~XxX~
~A Song for the Reaper~
~XxX~
Silence.
It stretched over the Khalasar like a blade poised to drop, suffocating and absolute. For a long, frozen moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The weight of Ichigo's presence pressed down on them like the hand of an unseen god, merciless and unrelenting. The Dothraki warriors—men who had built their lives on strength, who had never bowed to any force but power itself—stood paralyzed beneath an authority they could not comprehend.
Then came the first sound. A choked gasp, ragged and desperate, as a warrior fell to his knees, his arakh slipping from trembling fingers. Another man collapsed beside him, his chest heaving like he had just run for miles under the blistering sun. The weaker ones had already crumbled, but now even the strong began to falter, their pride warring with the raw, undeniable reality before them.
Yet, not all surrendered. Not yet.
A handful of warriors, those who had fought under Drogo's banner, those who had earned their place through blood and sweat, still stood. Their muscles were taut with defiance, their eyes wild with disbelief and fury. One among them, a man taller than most, his skin marred with scars of countless battles, let out a slow, deliberate breath and tightened his grip on his blade. His knuckles turned white, his nostrils flared.
He would not bow.
Ichigo's gaze met his, steady and unyielding. There was no mockery in his expression, no arrogance—just a promise. A challenge. And in that instant, the warrior made his choice.
With a guttural roar, he lunged.
The spell over the Khalasar shattered. Gasps rang through the air as the warrior charged, his arakh gleaming under the pale light, slicing toward Ichigo's exposed throat with lethal precision.
Ichigo moved.
It was not flashy. Not grand. He sidestepped with effortless grace, his body shifting just enough for the curved blade to whistle past his neck. Before the Dothraki could recover, Ichigo's hand shot out. He caught the man's wrist in an iron grip and twisted.
A sickening crack split the air.
The warrior screamed, his arm bending in a way it was never meant to. His fingers spasmed, his weapon falling uselessly to the ground. Ichigo was already moving. A single step forward, his free hand lashing out in a brutal, open-palmed strike to the man's chest.
The impact was devastating.
The Dothraki warrior was lifted off his feet, his ribs caving under the sheer force of the blow. He crashed onto his back, the air exploding from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. His body twitched, his eyes rolling back before he lay still, unconscious or worse.
For a second, there was silence. Then, enraged cries tore through the night.
Three more warriors rushed him, their fury overriding their fear. One came from the side, swinging his arakh in a deadly arc. Ichigo ducked, the blade slicing the air where his head had been. Before the man could recover, Ichigo surged forward, slamming his elbow into his gut. The warrior doubled over with a strangled grunt, and Ichigo grabbed his hair, driving his knee into his face. Blood splattered as the Dothraki crumpled.
The second attacker was already upon him, thrusting his weapon toward Ichigo's ribs. Ichigo twisted, grabbing the man's wrist mid-strike and pulling him forward, using his own momentum against him. A swift, brutal kick to the back of his knee sent the warrior crashing down. Ichigo's fist came down like a hammer onto his skull, and he slumped forward, unmoving.
The third was the fastest, the smartest. He feinted, darting in low, his arakh aimed at Ichigo's leg. Ichigo barely avoided the cut, pain flaring in his thigh as the tip grazed him. But he did not falter. He caught the warrior's arm, yanked him forward, and slammed his forehead against his nose. The sickening crunch echoed in the stunned silence that followed.
The last warrior staggered, dazed, blood pouring from his shattered nose. Ichigo stepped forward, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him off the ground with one hand. The Dothraki clawed at his grip, eyes bulging in shock. Ichigo held him there, letting the entire Khalasar see, letting them understand.
Then he threw him to the ground, hard. The warrior did not rise.
Silence fell once more.
The warriors who had dared to resist stood motionless, staring at their fallen comrades. Men who had survived countless battles, who had carved their place in the Khalasar with blood and fire, had been felled like children.
