign of weakness.
Daenerys stands aghast, her eyes fixed on the gruesome sight of Drogo's decapitated body. Her heart aches with conflicting emotions: relief at her newfound freedom and horror at the brutal end that secured it.
Suddenly, Viserys breaks into uproarious laughter, striding forward to embrace Anakin with an exaggerated warmth, congratulating him as if they were long-time companions. "Well done, nephew! Well done indeed!" he exclaims, his voice ringing out across the tense gathering.
Anakin, his face a mask of blank detachment, fixes his gaze on Viserys, harboring deep discontent for the predicament his uncle has imposed upon them. The displeasure is evident, a dark cloud shadowing his features.
Viserys, sensing the tension, releases him, the laughter dying on his lips. "Nephew?" he inquires, uncertainty creeping into his voice, his eyes searching for a hint of the emotions churning beneath the surface.
Anakin's eyes narrow slightly, the pain from his wound flaring with every breath. "This was your doing, Viserys," he says quietly, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "Remember that."
Anakin pivoted away from Viserys, striding purposefully toward Khal Drogo's decapitated body. He grasped the severed head by its braid, cutting it off and raising it high above his head, a triumphant proclamation to the gathered Dothraki.
"Your Khal is dead!" he declared in the Dohtraki tongue, his voice echoing over the silent crowd. "You can fight me and share his fate. Walk away and live… or unite under my banner, and I will lead you to conquests that span the ends of the earth."
A murmur rippled through the Khalasar, but one voice rose in defiance. Mago, a rider of Drogo's Khalasar, stepped forward, his eyes blazing with contempt. "The Dothraki will never follow foreign trash like you," he spat in his native tongue.
Anakin's gaze narrowed as he fixed his eyes on Mago. "So who are they going to follow? 'You'? Because you're the 'big man' around here," Anakin taunted, his words dripping with disdain. Mago bristled with anger, his face flushing with fury.
Anticipating a heated confrontation, Anakin gestured silently for Ser Jorah to escort his family to the safety of the Unsullied. Jorah moved swiftly, guiding Daenerys, Viserys, and Illyrio behind the protective line of disciplined soldiers.
Unable to control his impatience, Mago recklessly charged toward Anakin, his arakh raised menacingly. Jorah's suspicions of impending violence were validated as the two men's blades collided with a sharp clang.
In a swift, decisive moment, Anakin pulled Drogo's dagger from his own abdomen and plunged it into Mago's eye with his free hand. The Dothrakan's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, a testament to the lethal efficiency.
A group of Dothraki warriors surged forward, their rage propelling them toward Anakin. The sheer numbers threatened to overwhelm him, but the Unsullied sprang into action, forming an unbreakable barrier around their leader and engaging the oncoming Dothraki in fierce combat.
Seizing the moment, Anakin led Jorah, Illyrio, and his family behind the protective line of Unsullied and Dothraki warriors on his side, away from the escalating violence.
"Now what?" Viserys demanded, his voice tinged with panic. Ser Jorah, his expression mirroring the question, awaited his plan.
Anakin reached into his pockets and revealed a metal cylinder with a handle and trigger. He aimed it toward the sky and pulled the trigger, unleashing a brilliant red flare. The night sky was illuminated as the red light blazed over the nearby hill, revealing the remaining 5,000 men of Anakin's Unsullied army.
The Dothraki warriors paused, their eyes drawn to the glowing red light in the sky and the formidable force it revealed. A hush fell over the battlefield as both sides took in the sight, the balance of power now unmistakably in Anakin's favor. The message was clear: resistance was futile, and the Dothraki had only one choice if they wished to survive.
As the skirmish tilted decisively in their favor, the Unsullied executed Anakin's orders with ruthless efficiency. They circled the entire Dothraki camp, capturing most and dispatching those who refused to surrender without mercy. The directive was clear: to take as many Dothraki into custody as possible.
Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Anakin's mind turned to the words of the Red Priestess, Kinvara, whose prophecy had guided him on this perilous journey. She had foreseen that he would encounter the army he needed to lead in the looming conflict. Now, as he surveyed the captured Dothraki and the disciplined ranks of his Unsullied, he realized the truth in her words.
Throughout his expedition across the Dothraki Sea, Anakin had gradually amassed an impressive force of thousands of warriors and nomads. The Dothraki, fierce and unruly as they were, held the key to vanquishing the tyranny of the slaveholders in Slaver's Bay. They were a force to be reckoned with, and under Anakin's leadership, they could become a formidable weapon against oppression.
After the conflict came to a close and the dust settled on the battlefield the Unsullied set up their camp with practiced efficiency.
Anakin, meanwhile, turned his attention to the remaining Dothraki under his control. Some of them, he noted, showed a surprising willingness to submit to a foreign leader after seeing several Dothraki Riders already in his ranks.
But for those who resisted, he showed no mercy. His gaze hardened as he issued orders to deal with them accordingly. In the unforgiving world of conquest and survival, there was no room for hesitation or weakness. Anakin understood that to lead, he must command respect and instill fear in equal measure.
That night, as the camp settled into an uneasy calm, Anakin retreated to a tent where he could gather his thoughts and connect with the many new faces that now surrounded him.
He found himself drawn first to Daenerys, wrapping his arms around her in a warm embrace. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, concern evident in his voice.
To his keen perception, Daenerys appeared introverted, meek, and disturbingly compliant - a stark contrast to the spirit he knew she possessed. He could see the imprint of Viserys's treatment in her demeanor.
As he turned his attention to his uncle, however, his demeanor shifted. The man was brimming with questions, his voice eager and demanding. But Anakin's response was swift and unyielding. He chastised his uncle with a fierce intensity, his words laced with righteous anger.
"Who the hell do you think you are!? Bartering Daenerys? And to the Dothraki no less," Anakin's voice thundered through the tent, his rage palpable in the air. "You've forgotten who your king is."
Ser Jorah and Daenerys watched on in stunned silence, their astonishment growing with each passing moment. They had not expected such fervor from Anakin, nor his apparent lack of urgency in claiming his rightful place as heir to the Iron Throne.
But it was not as though Anakin was unaware of his heritage and the high status it conferred upon him. His eyes burned with a fierce determination as he advanced upon his trembling uncle, the flickering candles casting dancing shadows across his face.
With a deliberate motion, he removed his left glove, locking eyes with Viserys, his gaze unwavering as he spoke words heavy with meaning.
"Here's what's going to happen. I'm taking Daenerys with me back to Meereen. Magister Illyrio has extended his hospitality. You'd be more comfortable here. If-" However, just as Anakin begins to explain, Viserys interrupts loudly, objecting, "Now hold on. If you think you're going to leav-" But before he can finish, Anakin silences him with a swift slap across the face, much to the amusement of Ser Jorah and Daenerys. "And 'if' you are going to tag along you will do what I say, when I say. Do you understand?" Anakin addresses Viserys sternly. "You can't-" Viserys tries to protest, only to receive another slap from Anakin, who reaffirms, "Do you understand?"
Viserys lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, stepping back from Anakin with a mix of emotions swirling within him - uncertain whether to feel angered by his nephew's audacity or impressed by his unyielding demeanor. Anakin's presence was a force to be reckoned with, and Viserys, for the first time in a long time, found himself questioning his own ambitions in the face of such resolute authority.
Turning his attention to the next person in the tent, Anakin's gaze settled on Ser Jorah Mormont. "And you are?" he inquired, his tone demanding yet curious.
The disgraced knight stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I served your grandfather, King Aerys II, for many years. I'm in your service, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with vague respect as he introduced himself.
Anakin acknowledged the knight's pledge with a nod, but his mind was filled with doubt. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. Based on the little he knew of his grandfather, mostly what Ser Willem had told him, the title 'Mad King' wasn't given lightly.
