The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea (GOT)

Fear is taught, never inherited. Mothers covering their children's eyes in the face of guns or dead bodies; fear is passed down every time a mother flinches when danger is near. This fear is the same for animals but never for predators. Apex predators—the kings among kings—do not inherit fear. My thoughts drift to every moment I have ever felt fear, and the answer is clear: I never have.

I was raised by a scared teenage girl who never flinched in my presence. Fear was not something she taught me. Yet, as I rode through the towering horse statues that marked the gates of Vaes Dothrak, my bloodriders, their bodies painted black with white markings outlining their extremities, walked with me. There were no weapons in sight, but slaves and women parted like the Red Sea at our approach. Even some of the Dothraki warriors flinched, though a few dared to meet my gaze with a challenge.

We reached the wooden longhouse with its grass roof, where the khals had gathered. Leaving my horse to Kota, I entered with my bloodriders and three of my kos. The midday sky above was clear as I took a deep breath—not from fear, but simply to steady myself. My bone trophies rattled with every step, an audible reminder of the danger I carried. I radiated the aura of a predator.

Inside, the room fell silent as Jogo and Doromon pushed past the beaded curtain that acted as a door. Conversations ceased, and I felt the weight of every eye upon me. The khals sat on mats and pillows around the space, all except one. He sat tall and imposing, with a long braid, copper-toned skin, and a muscular frame. His height surpassed my own but fell short of Doromon's. This was Khal Drogo.

To call him merely a man would have been a lie. He was a predator, like myself. His black almond-shaped eyes gleamed with intelligence, unhidden and sharp. A fighter, surely, but also a strategist. As I met his gaze, I noticed the other khals had given him a wide berth, a sign of respect—or fear. I would do no such thing.

Walking toward him, I forced him to sit straighter. Before I could reach him, two men stepped forward.

"Only khals sit—" one began, but his words were cut short by the cold black hand that gripped his cheek. I locked eyes with him for a moment, his fear evident, before shoving him aside and continuing forward. I took the seat directly beside Drogo, defying the unspoken rule. The room tensed with confusion as my people began to drink and eat, breaking the silence.

Drogo's gaze lingered on me as he picked up his drink and sat back. The challenge was clear; respect would not be given freely. It would be earned—or taken.

An older khal, his age evident in his weathered features, finally broke the tension. "I am Motho. You must be the Undead Khal Rohan," he said.

Acknowledging him with a nod, I replied, "Why undead?"

His smile was a facade as he pressed, "Why do they call you this?"

"I died," I said simply, lifting a bone trinket dangling over my heart, marking the healed wound there. "Death came for me, and I outran it."

Another khal spoke, his voice laced with challenge. "You are the one who killed Zekko and burned the city of Qohor. What is it called now? Vaes Rhaeshisofrak, the City of Swords?"

I met his gaze and nodded. "You are welcome to visit. Perhaps you'll earn a place among the caged," I said, my tone cold, my eyes narrowing. The khal faltered, realizing that to challenge me would be unwise.

Finally, I turned my attention to Drogo. "There is a place for you too," I said, the words striking a nerve. Drogo rose, his height towering over me as he spoke.

"You took what is mine—"

I cut him off. "What belongs to you? If you ride against me, like death, you will lose."

We stood eye to eye, the tension in the room suffocating. My bloodriders scanned for threats, their instincts sharp. Drogo's voice cut through the air like a blade. "This is not the place. We will meet in the Great Grass Sea."

"Meet?" I spat. "The Dothraki have forgotten their way. Where is your honor? Why do those cities still stand? Do you fear walls, Drogo? You all wear the title of khal—Motho, Ogo, Jommo, Morro—but you stink of fear. Worry not. I will take it all for the Great Stallion. All those cities will bear the names of the Dothraki once more. If you are afraid, then meet me on the plains. Khal to khal. I will unite all the Dothraki under my khalasar."

The room erupted with anger, but I ignored it as I sat, radiating authority. Motho, the old khal, looked at me in awe. Ogo, enraged, stood and declared, "You claim yourself unkillable. Then meet me on the field, khal to khal, as you say."

I rose, my bloodriders following me. Mounting Dullahan, my steed's powerful strides carried me swiftly back to camp. Maria stood waiting at my tent with a castle-forged arakh and a tiger skull headpiece. I took the arakh, ignoring the headpiece. "Not this time," I said.

