But in the next instant, a golden ray that symbolized annihilation descended from above, soundlessly.
There was no earth-shaking explosion—only a flash of light that vanished in an instant.
The spot where Ogo Kao had stood, the earth for several yards beneath him, and the last two bloodriders at his side all vanished without a trace, leaving only a circular pit with edges smooth as glass and a bottom glazed like obsidian.
The entire battlefield sank once more into deathly silence.
The dothraki stared blankly as their Khal evaporated along with that patch of ground, their final courage melting like snow under the sun.
No one knew who was first to throw down his arakh, then came a second, a third . . . the clang of falling weapons rang out in chorus. The surviving screamers turned ashen, their eyes full of terror; many muttered prayers to the "Children of the Stars" and the horse-gods they worshipped.
On the wall, Arthur seized the moment and ordered the trumpeter to sound a full counterattack. The gates swung wide; Unsullied phalanxes poured out like a black tide, the Free Folk Legion close behind, beginning to mop up the remnants.
At that instant Viserys' voice, amplified by sorcery, rang clearly across the field. He spoke in Valyrian, yet the will within the words was plain to every thinking creature.
"Cast down your weapons, cut off your braids, kneel and surrender—else this field becomes your grave."
Ghidorah circled overhead, three heads warily sweeping the field, but no further breath of flame was loosed. On the dragon's back, Viserys gazed coldly down at the crumbling Dothraki horde.
Fight had fled their faces, leaving only fear and bewilderment. By ancient dothraki custom, when a Khal dies with no clear successor, the Khalasar dissolves; every warrior must shear off the braid that is his life and honor, becoming a braid-cutter scorned by all dothraki.
Soon some warriors drew daggers and, trembling, sawed at the long braids they had woven with bells and pride. To them, this was a shame deeper than death.
Yet after witnessing their Khal's annihilation, after seeing comrades turned to ash or ice by dragonfire, dread of death—and awe of the god-like being above—overrode fear of ancestral shame.
The dothraki were born light cavalry, swift as wind, peerless riders and archers whose mobility on the plain was unmatched. His New Valyrian Empire would face many foes, and a strong mounted arm was indispensable. These leaderless, desperate Dothraki were the finest of recruits—if overwhelming might and a new order could bind them.
The setting sun cast its last rays across the ravaged field, across the thousands of kneeling screamers shorn of their braids, and across the fresh black-and-scarlet banner on the city wall emblazoned with a three-headed dragon.
Viserys guided Ghidorah to settle slowly upon a cleared space. To be sure his words carried, he again let sorcery lend his voice wings.
"Warriors of the Dothraki."
Every head lifted; every eye regarded the silver-haired king upon the dragon in dread.
"Your Ogo Kao chose to stand against the dragon and has paid the price," Viserys declared, voice ringing with authority. "You are now my captives—but I offer you a new path."
He paused, sweeping his gaze over faces that now showed a flicker of hope.
"Swear fealty to me. The braid you cut away shall no longer mark shame, but the end of your reaving days. Henceforth you shall be the 'Storm-Riders' of the New Valyrian Empire. Fight for me and win glory and gold. Your wives and children shall be sheltered; your valor shall be sung across the world."
"Those who refuse may leave after a term of labor to atone, but set foot within the Empire again and you will be slain on sight."
The choice stood before the grassland horsemen: wander as outcast braid-cutters until death, or bend the knee to this irresistible power, serve the dragon-king, and buy survival—and perhaps a different future.
A long silence held.
A scarred, middle-aged warrior of evident stature stepped slowly from the ranks. He glanced at the terrible pit, then at the mighty dragon and the figure upon its back.
At last he drew a deep breath, dropped to one knee, pressed fist to breast, and said in halting Valyrian, "Ko Moso. I and my riders will swear fealty to the Father of Dragons, to the Valyrian Empire."
Once a leader knelt, more Dothraki followed, pledging their swords. Though struggle and doubt still shadowed many eyes, the instinct to survive and reverence for strength overcame their last stubborn pride.
Viserys inclined his head. He knew taming these proud riders would take time—iron rule, just reward, and the slow grind of custom.
But the first step was taken.
Soon Duke Arthur arrived with a company of Unsullied to greet him.
"Your Grace." Ser Arthur touched his breast. "You arrived in the very hour of need."
Viserys leapt down from the dragon. "What of Meereen's losses?"
"Our dead are fewer than a hundred," Arthur reported. "The dothraki left over two thousand corpses; the wounded are beyond count. Some seven thousand warriors surrendered, with near thirty thousand elders, children, and women. We captured nearly ten thousand horses, though many bolted and are still being gathered."
"Good," Viserys nodded. "These dothraki are horsemen to the bone though they were beaten. Break them up, mix them into new companies, and teach them loyalty. I want a cavalry that belongs wholly to the Empire."
"Understood, Your Grace." Arthur's eyes flashed with comprehension—turning foes into vassals was ever this king's way.
"And the Lhazarene captives?"
"Perhaps two or three thousand; they're in poor shape and being tended. We're settling them now."
"Treat them as Free Folk. Those who wish to stay, grant land and labor. Those who do not, set them to work a while to repay the cost of their healing, then let them go." Viserys paused. "Also, question the spies we took, and speak with Moso. I would know whether Ogo Kao's raid was guided by another blade, or if we were simply unlucky."
"It shall be done."
With orders given, Viserys lifted his gaze to Meereen.
This battle had been less a crisis than a proclamation—to every hidden watcher—of the New Valyrian Empire's might. dothraki blood and bent knees would write the newest line beneath that proclamation.
Moreover, the Empire had gained a promising cavalry and tens of thousands of new souls.
"Come," Viserys said to Arthur, turning toward the gate. "Tomorrow we have much to do."
Night fell at last, quietly cloaking the blood and fire of the day.
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