By a man with empty hands.
Ichigo exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His body screamed at him, the backlash of using his reiatsu in his human form gnawing at his bones, but he ignored it. There was no room for weakness. Not now.
His gaze swept over the Khalasar, daring any other to step forward. No one did.
And then his eyes found Sarea.
She was still standing, her posture rigid, her face a mask of unreadable emotion. But her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and in the depths of her dark eyes, there was something—something like recognition. Like she was seeing him for the first time, truly seeing him. And it terrified her.
Ichigo wasn't sure what to make of that.
He turned back to the gathered Dothraki, inhaled deeply, and spoke once more.
"This is over." His voice was like stone, cold and final. "There will be no more fighting. No more slaughtering the weak because you don't know what else to do with yourselves." His gaze hardened. "You follow me now. Or you leave. There is no third choice."
The weight of his words settled over them. Some shifted uneasily, others swallowed hard. But no one spoke. No one moved.
Ichigo glanced at Sarea. "Tell them."
She hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, her voice carrying across the stunned Khalasar, repeating his words in their tongue.
The Dothraki listened. And slowly, grudgingly, they began to understand.
Ichigo Kurosaki was their Khal now.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it. His gaze swept over the Khalasar, taking in its full scope for the first time.
There were hundreds of them, thousands, more humans then he had ever seen gathered in one single place—warriors, women, children, slaves. More than he had expected, more than he was prepared for. The remnants of Drogo's horde, scattered and leaderless, but still vast. And just beyond the camp, where the land stretched endlessly into the horizon, countless horses waited, their dark forms shifting under the night sky. The Dothraki did not march—they rode. And with this many horses, this many men, the sheer force of what he now controlled was staggering.
But power was nothing without control. Without purpose.
Ichigo's gaze lowered, scanning the faces of those before him. The terrified, the defiant, the lost. And then, his eyes found the victims.
His jaw clenched. He started walking.
The Dothraki parted before him, fear keeping them rooted in place. He moved toward the woman first, the one who had been yanked from her tent, who had nearly suffered the worst of what these men could offer. She flinched at his approach, her bruised arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Ichigo didn't look at her. His focus was on the men who had taken her.
"You," he said, his voice low, deadly.
They looked at him, their bravado flickering, the memory of what he had just done still fresh in their minds. Ichigo raised a hand, pointing at them.
"You're done."
Ichigo's gaze never wavered from the men before him, the ones who had torn the woman from her tent, the ones who had been ready to take what they wanted simply because they could. He could see the fear in their eyes now, a stark contrast to the arrogance they had worn only moments before.
Good. They should be afraid.
"Sarea," he said, his voice hard as steel. "Translate."
She hesitated only a moment before nodding, stepping closer so that the gathered Dothraki could hear her clearly.
Ichigo folded his arms, his posture unyielding. "You all saw what they were about to do," he said, his voice carrying through the tense silence. "You all heard her scream. And yet no one stopped them."
Sarea's voice carried his words across the crowd, each syllable laced with an edge of her own anger. The Dothraki shifted uneasily, some scowling, others looking away. The slaves and the women, however, watched with something else entirely—something dangerously close to hope.
Ichigo took a step forward, his presence suffocating. "That ends now." His eyes searched out those of every single man he could see. "I won't stand for this. From this moment on, every woman within this camp is free. Here are no slaves, only free people, and if any of you have a problem with that, you can fuck off. I don't need you. I don't want you. Go, but know that the next time we meet, will be your end."
Sarea's breath came shallow as she listened to Ichigo's words, her own voice trembling slightly as she translated. Each sentence felt heavier than the last, sinking into the crowd like stones into deep water. This was not their way. This was not the world she had known since birth. And yet…
Yet she wanted to believe in it.
She could see it in the faces of the women, the slaves—hope. A fragile, flickering thing, barely daring to exist. Some clung to it, their eyes wide, their hands clutching at one another as if afraid this moment would slip through their fingers. Others simply stared, too broken by the past to process the possibility of freedom.
