A torrent of a hundred thousand cavalry thundered across the grasslands of Essos.
This was not a chaotic raid of wild horsemen — this was a legion.
Behind every squad trailed supply wagons laden with armor that gleamed like cold fire under the sun. The Dothraki were no longer a disorganized horde; they rode in tight, disciplined formations, silent and deadly as blades.
Uniform rations.
Fanatic faith in the Horse God's prophecy.
Strict scouts, precise routes.
The wind across the grasslands carried the scent of iron and rust.
High above, a massive black dragon cut through the clouds, its wings spanning the horizon. Its vast shadow rolled over the plains below like the hand of a god. The dragon's eyes, glacial and ancient, surveyed the endless sea of riders — his flock, his soldiers, his wrath.
Its master, Damian Thorne, had forged them into more than horsemen.
He had forged an army.
And his will was the only law that moved them forward.
---
The wind of war reached Meereen like a breath of sulfur.
Inside the towering Great Pyramid, a grand banquet was underway. The golden chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off crystal goblets, silks, and gemstones.
The Great Lords of Meereen — heirs of the Harpy, masters of the painted city, rulers of the richest slave empire in the world — reclined on silk cushions as dancers twirled before them, their bronze bells chiming in rhythm with the beat of drums.
They had heard whispers of the changes in the Dothraki Sea.
Of a new khal, a man claiming to descend from Valyria, who had united more than a hundred thousand horsemen.
But to them, it was little more than gossip — a curiosity to fill the lull between wine and song.
"Just a new savage leading old savages," sneered Zach Zo Glaz, the richest of them all. His heavy fingers, glittering with rings, tapped against his goblet lazily. "They didn't dare touch Meereen before, and they won't now. The Dothraki are dogs — throw them a bone of gold and a few women, and they'll scurry back to their grass."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Another lord, his beard trimmed into a purple trident, raised his glass mockingly. "I heard this new khal burned Astapor's armies. But that only proves Astapor's lords were fools. We, the masters of Meereen, are not so easily frightened."
"Yes! We have wisdom," another echoed smugly.
"And wealth enough to buy gods themselves."
They were not ignorant — they knew of Damian Thorne's rise, the dragon that darkened the skies, the unification of the grasslands — but arrogance blinded them.
To the Great Lords, every threat had a price.
If the Dothraki were greedy, gold could tame them.
If the Dragon King was powerful, then perhaps a higher mountain of gold, and prettier slaves, could buy his loyalty.
They had forgotten the oldest truth of Valyria:
Dragons cannot be bought.
---
"The Pal family's forces should be guarding Kaiser Pass by now," Zach said, turning toward a dour-looking noble.
Old Pal, patriarch of the Pal family, put down his cup, his voice edged with irritation. "Lord Zach, the Kaiser Pass is steep and narrow. Gathering the coalition forces takes time. Some families… hesitate to commit their men and coin."
His gaze slid coldly across the room.
"Oh?" A young noble with sharp features let out an exaggerated laugh. "And you expect us — those paying the gold — to spill our own blood? Guarding the Pass was your family's idea, Old Pal. That was the price for your exemption this year. Don't whine when the cost comes due."
The hall erupted in laughter again, cruel and mocking.
Old Pal's face flushed red, but he swallowed his anger, forcing down a mouthful of bitter wine.
The stench of arrogance and intrigue thickened the air. The Great Lords, bloated on wine and self-importance, mistook their wealth for invincibility.
At last, after much preening and debate, they reached their "wise" decisions.
First: Diplomacy.
They would send an eloquent envoy bearing thirteen wagons of gold, silver, and jewels, and five hundred of the most beautiful slaves, as a "gift" — to persuade this new khal to leave Meereen in peace.
Second: Military.
They hired several mercenary companies, including the "Second Sons," though they offered them laughably low pay — more insult than contract. To the Great Lords, mercenaries were nothing but ornaments, to make their defenses look impressive.
Their true faith lay in Meereen's slave army.
Tens of thousands of slave soldiers were marshaled upon the walls. Officers in polished bronze armor strutted before them, shouting hollow speeches about the glory of Old Ghis and the unbroken might of Meereen.
