298 AC - In the Dothraki Sea:
Once again Anakin found himself traveling through the treacherous Dothraki Sea, though this time with a Khalasar of nearly 40,000 Dothraki Riders and 6,000 Unsullied warriors, no one would dare intervene them on their journey.
As Daenerys rode, her gaze fell upon the black and crimson dragon nestled in her arms. To her bewilderment, Anakin exhibited an unusual detachment from his dragon. With Viserys's claim over the white dragon, she had anticipated a burgeoning bond between Anakin and his own. However, an inexplicable distance had developed, leaving her perplexed as to the cause of her nephew's estrangement.
On the other hand, Viserys's playful antics with the white dragon amused her briefly. The sight of her brother bonded with a dragon stirred a twinge of irritation within. She found solace in her own dragon, Rhaegal.
When Viserys claimed his and christened it Viserion, neither Anakin nor Daenerys masked their unamusement at the predictable choice of name.
Now, Daenerys's thoughts turned to her nephew, riding alongside her. "Have you thought of a name?" she inquired.
With a pensive expression, Anakin examined the dragon in her arms before replying. "No. Names don't come as naturally to me as they do to you and Viserys."
Perceiving his hesitation, Daenerys offered encouragement. "It needn't adhere to tradition. Choose whatever comes natural."
The conversation was short and they continued along their ride. Having been on this path for several weeks a Dothraki warrior, Rakharo, informs Anakin that they are just a day away from Vaes Dothrak and that stopping here for the night would be wise as the sun is beginning to set.
That night, after Anakin had all but sent Viserys and Daenerys to bed after their endless bickering, he and Ser Jorah found themselves gathered around fire as they discussed a variety of things.
"I'm going to have to put a bell on those two," he casually broached the topic of his aunt and uncle's toxic relationship with the knight as he sat down next to him.
Jorah's reply was curt. "She hasn't killed him yet."
"Yeah, that's true. So, what do you make of all this?" Anakin prodded, his curiosity piqued by what the Westerosi knight makes of their predicament
"On all what?" Jorah asked, his gaze steady.
"Prophecies, dragons… magic," he replied, his voice hinting at an enticing mystery.
"Is that what you call it? What you did to Nyessos, and the fire you strolled into, emerging unscathed with three dragons? You call that magic?" the knight's words were skeptical but tinged with awe. He had never fully understood that day but had yet to inquire about it, until now.
"No, I call it a Force," Anakin corrected.
"A what?" Jorah questioned, his brows furrowed.
"You know, a Force. Like the unseen wind that surrounds us, binding the world together. You'd be surprised at the things it lets one do," Anakin elaborated, curious to observe how a man from Westeros would react to the concept of the Force, unsure if it would resonate similarly or differ starkly from the beliefs of those he had encountered before.
"Right…" Jorah responds flatly, his skepticism palpable regarding Anakin's belief in the Force.
"You don't believe me," Anakin observed calmly.
"Seeing is believing… and I have seen," he countered, acknowledging the mysterious power Anakin had used to hatch the dragon eggs.
"Good, the sooner you get used to it the better," Anakin remarked, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.
"Meaning?" the knight demanded, his curiosity ignited.
"Ah, where's the fun in telling you that?" he retorted.
Gathered around the campfire, Anakin's words lingered in the air, leaving the knight to ponder their meaning.
Suddenly, Rakharo and Grey-Worm revealed their presence to the men gathered around the fire. Grey-Worm informed them that riders had been dispatched to notify the Dothraki in the city, urging them to stay peaceful despite the Unsullied's arrival.
"Won't they be enraged by Drogo's death?" Jorah inquired, mindful of the Dothraki's thirst for vengeance.
"Anakin defeated him. In a battle of his choosing," Rakharo asserted confidently. "You've earned his place as our Khal."
In the months since claiming the mantle, Anakin had led the Dothraki to unprecedented victories. The conquest of Volantis was a feat previously deemed impossible for the Dothrak, and the vast spoils and reputation they amassed has cemented their status as one of the most formidable Khalasars. Though he has prohibited the raping and enslavement of captives, the wealth and renown gained through their conquest have greatly enriched the Khalasar and made it even more feared.
Around the flames, the men engaged in lively conversation. Ser Jorah addressed Rakharo, explaining the advantages of using a sword. "For a man on horseback, the curved blade is a good thing, easier to handle. It's a good weapon for a Dothrakan. But a man in full plate… the arakh won't get through the steel," Jorah explained. "That's where the broadsword has the advantage. Designed for piercing plate."
Rakharo responded with amusement. "Dothraki don't wear 'steel dresses'."
"Armor," Jorah clarified.
"Armor. Armor make a man… 'Vroz'?" Rakharo tried to convey the concept in the Dothraki tongue.
"Vroz?" the knight echoed, puzzled by the unfamiliar term.
"Slow," Anakin swiftly translated, providing clarity to the knight. "Rakharo says that armor makes a man slow."
"It's true, but it also keeps a man alive," Jorah elaborated, emphasizing the practical benefits of wearing armor.
"My father taught me how to fight. He taught me that speed defeats size," Rakharo spoke of his father's teachings.
"I've heard that your father was a famous warrior," remarked Jorah.
"He was bloodrider to Khal Bharbo. And your father, Jorah the Andal? He was a warrior also?" asked the Dothraki.
Mormont's face shadowed. "He still is. A man of great honor. And I betrayed him," he admitted somberly, the weight of his past transgressions heavy on his conscience.
Sensing Jorah's remorse, Anakin steered the conversation. "I suppose honor must mean a lot to the knights of Westeros. Ser Willem never missed an opportunity to remind me of honor, old as he was," he remarks, reflecting on the impact of the man who had raised him.