And the warriors? Their reactions were a storm barely contained. Some sneered, bristling with offense. Others frowned in thought, uncertain. But the worst were those who looked at Ichigo with something beyond anger—hatred. Sarea knew that look. It was the look of men who would rather see the world burn than let someone else change it.
But Ichigo didn't falter. He didn't waver. His presence pressed down on them, on her, like an unyielding force of nature. And as she repeated his decree, her voice grew steadier, her words stronger. If he could speak these truths, then so could she. If he could stand against the impossible, then she would not cower.
And then he pointed at the offenders.
"They will serve as an example," Ichigo declared.
Sarea swallowed, her throat dry as she translated. Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The moment hung heavy in the air. The men, once so sure of their dominance, now wavered. But defiance was a stubborn thing, and even as Ichigo stepped forward, the gleam of steel flickered in the firelight.
One of the offenders moved first, reaching for his arakh, his jaw clenched in desperate fury. A final act of defiance against the inevitable.
He never had the chance to swing it.
Ichigo's fist drove into his gut with brutal precision. The impact sent the man folding over, choking on his own breath before crumpling into the dirt. The second man barely had time to react before Ichigo caught his wrist mid-draw. There was a sharp, sickening snap, followed by a scream as the arakh fell uselessly from his broken fingers.
The third tried to run.
He didn't make it two steps before Ichigo was upon him. A single sweep of his leg sent the man sprawling. Ichigo pressed a foot against his chest, pinning him to the ground with ease. The Dothraki gasped, some recoiling, others leaning forward as if drawn by the spectacle of strength.
Ichigo did not speak immediately. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of what he had done settle into their bones. Then, at last, he turned his gaze to the gathered Khalasar, his expression colder than steel.
"There is no place for men like them in my Khalasar," he said, his voice even, without rage, without cruelty—just certainty. "But I will not sully my hands with them either."
Sarea hesitated for only a breath before translating. A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors, confusion mingling with apprehension. The Dothraki were not merciful to the weak, to the broken. What was he planning?
Ichigo's foot lifted from the man's chest, but before the offender could scramble away, he spoke again. "They will not die by my hand. But they will never ride again."
Sarea's stomach twisted. She knew what those words meant, what he intended. Among the Dothraki, a man without a horse was no man at all. Stripped of their mounts, they would be outcasts, exiled, nameless. It was a fate worse than death.
As she translated, the offenders' eyes widened in horror. One of them, the first to fall, let out a ragged, panicked breath. "Khal—please," he gasped, his voice raw with terror.
Ichigo raised a hand, pointing toward the distant horizon, his gaze never wavering from the cowering warrior. "Go. Your horse, your weapon, your women—everything you had here—stays. You? You walk." His voice was cold, final. "Now fuck off."
He turned away, uninterested in whether the man crawled away or begged. He had wasted enough time. His gaze swept over the gathered horde, the weight of his presence pressing down on them.
"Your days of raping and pillaging are over." His tone was steady, like iron—not shouted, not pleaded, simply declared. "You follow me, or you leave. I don't care which." He let the silence settle, his next words like a blade cutting through it.
"But know this." He took a step forward, his presence suffocating. "Those who stay will become the strongest warriors this world has ever seen. More than just killers. More than just parasites leeching off the weak." His eyes burned as they met theirs. "You can rot in the filth you were born into, or you can rise. Be more. The choice is yours."
Ichigo exhaled sharply, stepping back as he reined in his energy. The moment the pressure lifted, a wave of pain lashed through his body like fire licking at his muscles. He winced, rolling his shoulders, but refused to let the strain show. Not now. Not yet.
He turned his gaze toward the young slave woman—the one he had saved. She was still on the ground, clutching at the torn fabric of her clothing, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. He approached slowly, careful not to startle her.