As I turned, a white-haired girl approached, carrying a long sword almost as large as she was. She waddled awkwardly under its weight, but her determination was unmistakable. Reaching me, she held it out, her small hands trembling slightly.

"I had this made," she said, her voice shy but proud.

I took the sword from her, unsheathing it to inspect the craftsmanship. Its pommel bore the shape of a horse's head, and the blade gleamed in the sunlight, sharp and well-balanced.

"We will test the sharpness of your gift," I said in her tongue, nodding once in acknowledgment. Then I turned Dullahan around and rode toward the opening between Ogo's and Motho's camps, where the challenge would take place.

The crowd had already gathered by the time I arrived. The other khals sat at a distance, watching the proceedings with guarded interest. Ogo waited in the center of the circle, his pale bronze skin glinting under the sun. He held a spear in one hand, a dagger strapped to his waist, and a scowl of pure defiance on his face.

Leaping off Dullahan, I strode into the circle, both my arakh and the gifted long sword drawn. I pointed the long sword toward the assembled khals.

"When you die, your khalasar becomes mine," I said, my voice steady and commanding. "And if I see one of his slaves, one of his women, or even one of his horses in your camps, you will rust on my blade."

Ogo spat in my direction, his disdain palpable. Without a word, he leapt off his mount and readied his spear. We began circling one another, the crowd silent, holding its collective breath.

Ogo made the first move, thrusting his spear low, aiming for my foot. I stepped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, and charged forward. He countered swiftly, using the spear's point to keep me at bay. I attempted to hook the spear with my arakh, forcing him to pull back, but he moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

He thrust again, and I swung my arakh vertically, deflecting the spearhead into the air. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged with the long sword, but Ogo sidestepped, my blade catching only air. Anticipating his next move, I brought my arakh down hard, catching the spear's shaft and dragging it to the ground. Ogo made the fatal mistake of holding on.

With a swift thrust of the long sword, I struck his chest. The blade pierced only shallowly, but the shock widened his eyes. He stumbled back, dropping the spear to reach for his dagger. I pressed forward, smelling his fear like blood in the air.

Ogo was fast, but fear had slowed his reflexes. I swung my arakh from above, aiming to end him, but he managed to block it with his dagger. The clash of steel echoed across the plains. Without pause, I thrust the long sword into his stomach. This time, the blade sank deep. He coughed, blood spilling from his lips, as he stumbled back and collapsed.

I approached his fallen form slowly, savoring the moment. His terrified eyes met mine as he choked on his final breaths.

"You will join my horde," I murmured, my voice low and unyielding. Then, with a decisive swing of my arakh, I severed his head from his body.

The crowd erupted into chaos as my bloodriders clashed with Ogo's, the sound of steel and cries filling the air. It was over quickly; my riders were victorious, their skill unmatched. Ogo's bloodriders fell where they stood, their loyalty dying with their khal.

Turning to Ogo's kos, I pointed my arakh at them. "Join my camp, or die," I commanded.

They hesitated, glancing at one another before bowing in submission. Without a word, they turned and left to rally their people.

I stood tall, blood dripping from my blades as I faced the remaining khals. "Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—no. No more scraps. Vaes Chakwo, Vaes Orvik, and Vaes Vezhof. March with me. Take the cities for the Dothraki. We will rule as khals of old, one nation, one horde. If you refuse, I will take you on today."

The khals exchanged wary glances. Motho, the eldest among them, stepped forward, his weathered face unreadable.

"You have my arakh and the support of my khalasar," he said, his voice steady but resigned. "I am old, and a city would make for an honorable gift to the Great Stallion."

He moved closer, standing a few steps away as Jogo approached my side, carrying three decapitated heads by their braids. He lifted Ogo's head high and called for his horse. This custom was strange to the other Dothraki, but for my khalasar, it was a matter of tradition.

As the other khals glared in silence, I spoke once more. "We will meet again in the Great Grass Sea. Learn to sleep during the day, for the night will bring you no peace."

I turned, mounting Dullahan once more. The sun gleamed off my blades as I rode back to camp, leaving the remaining khals to decide their fates. I had no doubt: the Dothraki would follow strength, and I had shown them what strength looked like.