Amidst the quiet glow of the fire, Ser Jorah narrated the tumultuous history of House Darry. Despite their Tully overlords rebellion against the Targaryens, House Darry remained steadfast in their loyalty to the crown. Ser Jonothor Darry, a respected Kingsguard knight, met his demise at the fateful Battle of the Trident. The aftermath left House Darry stripped of vast lands, wealth, and most of their former influence. The somber atmosphere reflected the complexities and divisions that had marked the Riverlands during the rebellion, as their houses had been deeply divided.
"Lord Raymun Darry currently holds lordship of Darry in the Riverlands," Jorah informs Anakin, whose eyebrows furrowed.
"How far is Castle Darry from King's Landing," he asked.
"Approximately 600 miles north along the Kingsroad, not far from the Crossroads Inn," Jorah responded. "Why do you ask, Your Grace?" the knight inquires further.
"No reason," Anakin evasively replied.
298 AC - In Vaes Dothrak:
Before Anakin and his Khalasar arrived in the city of horse-lords Ser Jorah enthralled him with his tale of the Dothraki city:
Between the Free Cities and the Bones, between the Shivering Sea and Slaver's Bay, spreads the Dothraki Sea.
Named not for its waters but for how freely its conquerors roam upon it. A traveler on the Dothraki Sea will find few villages and no farms. Because the Dothraki view it as a sin to cut into their Mother Earth with plows and shovels. And the Dothraki know only one punishment.
The closest the Dothraki approach to civilization is Vaes Dothrak. Though to outsiders, it doesn't look like a city. There are no walls because the Dothraki believe only cowards hide behind them, instead of facing an enemy blade in hand. But the Dothraki couldn't do that here either.
Within the bounds of the city, no one, not even the mightiest Khal, may carry a blade, by order of the priestesses of the Dosh Khaleen. Not that any enemy would be foolish enough to attack the sacred city of the Dothraki in the first place.
Two giant bronze stallions rear over the entrance to the city, their hooves meeting in the air to form an arch, the famous Horse Gate.
Through it is the Godsway, where the Dothraki drag the sacred idols of the cities and peoples they've broken.
Along one side, stone gods look down on you from cracked thrones with chipped and stained faces, their names lost to time.
Across the road, monsters watch you pass. Black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with barbed tails poised to strike and other terrible beasts from every corner of Essos. But there is nothing to fear. If these gods and devils had any power, they would never have ended here.
Not all foreign gods in Vaes Dothrak are broken. In the Eastern and Western Markets, merchants worship their god of trade with the sufferance of the Dothraki, who themselves don't understand buying and selling.
The Western Market is a great square of beaten earth filled with animal pens, drinking halls and a maze of stalls and crooked aisles. Even goods from Westeros find their way here.
Though the merchants who sell them wouldn't know a Lannister from a Frey.
The Eastern Market is, fittingly, a stranger place. The elders of the Dosh Khaleen view it with suspicion and most Dothraki stay away. They aren't wrong. The great elephants, the basilisks in silver cages and the striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai are harmless enough.
But I can see how the elders wouldn't want their younger members to see the warrior maids of Hyrkoon, who wear iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks. Or listen to the Shadow Men, who cover their bodies with tattoos and hide their faces behind masks and whisper dark secrets for a price.
This is all of Vaes Dothrak that foreigners ever know. For only Dothraki are permitted in the inner city where the Dosh Khaleen live out their lives.
A bloodrider, drunk on fermented mare's milk, once told me that the Dosh Khaleen are stewards. They prepare for the day when every rider of every Khalasar shall return to the city.
And the Dothraki truly will be one blood and one Khalasar again, under the greatest Khal of all, the stallion who mounts the world. He will ride to the ends of the earth and grind nations into dust, and take the whole world as his herd.
Or so the prophecy goes.
Anakin and his companions, as they approach the Dothraki homeland, are able to make out the two towering stallion statues that guarded its entrance, their imposing figures visible from afar.
"Vaes Dothrak. The city of the horse-lords," Ser Jorah proclaims.
"A pile of mud. Mud and shit and twigs - best these savages can do," Viserys snobbishly comments, causing Anakin's hand to shoot out, slapping him across the face.
"Watch your mouth," he admonished. "I don't need you spewing insults in there."
"You still don't trust the Khals," Jorah inquired.
"Oh I trust them alright. Trust them to be every bit the shortsighted killers Drogo was," Anakin retorted.
As they rode ahead, Daenerys joined Jorah with the three baby dragons nestled around her body.
"If my nephew was to sail the Dothraki across the Narrow Sea, could they conquer the Seven Kingdoms?" she suddenly asks him.
"The Dothraki fear any water their horses can't drink. They would never-" Jorah began, but Daenerys pressed, "Suppose they did?"
Jorah explained, "King Robert is fool enough to meet them in open battle, but the men advising him are different."
"And you know these men?" inquires Daenerys.
"I fought beside them once, long ago. Now Ned Stark wants my head. He drove me from my land," said Jorah.
As the vast expanse of Vaes Dothrak unfurled before them, Anakin's Khalasar rode in with an air of nonchalance, their ease in the ancient city clear. The towering bronze stallions at the city's entrance seemed to bow in deference as the Dothraki swiftly settled into their familiar surroundings.
Rakharo approached Anakin with a solemnity befitting the occasion. "Great King," he began, his voice a low rumble. "It is wise to pay homage to the council of Khals, especially the Dosh Khaleen. Their blessing is vital."
Anakin nodded, his eyes scanning the cityscape. "Might as well get it over with. What about you?" he asked Daenerys who was surrounded by her Dothraki handmaidens.
"Irri tells me that the Western Market has a grand selection of wine merchants," she answered.
With a decisive gesture, the Unsullied, the silent guardians of their party, divided into detachments. Grey Worm, their unwavering leader, received his orders to guard the infant dragons. The young creatures, symbols of power and prophecy, were sheltered in concealed pens, hidden beneath heavy cloaks.