"You," he said, voice softer now but still firm. "Spread my words. Tell the others—those who didn't hear—that they are free. They don't belong to anyone anymore."
The woman flinched at first, but as his words registered, she hesitated, her lips parting slightly. Hope flickered across her face, fragile and uncertain.
Ichigo glanced at Sarea. "Translate."
Sarea stiffened but obeyed. As she stepped forward and knelt beside the girl, her voice lowered, more gentle than it had been when addressing the warriors.
"You are free now," she told her in Dothraki, the words foreign on her tongue, almost unnatural. Slaves were never freed. Not like this. "The Khal commands it. No man owns you anymore."
The girl stared at her, breath quick and shallow, as if waiting for the lie to reveal itself. As if waiting for the moment when the truth would be torn away from her.
Sarea swallowed, watching the way the girl trembled, the way her hands clutched at the dirt beneath her as if grounding herself. She had been like this once—young, powerless, sold to cruel men who never saw her as anything more than property.
She had never been given a choice.
And yet, here was Ichigo Kurosaki, standing before this broken girl, offering her something that Sarea had never been offered.
Freedom.
She clenched her fists as she continued. "Go to the others. Tell them the Khal's words. If they wish to leave, they may. If they wish to stay, they will not be harmed."
The girl's breath hitched, her fingers pressing to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Slowly, she nodded.
Ichigo watched for a moment, then exhaled and turned away. The weight of the moment still clung to the air, the silence thick with disbelief and unspoken fears.
He had done what needed to be done. Now, there was only one place he needed to be.
His sisters.
Without another word, he began walking toward Drogo's tent, his strides steady despite the exhaustion creeping into his bones. The Khalasar parted before him instinctively, some averting their eyes, others staring at him with a mix of fear, awe, and uncertainty.
Sarea remained still, watching him go. Her thoughts tangled in ways she couldn't untangle. This man… this so-called Khal… He was nothing like the others. Nothing like the monsters who had ruled over her, over them. He had power—power beyond anything she had ever seen. And yet, he did not wield it like a tyrant.
She did not know whether that made him foolish… or terrifying.
Just as Ichigo neared the edge of the gathered warriors, just as the tension had begun to settle—
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Instinct roared to life.
Ichigo felt the rush of danger before he saw it, his senses screaming at him to move. He started to turn, but not fast enough. The blade was already there—an arakh swinging down at his back.
Ichigo felt it—the barest touch of a cut, a single line of warmth trailing down his skin. But that was all. The strike should have bitten deep, should have carved into him. It didn't.
Ichigo barely even registered it. His body had reacted on its own, a reflex buried deep in his instincts. But the warrior—he noticed. His face twisted in horror as his weapon failed him.
Ichigo's eyes snapped to him.
There was no hesitation. No restraint.
His hand lashed out, seizing the Dothraki by the throat before he could react. Fingers clenched, crushing flesh and windpipe alike. The warrior gagged, eyes bulging in sheer terror.
Then, Ichigo moved.
With a single, brutal motion, he lifted the man off his feet and slammed him into the ground with a force that shook the earth. Bone cracked. The Dothraki convulsed, mouth opening in a silent scream, but Ichigo didn't stop.
He yanked the man up—like a doll, like something weightless—and drove his fist into his gut. The impact sent a shock-wave through the air, the dull thud of breaking ribs echoing like a drumbeat of finality. The warrior's body folded around the punch before he was hurled back, crashing through a line of flesh, throwing over a dozen warriors who bore witness to the fight.
Silence.
Ichigo exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling, but his face remained impassive.
No one moved.
Sarea felt her breath catch.
It had happened too fast. One moment, the exiled warrior had attacked, and the next, he was nothing. Broken. Shattered.
A warning.
Ichigo turned his gaze back to the gathered horde, his amber eyes burning like embers in the dark.