He then continued, ensuring everyone present understood the gravity of their situation and the plans ahead. "We leave for Meereen tomorrow. Best I not be gone for too long," he declared, his voice brooking no argument.
That night, as Anakin settled into a restless sleep, he remained unaware of the silent machinations around him. Ser Jorah Mormont and Illyrio Mopatis, seemingly loyal and supportive, were in fact spying on him. Under the guise of camaraderie, they gathered information, their eyes sharp and ears keen, ready to relay every detail back to Lord Varys in King's Landing.
The camp was quiet, save for the whispers of the night breeze and the distant rustle of the Dothraki horses.
The following day, as the sun cast its golden light over the camp, Anakin roamed through the rows of tents, searching for Daenerys. His path brought him to the edge of the camp, where he overheard a conversation between Jorah and Viserys.
"Well, Mormont, as brutish as this life is, I suppose it is preferable to beheading. What did Ned Stark want you for? Buying from a slaver?" Viserys inquired, his tone laced with amusement.
"Selling to one… some poachers I caught on my land," Ser Jorah responded, his voice steady.
"You sold slaves?" Anakin's voice cut through the air as he abruptly approached the two men, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and a tinge of disapproval.
"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Jorah replied without hesitation, his demeanor unflinching in contrast to Viserys, who seemed to shrink slightly under his nephew's intense gaze.
"Why?" Anakin's curiosity deepened, intrigued by the knight's past actions.
"I had no money and an expensive wife," Ser Jorah admitted with a rueful smile, attempting to inject a bit of humor into the heavy conversation.
"Where is she now?" he asked, his trust in the knight clearly waning.
"In another place. With another man," Jorah answered, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
Anakin shifted the conversation, sensing the growing unease. "Where are Daenerys and Illyrio?"
"Illyrio is gone. Why? Should we care? He served his purpose," Viserys interjected, a smirk playing on his lips.
Anakin acknowledged Viserys's remark with a knowing look. "And you're still here," he noted, fully aware of the implications of Viserys's presence.
"Don't look so surprised. I'm very curious to see the wonders you've achieved in Meereen," Viserys said, his tone dripping with sarcastic curiosity.
Anakin glanced pensively at both Ser Jorah and his uncle before making an announcement. "Change of plan. We're not heading to Meereen. We're marching on Volantis."
Ser Jorah's eyes widened with curiosity. "And what awaits in Volantis, Your Grace?"
Anakin beckoned the group to follow him, leading them to a nearby tent guarded by Menial-Snail and Ash-Insect. Once inside, they found Grey-Worm standing beside a table with a large map of Essos spread out. Anakin began to recount his plan for the war brewing back up in Slaver's Bay, his voice steady and authoritative.
"The Unsullied have successfully subdued the Dothraki army of nearly 40,000," he explained. "Half of the Dothraki surrendered without a fight. The dissenting ones were easily defeated with minimal losses on both sides. The survivors surrendered pretty quickly after their forces began to dwindle."
Anakin paused, surveying the faces around him, ensuring they grasped the significance of his words. "Now that I have the Khalasar, and including the Unsullied, it is enough to lead them straight to Volantis and break their hold over the region."
He turned his attention to the map, tracing their intended route with his finger. "From here, we'll travel south through the Flatlands until we arrive in Volon Therys. I have a contact in Volantis who will grant us passage across the Rhoyne River. We can leave all the noncombatants there while we go to Sar Mell and march on Volantis from the northwest. My contact will open the gates, and from there, my armies will sack the city."
Alongside formidable warriors, Anakin's new Khalassar carries a team of healers, cooks, whores, and others who are not trained in combat. He intends to keep them along with Daenerys away from the battle in Volon Therys.
Ser Jorah's curiosity was piqued. "And you trust this 'contact'?" he inquired, eyeing Anakin carefully.