"Remember," Anakin instructed, "No weapons are permitted within Vaes Dothrak. You must remain outside the city boundaries with our armaments."
The Unsullied nodded in unison, their expressions impassive. Leaving their weapons behind, a contingent of twenty accompanied Anakin, Viserys, Rakharo, Ser Jorah, Daenerys, and her handmaidens into the heart of the bustling city.
The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and the lively chatter of merchants hawking their wares. Daenerys, her silver-gold hair catching the sunlight, ventured into the Western Market, her handmaidens, Ser Jorah, and several Unsullied guards trailing behind her like a silken train.
Before they go off on their own ways, Anakin's gaze locked with Viserys as he prepared to follow the knight and his sister. With a swift motion, Anakin intercepted Viserys, gripping his collar. "Where do you think you're going?" he said, his voice stern.
Viserys' explanation of his desire to explore the wine markets was met with mockery from Anakin. "No, no, no," he scoffed. "You're coming with me. You've had enough wine. Come on," his grip tightened as he dragged Viserys away, his words echoing through the bustling crowd. "Perhaps you'll learn something."
Guided by Rakharo, they approached the foreboding temple of the Dosh Khaleen. The air grew cooler and heavier as they neared, the massive structure casting long, imposing shadows over the path. A handful of loyal retainers flanked Anakin, their silent presence a testament to the unwavering respect accorded to the Khaleen.
Stepping into the dimly lit sanctuary, the air thick with incense and the weight of ancient traditions, Anakin's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The flickering light from torches cast eerie shadows on the walls adorned with intricate carvings of Dothraki history and mythology.
A woman with an age-worn wisdom, stood waiting amongst her gathered Dosh Khaleen. Her gaze pierced through the dimness, settling on Anakin with a mixture of scrutiny and disapproval. Once wife of the great Khal. Khal Savo. She thought he would conquer the world with her by his side, yet now she rots away as the Dosh Khaleen's High Priestess.
"You come before the Dosh Khaleen," she intoned, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "Yet you fail to honor our customs. Your hair remains unbraided, and your attire is unbefitting of a Khal."
Anakin stiffened, feeling the weight of her reprimand. He had anticipated the challenge but not a scolding lecture from a withered old hag. Before he could respond, the Priestess continued, her tone softening slightly.
"However," she said, "Your achievements speak for themselves. Your Khalasar has grown strong under your leadership, and your conquest of Volantis has not gone unnoticed. Strength and victory are marks of a true Khal."
Anakin nodded, acknowledging her words. From beneath his cloak, he retrieved an ornate golden crown. With a respectful bow, he presented it to the High Priestess. "As a token of respect," he said, revealing a golden flame-shaped crown. "This crown was bestowed upon me by the Red Priestess in Volantis. I gift it to you."
The High Priestess took the crown, her expression impassive. She examined it briefly before dismissing it with a wave of her hand, giving it back to Anakin. "Gold and jewels mean little in Vaes Dothrak," she said, her voice cold. "What matters here is tradition. Your violation of these customs will be judged by the assembled Khals of the Khalar Vezhven."
Anakin's frustration grew as he absorbed her words. The gathering of Khals held his destiny in their hands, their verdict would determine his acceptance or rejection from their tribe. He realized his fate rested entirely with the Dosh Khaleen vouching on his behalf before an undoubtedly hostile assembly.
His experiences with the Khals across the Dothraki Sea had left him with a mix of contempt and begrudging admiration. The men's unwavering choice of death over submission repelled him, their savagery eliciting a sense of revulsion he loathed to acknowledge within himself. He could not help but view them as mere animals, worthy of annihilation if required to protect his loved ones. In his eyes, they were indistinguishable from the despicable slavers of Slaver's Bay.
Yet, a surprising part of Anakin also found himself drawn to their uncompromising nature. He appreciated their blunt honesty, their literal interpretation of words, and their reverence for strength - a trait he had cultivated in the brutal fighting pits of Meereen.
This duality tormented him, challenging his preconceptions and leaving him uncertain of his true feelings towards the Dothraki. Though, one thing was for certain: he needed them.
The High Priestess turned away, signaling the end of their audience.
"You have strength, Anakin Targaryen," she said over her shoulder. "But strength will only take you so far."
As they left the temple and prepared to lead his group to the Khalar Vezhven, the weight of her words hung heavily in the air. Rakharo placed a reassuring hand on Anakin's shoulder. "The Khals will see your strength," he said quietly.
Anakin's resolve hardened. "That's what I'm afraid of…" he muttered to himself as Rakharo walked away.
Elsewhere, as Daenerys strolled through the bustling wine markets with her handmaidens, she parted ways and walked with Jorah Mormont. Eager to further discuss her nephew's prospects for the Iron Throne, she inquired, "Can't you help me make him understand?"
"Your nephew seems to want to sort out this situation in Slaver's Bay before any of that," Jorah explained. "Have patience, princess. We will go home, I promise you."
"He is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms," Daenerys declared resolutely, causing Ser Jorah to chuckle to himself and the Targaryen princess to ask, "Have I said something funny, Ser?"
"Right has nothing to do with it," Jorah countered. "When your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror seized six of the kingdoms he had no right to them. He seized them because he could. He and your nephew share that in common."
"And because he had dragons," Daenerys said with a playful smirk, acknowledging their own recently acquired allies.
"It will be years before they are fully grown," Jorah commented. "Now if you'll pardon me, I'll seek out the merchant Captain, see if he has any letters for me."
"Well, I'll come with you," Daenerys offered.
"No no, don't trouble yourself," Jorah insisted. "Enjoy the market. I'll rejoin you soon enough."
With a nod to the Unsullied guards, indicating his departure and leaving the princess's protection to them, Jorah excused himself.
Amidst the bustling crowd, Jorah wandered until a faint voice of a child whispered from behind a stall.