"If anyone else wants to try," he said, voice low and cold, "do it now."
No one dared.
The horde—the same men who had once lived by blood and savagery, who had never feared anything—bowed their heads. Some out of respect. Some out of sheer terror.
Ichigo rolled his shoulders, ignoring the faint sting in his back. Without another word, without another glance, he turned and walked toward Drogo's tent.
This time, no one even breathed too loud.
~XxX~
The night stretched on, but the chaos that had ruled only hours before was gone—stamped out by a force that none had seen coming. What had once been a living, breathing beast of unchecked violence and anarchy was now something else entirely. Order had not yet settled, but the wildfire of destruction had been smothered beneath the weight of Ichigo's will.
The camp itself sprawled across the vast steppe, a shifting, restless thing of tents and horses, of smoldering fires and lingering fear. Warriors stood in uneasy clusters, whispering in hushed voices, throwing wary glances at one another. Some still gripped their weapons, knuckles white, but they did not act. Others paced, as if restless, searching for something to fight—but finding nothing.
And among them, the slave girl moved.
She was young, barely more than a child, with bruises on her arms and the wide, wary eyes of someone who had spent her life expecting pain. But now, as she moved from tent to tent, from cowering slave to broken survivor, her voice carried something new.
Hope.
At first, the other slaves did not believe her. They listened with blank, hollow faces, staring at her as if she had gone mad. But as she repeated Ichigo's words, as she spoke of the men he had cast out, the warriors he had crushed, something changed.
Tentative. Disbelieving. But there.
Hope was a fragile thing, a flickering ember in the dark. And yet, tonight, it refused to be snuffed out, instead it came to life as the girl moved from tent to tent, from slave to slave, spreading the word of a life free from shackles.
And while none other than those that had seen Ichigo with their own eyes would believe, the girl knew that before long, they would.
Just like her.
~XxX~
The Dothraki did not change easily.
They were warriors, raiders, a people bound by the law of strength. Their world had always been simple—take what you can, kill who you must, follow the strongest. It was the way of things. The way it had always been.
And yet now, for the first time, that truth was uncertain.
Some still clung to what they knew. Their hands twitched toward their arakhs, their teeth bared in frustration. A Khal who did not pillage? A Khal who spoke of honor, of greatness beyond blood and fire? It was madness. They had no words for it. No understanding. And yet, for all their fury, they did not strike. Because deep down, beneath all their rage and confusion, there was something else.
Desire.
The desire for power. For glory. For something greater.
Ichigo had shown them strength. Not just in his words, but in the way he had shattered the man who dared strike him. In the way he had stood, unshaken, as the old order crumbled around him. A warrior like that could not be ignored. Could not be denied.
Among the defeated, the ones who had fought him and lost, that knowledge ran even deeper.
They had felt his power firsthand. Had tasted the dirt beneath his feet, had watched the fire in his eyes as he broke them without hesitation. And yet, despite his overwhelming force, he had not killed them. He had given them a choice.
A chance.
For a Dothraki warrior, there was no greater shame than defeat. But if they swore themselves to him, if they fought by his side, could they regain their honor? Could they be more than what they were?
The thought lingered, unspoken, as the fires burned low.
And across the camp, more than a few warriors found their eyes lingering on the tent Ichigo had vanished into, wondering if perhaps—just perhaps—they were witnessing the rise of something greater than just another Khal.
~XxX~
Rakharo rode with the practiced ease of a man born in the saddle, his arakh resting against his thigh, fingers drumming against the hilt as he approached the outskirts of Khal Haro's camp. The banners of the rival Khalasar fluttered in the wind, their colors stark against the dull browns and golds of the endless sea of grass. His small escort of riders followed close, their presence a show of strength, even if the true force of his six thousand warriors had been left behind in their own camp. This was a meeting, not a battle—at least, not yet.