"Hasn't led me wrong yet," Anakin replied, his tone unyielding. "But if you're so worried, I'm sure Illyrio wouldn't mind extending his hospitality."
Ser Jorah surmised two things after this interaction with Anakin - this Targaryen was undoubtedly less trusting than his kin and appeared to be a skilled commander on the battlefield. His recent and instant victory against the Dothraki was evidence of that.
Anakin continued, his eyes locking with each of theirs in turn. "We leave in the hour."
The tent filled with a charged silence, the weight of his words settling over them. He had a plan, and it was clear he expected nothing less than total commitment from his followers.
As they prepared to depart from Pentos, Anakin spotted Daenerys being assisted onto her horse by her newly acquired handmaiden, Doreah, a former bed-slave.
Viserys had purchased Doreah as a wedding present for his sister, but her marriage never came to fruition. Despite this, Doreah had quickly formed a warm relationship with both Targaryen siblings.
Anakin gazed up at Daenerys, perched atop her noble steed, her figure shimmering brilliantly in the warm rays of the sun. In his eyes, she was glowing with radiance.
"You're hurt," Daenerys remarked softly, gently touching the newly formed scar next to his right eye.
Anakin responded with a wry smile, "You should see the other ones." His lighthearted comment did little to ease the sadness in her gaze. She was unaware of the trials he had endured, but she sensed they had been no kinder than her own.
"I'm sorry we couldn't stay longer. I hear you've grown to like it here," he said, gently taking her hand off his face and locking eyes with her.
"Yes, it was far better than wandering around the streets of Braavos. Though Norvos was nice," Daenerys replied.
"I'm sorry I couldn't find you sooner. How did you come by Illyrio?" Anakin inquired, his curiosity piqued.
Ever since Viserys informed him that Illyrio had departed, he had pondered the man's whereabouts and intentions. He needed to investigate Illyrio Mopatis further, as well as Ser Jorah Mormont, whose motives he found questionable.
The stories about his grandfather, King Aerys II, made it perplexing that someone with such an evil reputation could garner devoted supporters. Thankfully, the knight would be accompanying them on their journey, allowing Anakin to closely monitor his actions.
"He found us," Daenerys confessed, her gaze timidly turning away from Anakin's despite being positioned higher than him on the horse. It was clear that Viserys had kept her sheltered throughout the years, evident in her introverted manner.
Anakin's hand gently guided Daenerys' leg into the horse saddle as he spoke up, "Well… you're with me now. As soon as we sort out this matter in Volantis, we can head to Meereen. You can settle in. I'm sure you'll feel right at home there."
"Home?" Daenerys asked, her voice heavy with sadness. "You don't want to return home, do you? To our family's home?" Her question was directed at him.
He knew that Viserys had undoubtedly filled her head with tales of vengeance and the wrongs inflicted upon their family by their enemies back home.
Anakin, determined not to crush her spirits and secretly intrigued by the thought of seeking retribution for his fallen family and revisiting his homeland, reassured her. "There will be plenty of time for that," he promised, trying to delay her inquiries until he could figure out his plans. 'One war at a time,' Anakin soothed himself.
Out of the blue, he noticed Doreah securing a chest to her horse's rear and inquired, "What's in the box?"
"Dragon eggs," Daenerys spoke, and he noticed a trace of happiness in her tone for the first time. "They were a gift from Illyrio. But they're petrified," she mentioned.
As Anakin peered into the Force, he sensed something stirring within the chest, something that had not been present in the dragon egg he was gifted at his own wedding. Upon further examination, he discovered a life force emanating from the eggs. 'They are alive, in a state of hibernation, perhaps,' Anakin noted to himself.
Daenerys, noticing that her nephew had been fixated on the box for quite some time, asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Come on. We've got a long road ahead of us," Anakin exclaimed with a smile as he patted the rear of Daenerys' horse and sent her off.
Her handmaiden followed suit, and Anakin climbed onto his white steed, leading the way towards the impending voyage and battle ahead.