"Psst, Jorah the Andal. The spider sends his greetings and his congratulations. A royal pardon. You can go home now," revealed a young spy for Lord Varys, handing Jorah a sealed letter.
As the child vanished, Jorah's thoughts raced, torn between his loyalty to the Targaryens and the allure of returning home. His musings were abruptly interrupted by the distant sound of a wine merchant Daenerys was approaching.
"A taste for the lady? I have a sweet red from Dorne, one taste and you'll name your first child after me," the merchant tempted.
"I'll keep that in mind. I'll try your summer-wine. Just a taste," Daenerys requested with a pleasant smile, her entourage trailing closely behind.
"My Lady, you are from Westeros," the merchant came to a sudden realization.
"You have the honor of addressing Daenerys of the House Targaryen, princess of the Seven Kingdoms," Doreah corrected.
The merchant bowed his head. "Princess," he said.
"Rise. I'd still like to taste that wine," Daenerys commanded.
"That? Dornish swill. Not worthy of a princess," the merchant declared with comedic disdain. "I have a dry red from the Arbor. Nectar of the Gods. Let me give you a cask. Uh… a gift."
Nervously, he retrieved a prized cask from his stash and presented it to Daenerys. "You honor me, Ser."
"The honor… the honor is all mine," replied the merchant, his fervor dampening as Kovarro, a Dothraki Rider, swiftly snatched the cask away. "You know there are many in your homeland that pray for your return, princess."
Daenerys acknowledges, "I hope to repay your kindness someday."
Just then, Ser Jorah Mormont arrived. "Kovarro. Put down that cask," he commanded.
"Is something wrong?" Daenerys asked the knight.
Turning to the wine merchant with a wry smile, Jorah said, "I have a thirst. Open it." The merchant's face goes pale as Kovarro hands the cask of wine to the knight.
"The wine is for the princess. It's not for the likes of you," he protested feebly.
Yet, Jorah was adamant. "Open it."
With a defeated glance at the surrounding Unsullied guards, the merchant obeyed and uncorked the cask. "Pour," Jorah ordered, but the merchant protested again, "It would be a crime to drink a wine this rich without at least giving it time to breathe."
Recognizing Jorah's suspicion, Daenerys ordered, "Do as he says."
Obliging the princess, the merchant filled a goblet and presented it to Jorah. "Sweet, isn't it? Can you smell the fruit, Ser? Taste it, My Lord. Tell me that that is not the finest wine that has ever touched your tongue," he remarked as Jorah examined the contents, taking in its fragrance.
"You first," Jorah suggested, extending the cup.
"Me? I'm afraid I am not worthy of the vintage. Besides, it is a poor wine merchant who would drink up his own wares," he replied nervously.
Daenerys noticed the man's unease and declared, "You will drink." The wine merchant took Jorah's cup, looking them both innocently in the eyes as he raised it in a toast.
But just as his lips touched its rim, he let it fall and attempted to flee. Hurling a wine cask at Kovarro, he jostled him against the Unsullied guards and tried to make a run for it.
He was about to escape when Kovarro, swiftly pulled up to his feet by the Unsullied, used his whip to ensnare the would-be assassin's leg, bringing him down. The guards quickly surrounded the fallen man, restraining him.
A commotion erupted as several Dothraki city-guards arrived to investigate. Kovarro explained the situation to the men and together they would bring the assassin before the council of Khals in the Khalar Vezhven.
Back with Anakin. Upon arriving at the Khalar Vezhven, the grand meeting place of the Khals, he was met by the council. The circular chamber, vast and dimly lit, was filled with the stern faces of the council of Khals. At the center sat Khal Moro, surrounded by his fellow Khals.
The High Priestess stepped forward. "Khal Moro," she began, her tone respectful yet firm, "I bring before you Anakin of the house Targaryen, who claims the legacy of Khal-"
Moro cut her off with a harsh rebuke. "You should have brought him bound," he growled, his eyes narrowing at Anakin. His disdain was palpable. Assuming Anakin did not understand their language, he continued, "Demand the surrender of Khal Drogo's Khalasar. This upstart has no place among us."
The High Priestess turned to Anakin, preparing to relay the demand, but before she could speak, Anakin stepped forward. His violet eyes flashed with defiance and irritation. The Khals' disrespect for the Dosh Khaleen bothered him. Through all his endeavors priestesses' have been his greatest allies.
"Anything you have to say you can say to me," Anakin said, his voice ringing out in fluent Dothraki. The surprise on the faces of the Khals was evident. "Drogo's Khalasar is mine. If you desire it, you must take it, as I took it from him."
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the assembled Khals. Anakin's command of their language and his bold challenge had caught them off guard. Rakharo and Viserys, who had accompanied Anakin, watched anxiously from the sidelines, their eyes never leaving him.
Khal Moro's expression darkened. He stood up, his eyes locked onto Anakin's with a predatory intensity. "You dare challenge us, boy?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can stand against a true Khal?"
Anakin met his gaze without flinching. "I have faced many challenges and emerged victorious," he replied steadily. "I won't stop now. If you want to take what is mine, you will have to prove your strength."
The tension in the chamber was palpable, the air thick with anticipation. Rakharo and Viserys exchanged worried glances, their hearts pounding with fear and hope. The fate of their Khalasar hung in the balance, and the outcome of this confrontation would determine their future.
Anakin, acutely aware of his actions and their consequences, felt the weight of his victory in Volantis. The news of his conquest spread like wildfire, leaving him anxious about the state of Meereen.
He was driven by a ruthless determination to swiftly confront the Khals, forcing them to submit or face annihilation. The ease with which he wielded the Force to take lives began to trouble him, but he rationalized it, viewing the Khals as mere extensions of the slave trade he despised.