The Dothraki guarding the entrance to the camp stiffened as they recognized him, hands twitching toward their weapons. Rakharo only smirked. The tensions between Drogo's Khalasar and Haro's had been an ever-present thing, a rivalry not yet settled by blood. Nor would it ever be now that Khal Drogo was no more.
He did not wait for permission to enter, merely riding past them as if the camp already belonged to him. Let them bristle. Let them whisper. He had come with news that would change everything.
The heart of the camp was alive with motion, fires crackling, warriors sharpening blades, women weaving, children darting between tents. It was a sight that should have been identical to his own Khalasar, yet something about it put Rakharo on edge. The air here felt thick, like a storm was brewing just beyond the horizon.
Khal Haro's tent loomed at the center, a grand thing of stretched leather and woven banners, the spoils of war decorating its entrance. Rakharo dismounted with a single fluid motion and strode inside without preamble.
Haro sat upon a pile of thick cushions, an ornately carved drinking horn in one hand, his other resting on the thigh of a woman kneeling beside him. His dark eyes flicked upward as Rakharo entered, mild interest flickering across his face before he took another slow sip of fermented mare's milk.
"Rakharo," Haro mused, tilting his head. "Have you finally come to bend the knee?"
A few men chuckled at the jest. Rakharo did not smile.
"I have come with news," he said, stepping forward. "Khal Drogo is dead."
The air in the tent stilled. The laughter died. Haro's fingers tightened around his drinking horn. "What?"
Rakharo let the silence stretch before he spoke again, savoring the weight of his words. "A man killed him in single combat. Cut him down with one strike."
Now, the murmurs began. Warriors exchanged uncertain glances, whispers slipping between them like snakes in the dark. Drogo had been one of the strongest Khals to ever ride. If he had fallen in fair combat, it meant only one thing—someone stronger had taken his place.
Haro studied him, eyes narrowing. "Who?"
"A foreigner," Rakharo spat, making no effort to hide his disdain. "A stranger with no khalasar of his own, no riders, no name among our people. And yet, he wields strength beyond any man I have seen."
Haro's expression darkened, his fingers tapping against his knee. "And you left this… foreigner alive?"
Rakharo stiffened, his pride flaring hot, but he forced himself to remain measured. "I left to bring word to the true Khals, to those who should decide what is to be done. This man is strong, but he is not Dothraki. He does not deserve what he has taken."
Haro leaned back, exhaling slowly. The weight of the revelation pressed upon him, and Rakharo could see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. Drogo's death had left a void, and in the Dothraki way, voids were meant to be filled. If this foreigner was truly as strong as Rakharo claimed, others would soon rally to him—or seek to test him.
After a long moment, Haro set down his drinking horn and stood. "This cannot go unanswered." His voice carried the weight of a decision. "The Khals must gather."
The gathered warriors shifted, understanding the gravity of his words. Meetings between Khals were rare, and when they happened, blood was often spilled before they ended.
Haro turned to his bloodriders. "Send word. Let the great Khals know that a usurper wears Drogo's braids." His gaze flicked to Rakharo. "If this foreigner is as strong as you claim, we will see soon enough."
The tent burst into motion, men hurrying to saddle horses, messengers riding out into the night. The call had been made.
A storm was coming to the Great Grass Sea, and at its center stood a man who did not yet understand what he had begun.
~XxX~
The news spread like wildfire across Essos. From the vast grasslands of the Dothraki Sea to the bustling cities along the Jade Gates, whispers of Khal Drogo's fall stirred merchants, warlords, and slavers alike. In Pentos, where the wheels of power turned behind closed doors, the message had reached the ears of one particularly influential man.
The scent of spiced wine and roasted lamb drifted through the grand halls of Illyrio Mopatis' manse, carried on a warm summer breeze that stirred the silken curtains draped over open archways. The merchant prince of Pentos reclined on his cushioned divan, clad in robes embroidered with golden thread, his rings flashing in the candlelight as he lifted a goblet to his lips. The walls of his manse, a testament to his wealth, were adorned with tapestries from Qarth and Myr, and statues of marble and jade stood watch over the chamber. Outside, the city of Pentos bustled beneath the light of a waxing moon, its domed palaces and tiled rooftops glimmering in the soft glow of lanterns.
