The dawn broke cold and hard over the Dothraki Sea, the grass glistening with dew that clung like silver threads to the hooves of the khalasar. Khal Varek's bloodriders were already awake, their silhouettes sharp against the pale light as they prepared for the day's ride. The fires of the previous night had burned low, leaving behind only smoldering ashes and the scent of charred earth.
Varek sat atop his stallion, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. The village they had razed the day before lay far behind them, a small scar on the endless sea of grass. The spoils—horses, captives, weapons—had been gathered, but the hunger for more was far from sated.
"Jhoran," Varek said, his voice low but carrying over the morning air, "send riders west. Tell the other khalasars that we ride for Vaes Dothrak. The time comes to speak with the elders."
Jhoran nodded without hesitation, already urging his horse forward. The wind caught his braid as he disappeared into the mist like a shadow.
The khal's jaw tightened. Vaes Dothrak was the sacred city, the heart of the Dothraki people, where khals met to make decisions, forge alliances, and test strength. It was where legends were born—or broken.
Varek had never been to Vaes Dothrak himself. He was a khal now, yes, but still young and hungry. The other khals, older and more established, did not take kindly to a rising warlord with a growing khalasar challenging their authority. Still, Varek knew that to grow beyond the sea, to carve a name that would be remembered, he had to face them.
The riders began to circle, assembling into formations as Varek rose from his saddle and stretched his arms. The grass whispered around them, the sound like a thousand voices telling stories of old battles and ancient blood.
"Today," Varek said, his voice rising, "we ride not for mere plunder but for power. The khals gather. The winds shift. It is time to make our mark."
Bloodriders cheered, slapping their thighs and raising weapons to the sky. The sound was a fierce roar, a promise of war.
---
The journey to Vaes Dothrak was not an easy one. The vastness of the Dothraki Sea meant days of riding across open plains, through rocky passes and over rivers that cut the grasslands like silver veins. The khalasar moved like a great shadow, their horses sure-footed and tireless, their warriors alert to every sound.
Along the way, Varek's mind was restless. He thought of the warnings the seeress had whispered—threats not just from swords and blood but from cunning and unseen forces. He had never been one to place much stock in prophecy, but the weight in her eyes had stayed with him.
"Why do you hesitate?" Jhoran asked one evening as they made camp beneath a sky lit with stars. The khal sat by the fire, sharpening his arakh with slow, steady strokes.
Varek paused, looking into the flames. "The grass tells many stories, but not all of them are true. We live by strength, Jhoran. The Dothraki do not bow to shadows."
Jhoran shrugged, tossing a stick into the fire. "True, but sometimes shadows hide wolves."
Varek laughed, a harsh sound. "Then let the wolves come. We will meet them with blood and steel."
That night, sleep came hard. Varek's dreams were filled with thunder—hoofbeats, clashing blades, and a distant voice calling his name. He woke before dawn, heart pounding, but the grasslands were calm beneath the rising sun.
---
As the khalasar approached Vaes Dothrak, the signs of the great city became clear. Massive wooden walls rose like the ribs of some ancient beast, towering high to protect the gathering of tribes within. The air was thick with smoke, the mingled smells of cooking fires, sweat, and horses.
The city was alive with movement—khals and their bloodriders riding through the streets, traders shouting their wares, and the endless procession of warriors preparing for the coming days.
Varek rode through the gates, his khalasar following like a dark tide. The city held an air of reverence and raw power, and Varek felt both a surge of pride and a flicker of caution. This was a place where alliances were tested and broken.
He dismounted near the Great Hall, where khals gathered around massive fires to speak and plot. Varek's bloodriders spread out, their eyes sharp, watching for threats.
From the crowd, a tall khal approached, his face marked with scars and old braids tied with iron beads. His voice was a deep rumble. "Khal Varek, your name rides before you. The grass whispers you seek to claim more than the plains."
Varek met his gaze without flinching. "I seek what is earned by blood and sword. The khalasars grow weak if they fight only shadows."
The older khal laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Strength is not just muscle, young khal. It is cunning, honor, and tradition."
Varek spat on the ground. "Honor is for those too weak to take what they want. I have no use for words when my arakh speaks."
The other khals watched, some with amusement, others with a flicker of respect. The air was thick with tension, but Varek stood firm.
A voice rose from the crowd—a thin, sharp tone belonging to a woman cloaked in furs, her eyes bright with fire. "And what of the east? The lands beyond the sea where stone walls rise and men wear armor? They gather forces, and their hunger grows."
Varek's eyes narrowed. "Let them come. The Dothraki do not cower behind walls."
The woman smiled faintly. "Nor do they take what they want by force alone. The world changes, Khal Varek. You must change with it."
Varek turned his back on her, unwilling to waste words on warnings. His mind, however, churned. The east was a world unlike the grasslands—one of politics, chains of command, and slow-moving power.
---
Days passed as the khals debated, traded insults, and tested one another's strength in displays of horsemanship and battle skill. Varek proved himself without question—his arakh cut through challengers like a hot knife through butter, his riders unmatched in speed and ferocity.
But the real test came when the eldest khal of Vaes Dothrak, a massive man named Khal Zorath, called Varek to meet him privately.
The two men sat across from each other beneath a canopy of woven hides, the heat of the day pressing down on them. Zorath's eyes were like chips of flint.
"You are bold, Khal Varek. The youngest among us, and yet you speak as if the world belongs to you."
Varek met his gaze evenly. "Because it does, if you have the strength to claim it."
Zorath smiled, slow and dangerous. "Strength is more than force. It is patience, strategy, and knowing when to strike."
"I will strike when the moment is mine," Varek replied. "Not when others tell me to."
Zorath studied him, then nodded once. "Good. Perhaps you will bring new fire to the khalasars."
As the sun set behind the wooden walls, Varek rode back to his camp, feeling the weight of new eyes upon him. The path ahead was clear, but not without danger.
The world beyond the sea was waking. And Khal Varek, wild as the storm, would have to decide if he was a mere rider of the grass or the master of the wind itself.