Abruptly, Moro's gaze fixed upon Anakin. "King of Meereen. Now I remember you. A year ago some of my men came pissing back from Meereen speaking nonsense of their king who killed them without moving a muscle. And so I cut their heads like the cowards they were. Months later you cross the Grass Sea, killing every Dothrak in sight. Disturbing our way of life," Moro's glare was so intense that Anakin felt like the Khal would rise up any minute and attack him. "I don't know how you convinced Drogo's Khalasar to fight for you, but they will not be leaving with you."
Before Anakin could respond, another voice interrupted. "King of Meereen? The Wise Masters of Yunkai want him. They're offering twelve-thousand horses in exchange," another Khal announced.
A hush fell over the council as whispers filled the air, the Dothraki debating the fate of the Targaryens in their presence.
"Don't you want to know what I think?" Anakin inquired.
"We don't care what you want," retorts Khal Moro. "This is the Khalar Vezhven. You have no voice here."
"Think carefully. My demise would unleash six-thousand Unsullied upon your city," he warned.
"We have over 100,000 riders in the city. Your fate will be what is discussed," asserts Moro.
"And here, now, what matters do the Great Khals discuss?" Anakin mocked. "Which little villages you'll raid, how many girls you'll get to fuck, how many horses you'll demand in tribute. I have done more for my Khalasar than any of you could possibly imagine. You are small men. None of you are fit to lead the Dothraki. But I am. So I will," he declared, eliciting a mocking laughter from the gathered Khals.
His declaration caused a variety of emotions to cross his companions face's. Rakharo and Viserys remained composed, trusting in Anakin's formidable power. Rakharo has attributed his actions in Volantis to sorcery, while Viserys envisioned his nephew as a chosen vessel destined to avenge House Targaryen.
Khal Moro rose abruptly, his rage palpable as he approached Anakin. "You dare, worm? Instead we'll cut your two friends here into pieces and feed them to our horses, before feeding you bit by bit as you're eaten alive. You crazy bastard. Did you really think we would serve you?" he snarled.
As Khal Moro approached Anakin, the hulking Dothraki leader abruptly froze in his tracks. "Kneel," Anakin commanded, unleashing the Force upon Moro, dropping him to his knees.
The gathering Khals gaped in bewilderment, while the Dosh Khaleen High Priestess watched with rapt attention.
Undeterred, Moro attempted to summon his warriors, but his body remained immobile. In a blur of motion, Anakin extended his hand and sent the remaining Khals crashing into the wall with the power of the Force.
"Rakharo, find Ser Jorah and my aunt and bring them here. Viserys, go find and have the Unsullied gather back here," Anakin ordered, maintaining his telekinetic hold on the Khals. "Rakharo, also bring the Khalasar. They'll need to see this," he added.
As the men left with their orders in tow, the High Priestess, observing the display of unstoppable power, recognized the futility of resistance against this apparent sorcerer.
When the room emptied, leaving only her and the subdued Khals, Anakin faced the counsel of Khals with an air of unwavering authority.
"You will submit," he commanded, his voice echoing with undeniable power.
The first to resist was met with swift retribution. With a mere exertion of the Force, Anakin snapped the neck of the first Khal who dared to speak out, instilling a chilling fear in the hearts of the survivors. "I wasn't asking!" he said coldly.
Anakin approached the Dosh Khaleen and allowed the remaining Khals time to reflect, their bodies still pinned down by the Force's relentless grip.
"Everywhere I go," he mused, "Everyone has their prophecies. The Chosen One, Azor Ahai, the Prince who was Promised. Tell me, who is this Dothraki's prophesied savior?"
The High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen met Anakin's gaze with reverence. "A prince is riding," she intoned, "Swift as the wind he rides. His enemies will cower before him… and their wives will weep tears of blood… the stallion who mounts the world."
Anakin listened intently, his interest piqued. The prophecy of the Stallion, he understood, forecasted the arrival of a Khal who would unite all the Dothraki Khalasars and conquer vast lands.
"He will be the Khal of Khals," the priestess continued, "And all the people of the world will be his herd."
Turning his attention back to the defeated Khals, Anakin stood over them, his masked visage concealing the heavy breaths behind it. Moro's frustration fueled his cries as he struggled in vain against the Force's grip.
"Last chance," Anakin proclaimed ominously, offering one final opportunity for submission.
Meanwhile, Viserys stood before Grey-Worm, sharing Anakin's orders to them. Both men understood the significance of Anakin meeting with the Dothraki Khals.
Elsewhere, Daenerys, before she and her company could reach the Khalar Vezhven, Rakharo arrived with urgent news. He approached Ser Jorah, his expression grave and his words hurried. "Anakin has confronted the Khals," he announced.
Daenerys' eyes widened with concern, her thoughts immediately consumed by her nephew's safety. "Is he alright?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry.
Rakharo hesitated, "He challenged them, princess. I do not know the outcome yet."
While Daenerys fretted over Anakin's fate, Jorah's mind raced with the implications of the confrontation. If Anakin had killed the Khals, the Dothraki within the city could erupt in retaliation. The sheer number of them made any thought of escape seem impossible. He had seen Anakin's prowess and sorcery, powers that had awed him, but the sheer number of Dothrakan in the city was a major threat.
Jorah's hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing against the parchment of his royal pardon. The letter felt like a brand against his skin, a constant reminder of his shifting loyalties. He had earned this pardon, yet the reasons behind it now seemed blurred by his burgeoning affection for the Targaryens. Daenerys had woven herself into his heart, her charm and strength compelling him ever closer. It was this affection that had driven him to save her from poisoning and keep her safe.
Now, Ser Jorah faced a crossroads. The decision he had postponed for so long loomed over him with an urgency he could no longer ignore. He looked at Daenerys, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and determination, and felt his resolve waver.
