The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea (GOT)

Slavery in this world is peculiar. The women in my tent are trained for only one purpose: to serve men, a fact that defines their entire existence. One of the merchants in my tent happens to be a slaver. You'd think someone who deals in flesh would be more willing to suffer the consequences of their own trade. The twins were toying with him until Kota arrived and, without hesitation, gutted the man. There must be a story behind Kota's disdain, but it isn't my place to ask.

The Dothraki are simple people—violent, crass, and driven. They follow those who display greater violence and motivation. Kota, though only half-Dothraki, exhibits a capacity for brutality that even they admire. The man I freed upon entering this new tent has already gained the twins' favor. They armed him and gave him a horse. Apparently, he was a pit fighter. A giant of a man, he now sits behind me, silent and watchful, much like Jogo. Both seem to lack clear purpose for now.

A blonde-haired girl fed me some fruit, her eyes devoid of life. Many would see these empty eyes as a sign of brokenness, but to me, they're all too familiar. In my old world, I raised many children with dead eyes—alive in body but absent in spirit. I closed my eyes, momentarily lost in thought.

The flaps of my tent opened, and I saw her—Maria. Beside her stood my sister, cradling a baby.

"My Khal," Maria said, bowing her head.

I shifted and motioned to the woman whose lap I was resting on. "Move," I said, then gestured to Maria. "Take your place."

Maria hesitated briefly but obeyed, sitting where the girl had been. I rested my head on her lap and turned to my sister.

"Have you named him yet?" I asked, nodding toward the child in her arms.

She glanced at the baby before replying, "Yes. His name is Rokar."

"A good name," I said. "And yours? What is it?"

She looked confused for a moment. "Mine?"

"Dying makes one forget," I said, closing one eye. "Remind me."

"Zora Sunak," she answered softly.

"Good name," I murmured, leaning back.

Doromon, a towering figure, entered the tent. He greeted me with a bow. "Blood of my blood, my Khal."

I flicked my wrist dismissively. "Will you stay in my tent, sister, or do you need your own?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded. My tent, though lively, had unspoken rules. There was drinking and talking, but no fighting or other debauchery. Perhaps it was out of respect—or fear. My appearance alone was unsettling: a gaunt face, sunken eyes, and my macabre decorations, including Phiro's skull displayed prominently. These were more than just trophies; they were tools to unnerve.

The flaps opened again, this time revealing Mirri Maz Duur. My eyes snapped open, unease gripping me.

"My Khal," she began, but I cut her off.

"I do not forget. Speak."

She hesitated, then continued. "I have seen a horde of bones that ride with you. I am what many call a witch, and I have foreseen your Khalasar's rise. But another Khal rises as well—one just as strong. Only one of you will remain, and the one who does will have the Mother of Dragons as their Khalesee."

I rested my head on my palm. "Speak plainly, woman. Do you see me losing?"

"No," she said firmly. "But to ensure your victory, you must ride to Pentos."

Maria stroked my cheek, her voice steady. "Khal Drogo rides near Meereen. He is said to be the strongest rising Khal."

I turned back to Mirri. "This Mother of Dragons—how would she make me the strongest?"

She replied, "There are many prophecies in this world: Azor Ahai for the red priests, the Stallion Who Mounts the World for the Dothraki. Blood speaks in all of them. The Mother of Dragons carries the blood of the dragon. Ride to Pentos, and you will see."

I took a deep breath, my mind racing. "Is it possible?" I asked, glancing at Maria, my sister, and my blood riders.

Kota stood and addressed the group. "From here, we can reach Vaes Dothrak in two days. From there, we ride west, raiding as we go. We'll reach Pentos within a moon's turn."

One of the merchants interjected, "Your blood rider is correct, Khal. But there are many Khalasars along the way—some larger than your own."

"It matters not," I said coldly. "We will recruit as we ride. We'll take what we need. And if this so-called Mother of Dragons is worth anything, we will claim her too."

I turned to Mirri, my voice sharp. "If you can divine so much, do it again. Remember this: I am not your friend, nor am I your enemy—for now. Should you try to use me, I will drag you across these lands. I hear old people do not fear death. Let us test that."

Mirri met my gaze but said nothing. I looked to my riders. "Doromon, you will ride with us. Braga, you will stay behind with my sister and the caravans. Take 100 riders and guard what is mine. The rest of you, prepare. We ride in the morning."

I leaned back onto Maria's lap, closing my eyes.

House in Pentos

Two young children, barely in their teens, scrambled in a frenzy, shoving clothes and trinkets into sacks. These were the last remnants of the Targaryen dynasty—the exiled prince Viserys and his little sister Daenerys.

"Quickly! We have to leave—take what you can, and hurry!" Viserys barked, his voice sharp with panic. He was overwhelmed, a boy burdened with responsibilities far beyond his years. They had just lost the last person who had protected them, and now their lives hung by a thread. Their enemies were closing in, and time was running out.

By a stroke of fortune—or so it seemed—Viserys had managed to secure passage on a caravan bound for Norvos. A cheese merchant, out of pity or perhaps some hidden agenda, had warned them of the danger and helped arrange their escape. The prince clung to this fragile lifeline with all the desperation of a drowning man.

Despite his ambition, Viserys was an angry, petulant child whose resolve wavered at every turn. Daenerys, only nine years old, could barely understand the gravity of their situation. She still looked up to her brother as a figure of strength, even when he lashed out at her in frustration. She blamed herself for his outbursts, unable to see the cracks in the pillar she so desperately leaned on.

The journey to Norvos would take days, but they traveled under the guise of merchants. Their companion—a trader with ambitions of his own—spoke often of the Dothraki, nomadic horse lords whose vast hordes could crush armies and bring cities to heel. He mentioned two Khals in particular: Khal Drogo, the mightiest of their kind, and Khal Rohan Sunak, a man whose horde was shrouded in dark legend.

"Khal Drogo commands ten thousand horsemen," the merchant explained, his voice thick with awe. "But Khal Rohan leads the undead horde which is also around ten thousand riders. They say his riders are unstoppable, and his enemies see death itself when they face him. Both Khals are undefeated in single combat, and both are feared wherever they ride. When they clash, the victor will command an army unrivaled in all the world."

Viserys's eyes gleamed as he listened. To him, the idea of twenty thousand cavalry was irresistible—a weapon to reclaim the Iron Throne. The prince's mind soared with visions of conquest and glory. He spoke endlessly of alliances, of reclaiming what was rightfully theirs, his head lost in the clouds.

Daenerys, however, felt only unease. She could not fathom why they would seek aid from these so-called savages. The tales of the Dothraki chilled her. Armies falling, cities burning, women taken—it sounded like a nightmare. Still, she kept these fears to herself. What choice did she have? At her age, practical thoughts were all she could muster: survival, safety, and the dim hope of a future free from fear.

As the caravan rumbled onward, Daenerys stole a glance at her brother. He stood tall, chest puffed out as though already a king. But she saw the cracks beneath his mask—the anger, the uncertainty, the weakness. She said nothing, though. For now, he was all she had.

The horizon stretched endlessly before them, and somewhere in the distance, the paths of two great Khals loomed, ready to collide. Whether it would bring salvation or destruction, neither of the Targaryen children could yet know.