Everything looked splendid — and utterly false.
Satisfied, the Great Lords returned to their feast. To them, this looming war was merely another tale to boast about between sips of wine.
---
Outside Kaiser Pass, the Meereenese envoy rode across the steppe.
The messenger's name was Shiraz — proud, perfumed, and dressed in silk. He led a long caravan of wagons heavy with gold and trembling slaves.
He considered the job beneath him — merely a matter of tossing treasure before barbarians until they bowed. The only real challenge, he thought smugly, was staying polite long enough to deliver the "gift."
Soon, his procession encountered a patrol of Dothraki horsemen.
But these were not the half-naked riders he imagined.
They were clad in black iron armor, faces expressionless, eyes cold as winter steel.
The leader — Dhaka, commander of Damian Thorne's scouts — reined his horse before him. His gaze swept over Shiraz, then the wagons.
"I am an envoy of the Great Lords of Meereen," Shiraz began loudly, his voice trembling slightly. "I come bearing generous gifts for your… khal."
Dhaka said nothing.
With a small gesture, his men moved — silent, efficient. They seized the wagons, counted the treasure, and herded the slaves aside like cattle. The precision of their movements sent chills down Shiraz's spine.
"What—what is the meaning of this?" he stammered, his voice rising. "This is an outrage! These gifts are for your master, not for—"
Dhaka rode closer, his shadow falling across Shiraz. He leaned down, his words low and sharp as a blade.
"The Khal said," he murmured, "this is Meereen's first tax."
Shiraz froze.
"Tax?" he repeated, eyes wide with disbelief.
Dhaka's lips curled faintly. "He will come for the rest himself."
Before Shiraz could react, two knights yanked him from his horse. They tore off his fine robes, leaving him half-naked in the cold wind.
"Take that message home," Dhaka said flatly. Then, without another glance, he turned and rode off — his men following, their loot gleaming in the sun.
Shiraz lay trembling in the dust, humiliation burning hotter than fear. Somehow, he mounted the single horse they had left him and fled back toward Meereen.
---
By the time he stumbled naked into the Great Pyramid, the Great Lords were deep in their cups again. His sudden appearance — pale, bruised, and shaking — silenced the hall.
"What is this farce?" Zach roared, slamming down his goblet.
Shiraz fell to his knees, choking on shame and terror. "They—they took everything! The gold, the jewels, the slaves! They said—" his voice broke, "they said it was taxes… and that their khal will come for the rest himself!"
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the room exploded.
"Insult!"
"Barbarian arrogance!"
"This means war!"
Zach's massive body quivered with rage, his face purple. "War it shall be! We'll make the grass drink their blood!"
But before his shouting could swell into action, a second messenger burst into the hall — breathless, wild-eyed, and pale as death.
"Great Lords," he gasped, collapsing to his knees, "something terrible—terrible has happened!"
The music stopped.
The dancers froze.
All eyes turned to him.
He struggled to speak. "Kaiser… Kaiser Pass… it's gone!"
The words hit like thunder.
Old Pal shot to his feet, grabbing the man by the collar. "What do you mean 'gone'? Where are the fifteen thousand coalition troops? The defenders of the Pass?"
The messenger shook violently, his voice cracking.
"There—there were no fifteen thousand, my lord… The coalition… never arrived."
He sobbed. "Only our two hundred Pal guards and five thousand slave soldiers were there…"
He looked up, eyes wide with despair.
"A black dragon fell from the sky… and everything—everything burned."
---
The hall went utterly silent.
Even the torches seemed to flicker in fear.
Zach's mouth opened, but no words came. The air reeked of spilled wine, sweat, and terror. For the first time in a hundred years, the Great Lords of Meereen — those who called themselves the heirs of Old Ghis — felt what it meant to tremble.
Far away, beyond the Pass, the black dragon roared.
Its cry rolled over the plains like the voice of doom.
And in its shadow, Damian Thorne, the Dragon King, rode at the head of his army — eyes fixed on the golden city of Meereen.
---