As Rakharo moved to spread word among the Dothraki in the city, Jorah's gaze was drawn to the swelling mass of people converging towards the Khalar Vezhven. The Dothraki warriors were responding to Rakharo's message. The news had resonated far beyond their own Khalasar, drawing in warriors from across the plains.
"Princess," Jorah said quietly, turning to Daenerys. "We must be prepared for what comes next. If Anakin has prevailed, there could be a bloodbath."
Daenerys nodded, her resolve hardening.
As they moved towards the Khalar Vezhven, the tension in the air was palpable. The fate of Anakin, Daenerys, and their entire Khalasar hung in the balance. Ser Jorah steeled himself, ready to face whatever came next, his loyalty edging closer to the Targaryens.
Earlier, back with Anakin. His grip on the Khals was unyielding, his command bolstered by the invisible power of the Force. Under his unwavering control, the once formidable Khals now stood powerless before him. With a mere gesture, he summoned the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen to the center of the chamber.
"Tell them the purpose of the Khalar Vezhven," Anakin commanded, his voice echoing through the grunts and silence.
The High Priestess, her presence serene and authoritative, stepped forward. "The Khalar Vezhven is a sacred gathering," she began, her voice steady. "Here, the Khals deliberate on raiding targets and the subjugation of tribes. However, in recent times, the frequency of these gatherings has waned. Complacency has set in."
Anakin nodded, guessing as much. He turned to the Priestess, his expression resolute. "Gather your followers," he instructed. "They must witness what is about to unfold."
The High Priestess bowed her head in obedience and departed, her clothes rustling softly as she left the chamber. Anakin then turned his attention back to the captive Khals. His gaze was cold and unyielding.
The Khals, bound and subdued, exchanged anxious glances. The High Priestess had earlier highlighted to Anakin the Dothraki tradition of interbreeding and welcoming outsiders into their clan, noting the Lhazareen origins of many Dosh Khaleen. Yet, here they stood, divided and uncertain.
"If you are not with me," Anakin declared, his voice a thunderous command, "Then you're my enemy."
Silence reigned among the Khals, the tension thick and suffocating. Anakin's eyes burned with intensity as he lifted a blazing cauldron. With a swift, decisive motion, he dropped it, igniting the floor beneath them. Flames roared to life, consuming the dry straw and wood, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
Desperation flickered in the eyes of the Khals as the heat intensified. Pleas for mercy echoed through the chamber, their defiance crumbling in the face of impending doom. Anakin, unmoved, released the few who begged for their lives and submitted. They scrambled to safety, their faces marked with relief and terror.
However, defiant ones, including Khal Moro, stood their ground. Their eyes blazed with hatred and pride, unwilling to yield. The flames surged, enveloping them in a fiery embrace. Their screams filled the air.
As the submissive Khals fled the burning room, Anakin remained. He stood amidst the inferno, his gaze never wavered as he watched the demise of those who had dared to oppose him. The flames danced around him, reflecting the fierce resolve in his eyes.
In that moment, Anakin's dominance was absolute. The Khals' hostility had been effortlessly quashed, their power extinguished by the consuming flames. The future of the Dothraki now lay in his hands.
Upon reaching the Dosh Khaleen temple, Daenerys, Ser Jorah, and their group found themselves late to the scene. A throng of Unsullied, Dothraki, and civilians encircled the Khalar Vezhven's burning temple. Spotting her brother alongside Rakharo they approach him.
"What happened?" Daenerys inquired with concern.
Ser Jorah's piercing gaze fell upon three figures suspended in the air, their corpses engulfed in flames. It was the Khals.
The crowd stood silent, their faces etched by the grim sight. Daenerys' gaze lifted to the horrifying spectacle, but for the Dothraki, a different emotion stirred within them.
As Anakin emerged unscathed from the blazing temple, his power on full display, the Dothraki and Unsullied bowed in reverence. The Dosh Khaleen are amongst the crowd gathering to watch the conflagration, and when they see him emerge from the flames unburnt, they bow with the rest.
The scene mirrored the reverence of his Khalasar in Volantis, as the sight of the suspended Khals served as a stark testament to Anakin's indomitable might.
Anakin, with his new Khalasar now behind him, caught up with Daenerys and Jorah near the burning temple after their excursion to the Western Market. The fiery glow of the temple cast a dramatic light on the scene, illuminating the tension and urgency that hung in the air.
Anakin, eager to press forward with his plans to liberate Slaver's Bay, proposed an immediate march to Meereen.
"We should leave soon," he declared, his eyes burning with determination.
Jorah, sensing the haste in Anakin's voice, held up a hand to halt his enthusiasm. "There is something you should know first," he said, his tone serious.
He led them to a carriage guarded by Unsullied. Inside, a man cowered, his face pale with fear. It was the wine merchant who had attempted to poison Daenerys.
Anakin's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, his presence commanding. The merchant whimpered under his chilling glare, reduced to a quivering mess. Reassured that his aunt was unharmed, he turned to Jorah. "Thank you for protecting her," he said, his gratitude sincere. "You will be handsomely rewarded when we reach Meereen."
A question lingered in Ankin's mind however. "Why would the wineseller target Daenerys?" he asked, his voice edged with anger.
Jorah's expression darkened as he revealed the truth. "King Robert Baratheon has placed a bounty on the Targaryens' heads. This man sought to claim that reward."
Anakin's hand instinctively moved toward his sword, ready to deliver swift justice. "Well… time to die." The merchant's eyes widened with terror, but before Anakin could draw his blade, Kovarro and Rakharo intervened.
"Might Khal," Kovarro said, his voice steady but firm, "This man violated the sacred laws of Vaes Dothrak. He must face Dothraki justice."
Rakharo nodded in agreement. "There is a fitting punishment for such a crime."
Jorah explained the sentence, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "The merchant will be tied to a saddle and forced to walk behind the Khalasar. I once saw a man endure this punishment for nine miles while being dragged by a horse."