Seated across from him, Viserys Targaryen gripped the stem of his goblet so tightly his knuckles whitened, his violet eyes burning with barely restrained fury. His silver-gold hair, once the pride of a dynasty, was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in unruly strands. He had been pacing moments ago, raging like a storm before Illyrio had coaxed him into taking a seat.
"This is unacceptable," Viserys snarled, slamming his cup down upon the table. The wine within sloshed over the rim, staining the fine wood. "Drogo was mine! He was supposed to be my hammer! And now you tell me he is dead?"
Illyrio sighed, ever patient. He had dealt with the boy's tantrums before. "Word travels swiftly when a Khal falls, my prince. His death will shake the Dothraki, yes, but it need not shake you."
Across the room, Daenerys sat in silence, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was little more than a child, barely fourteen, with silver hair that cascaded over her shoulders and eyes as purple as her brother's. Unlike Viserys, however, she did not seethe. She merely listened, her gaze distant, though the news unsettled her. She had not wanted to marry a savage horse lord, but she had known better than to question her brother's ambitions. And now, the future that had been laid before her was crumbling, piece by piece.
Viserys scoffed, shaking his head. "A waste! All of it, a waste! How am I to reclaim my throne without Drogo's horde? Without his riders? He turned his furious gaze upon Illyrio. "You assured me! You promised that Drogo would lead his warriors to Westeros in my name!"
Illyrio mopped his glistening brow with a perfumed handkerchief and gave Viserys a soothing smile, like a father placating a petulant child. "And he would have. But all is not lost, my dear prince. There will be another Khal. The Dothraki do not mourn their dead; they follow strength. Whoever claims Drogo's khalasar will command fourty thousand riders. It changes nothing. Your sister can wed the new Khal just as easily as she would have wed Drogo."
Viserys stilled, his breath heaving, the fury in his eyes dimming ever so slightly as he considered Illyrio's words. The wheels in his mind turned, sluggish but functional, as greed and desperation overtook his rage. "And you are certain of this?"
"As certain as the sunrise," Illyrio purred. "The horselords will not scatter like frightened sheep. They will look to power. And power is an opportunity, my prince." He spread his hands, his many rings catching the candlelight. "A new Khal, one we can turn to our cause. One who can still give you what was promised."
Viserys licked his lips, nodding to himself. "Yes… yes, perhaps. If they still gather, then I still have my army." He shot a glance toward Daenerys, eyes narrowing. "You will do as you must, sister. This changes nothing."
Daenerys only inclined her head, though her hands tightened in her lap.
Illyrio, ever watchful, noted her tension but dismissed it. The girl would do as she was told. She had no choice. He let the silence stretch for a moment before pouring himself another goblet of wine. "For now, we wait. The Dothraki will not delay in choosing a new leader. My men will keep their ears open, and when the moment is right, we will act."
Viserys exhaled sharply, his temper ebbing, though not fully gone. "You had best hope your spies are worth their coin, Illyrio."
Illyrio merely smiled. "My prince, they always are."
~XxX~
A/N: And that's another chapter done!
I hope you all enjoyed it—I definitely had a blast writing it. With this, Ichigo has officially taken control, and next chapter, we'll dive into the consequences of his actions.
On another note, I'm excited to announce that I've launched a ! If you'd like to support my work (or get early access to new chapters as soon as they're ready), you can check it out at /ragnartherad. Every bit of support means the world!
From now on, I'll be posting once a month, and I'll do my best to stick to that schedule.
A huge thanks for all your feedback on the last chapter—I always appreciate hearing from you! See you soon, and have a great one!