Anakin, though eager to end the man's life swiftly, respected the judgment of his Dothraki companions. He glanced at Daenerys, who gave him a subtle nod of approval. Turning back to Kovarro and Rakharo, he said, "Very well. Let it be done as you have decreed."
The Dothraki warriors seized the merchant, binding him tightly to a saddle. The man's pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as he was dragged behind the Khalasar, his fate sealed by the harsh justice of the Dothraki.
Unlike Ser Jorah's previous story of this Dothraki punishment, their prisoner who attempted to poison Daenerys succumbed to their injuries approximately one week into their journey.
298 AC - In Lhazar:
Anakin never really conquered Vaes Dothrak. In reality he just burned a building and killed a few Khals, absorbing their followers into his Khalasar.
The city was pretty much run by the Dosh Kahleen, and it remained so after they left the Dothraki homeland.
Now faced with a dilemma, he commanded over 100,000 Dothraki Riders. With the opposing forces of Astapor, Mantary, Tolos, and Qarth seemingly insignificant in comparison, Anakin recognized the Unsullied and Dothraki's overwhelming superiority.
As he led his vast army towards Meereen, where he intended to direct this conflict, they made a brief stop in Lhazar.
Though welcomed by the Lhazareen, who resided in the hill country bordering Slaver's Bay, a flicker of skepticism remained. Their history was marked by the Dothraki's brutal oppression, and were hesitant at the army and its size, despite Anakin's promises.
The Khalasar, led by Anakin, had to cross the Khyzai Pass, a route through the coastal mountains to reach Meereen quickest.
After a grueling month on the road, they finally reached Lhazar and set up camp.
Exhausted, Daenerys prepared to settle in for the night. The sheer volume of her nephew's journey overwhelmed her mind. Wars, dragons, and magic swirled in a dizzying torrent, each event feeling both unreal and exhausting. The fact that she'd missed so much of it, often absent when these momentous occasions unfolded, only amplified the sensation of being hopelessly behind.
As she passed by Anakin's tent, she heard the melodic laughter of a woman. For a fleeting moment, she considered moving along, but the knowledge of Anakin's marriage sparked an instinct to scold within her. The last thing she wanted was her nephew siring bastards.
Pushing aside the tent flaps, she entered to find her handmaiden, Jhiqui, playfully painting Anakin's chest with a dark blue paint.
"Dany. What a surprise," Anakin remarked.
"What… what's going on?" Daenerys inquired, her voice filled with curiosity.
"Merely an introduction to Dothraki customs," Anakin replied dismissively. "What do you think?" he said, indicating a small braid of hair behind his ear, adorned across his right shoulder.
"Awfully small," she commented.
"I didn't want a crown, and I certainly didn't want braids. They're lucky to be getting this much," Anakin jokes.
Jhiqui, who had been attending to him, said, "Yes. Braid is added after each victory; the braid only cut when a Dothraki warrior is defeated in battle, to let the world know his shame. Only few men die with their braids never cut." She completed her work, painting four stripes from Anakin's shoulder to chest. "There. Finished."
He stood and examined the markings. "Now these come off right?" Anakin asked, his hand hovering over the paint.
"Yes… eventually," Jhiqui replied.
"Eventually?" Anakin echoed worriedly, causing Jhiqui to shoot him a mischievous smile before departing the tent. "So, what did you want?" he inquired impatiently, his attempts to wipe off the paint proving futile.
"Are you still planning to ride ahead with the Dothraki?" Daenerys asked.
"Yes. There has been this nagging feeling in the back of my head," Anakin confided. "Worry not, you'll only be a few days behind. There aren't enough horses for the Unsullied, not that it would matter since they don't ride, but still, Jorah will be here for you," he added, sensing his aunt's concern.
"I'm very familiar with your 'feelings', Anakin," Daenerys said with nostalgia. "Remember Link?"
Anakin queried, "The cat?" His memories are hazy.
"Yes, the cat. I was devastated when I thought he ran away, but you said you had a feeling he was still nearby. So you looked all day for him. Until you found him, perched atop the lemon tree," Daenerys recounted the childhood memory of their beloved cat.
"That's impressive," Anakin acknowledged.
"Yes, it was," she affirmed, but Anakin countered, "No, I meant you. That you could remember is… impressive."
"Not so impressive," Danerys attempted to dismiss.
"You underestimate yourself. I wish my memories were so clear," he said.
"You don't remember?" she asked her nephew.
"I remember… a narrow house, red door, the lemon tree… oh, and the maids," he confessed.
"And Ser Willem?" pressed Daenerys, hitting a sensitive chord.
"Of course I remember Ser Willem," Anakin asserted, his voice tight.
"What did he look like?" questions Daenerys, her eyebrow raised.
Anakin stammered, realizing for the first time that he couldn't recall the face of the man he had always viewed as a father.
"It's okay," she said, reaching for his hands.
Anakin recoiled from her comfort and declared, "I remember 'him'. Though I guess the details are lost to me."
"Details… like home," she pointed out.
"What's that got to do with anything?" Anakin inquired, a tinge of frustration creeping into his voice.
"Nothing, I'm just worried for you," whispers Daenerys, her tone laced with hidden meaning.
"Worried?! About 'me'?! What could you possibly be worried about?" he retorted, his incredulity evident.
"You've forgotten where you come from," uttered Daenerys, her voice heavy with accusation.
"I know exactly where I come from," Anakin replied, his words laced with irritation. For the first time since his reunion with his aunt, he found himself inwardly bristling at her assertions.
More than anyone he knew the truth of what happened to his father, mother, and sister. Her words had irritated him, especially because he knew the depths of her ignorance concerning their family. The urge to expose her own father's sinister nature gnawed at him. However, in that moment of contemplation, he resisted the temptation, knowing that revealing such a truth would hurt her.
Silence descended upon them like an unwelcome guest, leaving Anakin at a loss for words. With a curt goodnight, he signaled to Daenerys that he needed space, his expression a clear indication that he wanted her to leave.
That night, Anakin succumbed to a troubled slumber.
In his dream, he found himself imprisoned within a colossal cube. Its impenetrable walls mocked his desperate cries for aid. Suddenly, a sinister voice from within the cube whispered that no one could help him, that he alone must open it. When Anakin asked how, the mysterious voice answered: from the inside.
Awakening abruptly, the ominous voice lingered in his ears, as if the dream had never truly ended. A faint whisper echoed across the room, amidst the slumbering form of his dragon in its pen.
"Did you… speak to me?" he whispered into the darkness.
Though the dragon remained motionless, a sinister voice carried by the wind responded, "Yes. I called to you. Are you trapped in there? How can I let you out?"
He pushed back the covers, the weight of sleep still clinging to him as he crept towards the slumbering infant dragon. Hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the scaled hide. As he touched it, a low, mechanical wheeze, chillingly familiar, cut through the stillness. He spun around, unable to see the figure as he was blinded by a light and engulfed in bluish-purple lightning.
Anakin awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding. A nightmare had dragged him from sleep. He hadn't even had time to process the chilling image when a Dothraki warrior, his arakh gleaming, materialized at the foot of his bed.
The warrior lunged, but Anakin, fueled by adrenaline, instinctively used the Force to summon his sword from across the room. He blocked the attack, his blade clashing against the arakh. Seizing the opportunity, Anakin disarmed the Dothraki, his own hand a blur as he plunged his blade into the warrior's chest. The man crumpled, lifeless.
Anakin's gaze swept to the entrance, where his Unsullied guard lay dead. 'A bloodrider,' he realized, remembering Rakharo's words. The bloodriders' unwavering loyalty to their fallen Khals. It was the price he paid for his take over of their Khalasars.
As the adrenaline receded, leaving him trembling, Anakin found himself grappling with the disturbing dream. It had been so vivid, so real, a stark echo of the one he had before his battle in the fighting pit of Meereen. It was a reminder, a haunting whisper in the darkness, of the price of power and the ever-present threat lurking beneath the surface of his victories.
298 AC - In Meereen:
Five months have passed since King Anakin departed for Pentos, leaving Meereen in the capable hands of his queen, Qezza zo Galare, or rather Qezza Targaryen now.
She had kept him informed of the city's progress via raven, reporting on the successful implementation of his inventions and the ongoing renovations. The construction projects, fueled by Anakin's ideas, had provided much-needed employment for the city's former slaves, accelerating Meereen's economic recovery.
With a force of 4,000 Unsullied (2,000 of which had recently completed their training), commander Drazho maintained a peaceful order within the city walls. For five months, Meereen had thrived, seemingly untouched by any unrest.
But on this day, a ripple of uncertainty disturbed the city's tranquility.
Drazho and Lucas, escorted by a contingent of Unsullied guards, ventured into the bustling heart of Meereen. The courtyard was a vibrant tapestry of activity, a teeming marketplace where people haggled over goods, artisans honed their crafts, and new buildings rose from the ground.
A red priestess, her words carrying a powerful conviction, captivated a large crowd with her fervent sermon. "From the fire he was reborn to remake the world. Anakin is a gift from the Lord of Light to her children. If we are steadfast in our love for the King and his faithful Queen, no man will ever lock us in chains again."
Lucas and Drazho ambled through the bustling courtyard of Meereen, their boots scuffing the cobblestones as they made their way toward the local tavern. The scent of roasted meat and the murmur of conversation drifted through the air, mingling with the warmth of the morning sun.
As they crossed the threshold into the dim, cozy interior of the tavern, they were greeted by the familiar clink of mugs and the hum of chatter. The pair found a corner table, settling in with pints of ale.
"How's my old job treating you?" Lucas taunted, a smirk playing at his lips as he addressed Drazho, the new commander of the City-Watch.
"Much rather have your new one," he replied, lifting his cup in a casual salute and glancing around the tavern. The outside sun cast a bright glow on the rough-hewn wooden beams and the faces of the patrons.
"Well, if it was between this or running back and forth from here to Yunkai every few months, I'd take this any day," Lucas pointed out, his tone tinged with satisfaction. He took a sip of his ale, savoring the peace that Meereen had enjoyed since his tenure as commander.
"The Sons of the Harpy certainly don't cause the trouble they used to," Drazho remarked, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he took a deep draught from his mug.
"Yes… well, now that we're on the topic," Lucas said, his voice shifting to a more serious note, "Ever since His Grace's latest conquest, the remaining slaver-cities have grown desperate. With Volantis out of the picture, the Wise Masters in Astapor have imposed a naval blockade on the Yunkai."
"And you think Mantarys and Tolos would do the same to Meereen?" Drazho inquired, prompting a nod from Lucas. "Even if they did cut us off, the city is more than sufficient enough to run on its own," he added, still wondering why Lucas had come in person.
"His Grace anticipated this would happen. We… prepared," Lucas explained, his eyes locking onto Drazho's with a hint of urgency. "He ought not be far from Meereen by now. Last I wrote to him he was in Vaes Dothrak. I need to speak with the Queen."
With their conversation concluded, the two men rose from their seats, leaving their empty mugs behind as they made their way out of the tavern towards the Great Pyramid.
Venturing into the grand audience chamber of the Great Pyramid, Lucas felt the familiar weight of the grandeur pressing upon him. The vast hall was adorned with intricate mosaics and towering columns, each depicting the King's short history in Meereen.
At the far end of the chamber, elevated on a marble dais, sat the enthroned figure of Qezza. The light from the high windows bathed her in a soft glow, creating a halo effect that added to her regal presence.
Approaching, her form became clearer, revealing a striking transformation since their last encounter.
She was pregnant.