A black torrent surged slowly from the distant horizon.
Tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors, mounted on their mighty warhorses, rode forward in silence to join the vanguard led by Dhaka. They were no longer scattered tribes but neatly organized phalanxes, the sound of armor rubbing together blending into a low, resonant symphony of steel.
Damian Thorne rode calmly at the front of the army, his posture regal, his eyes sharp.
His gaze swept across the battlefield.
More than ten thousand slave soldiers from the Meereen coalition knelt on the ground like stalks of wheat after harvest—densely packed, stretching endlessly into the distance. Their faces carried the same expression: gray, lifeless, and full of fear.
In front of them knelt a dozen Meereenese noble generals who had somehow survived the slaughter. They were stripped of their splendid tokar robes and bronze armor, left in thin linen garments with their hands tied behind their backs. Their faces were pale and trembling, their knees pressed into the blood-soaked earth.
"Great Conqueror! Merciful Dragon King!"
When one noble caught sight of Damian, he burst into tears and wailed, voice cracking with desperation.
"We are willing to offer all our wealth! Please, spare our lives! The Zack family's treasure vault will be opened to you!"
"The Parr family will lead your horses, my lord! We are your most loyal servants!"
One after another, the nobles cried out, voices full of flattery and fear.
Damian did not so much as glance at them.
To him, their wailing was no different from the barking of stray dogs.
His gaze passed over them and rested instead on the tens of thousands of slave soldiers kneeling silently before him.
They were already dead in spirit.
Their eyes were hollow, their breathing faint, as though they might crumble into dust at any moment. They knew their fate. Defeated slaves had only one end—to be bundled up, sold again, and begin a new round of torment until death finally claimed them.
Damian urged his horse forward, slowly passing before the ranks of prisoners.
Behind him, one hundred thousand warriors fell silent as if the world itself held its breath.
Only the cold wind whistled through the mountain pass.
"You," Damian began, his voice calm but carrying easily across the field, "have two choices."
A shiver rippled through the rows of slaves. Some slowly raised their heads; for the first time, faint ripples appeared in their empty eyes.
Ignoring the shocked expressions of the nobles, Damian continued in his even, unfeeling tone.
"First—return to your masters and continue to be slaves."
A dead silence followed.
The slaves exchanged confused, uncertain glances.
Return to their masters? Was this conqueror truly going to let them go?
"Second," Damian's voice grew heavier, striking like a hammer against their hearts, "become my vassal army. Fight for me. In return, I will grant you freedom, wealth, and a dignified future."
The air froze.
Time itself seemed to halt.
For a moment, the slave soldiers thought they had misheard.
Freedom?
Fight for him?
How could men treated as animals—shields and fodder—be deemed worthy to fight beside a Dragon King?
The silence shattered into murmurs.
"What did he say?"
"Fight for him?"
"That's impossible… we're slaves of Gis…"
"You're dreaming."
Their whispers blended into a low buzz of disbelief. They had seen every kind of master—cruel, hypocritical, arrogant—but never one like this.
An old slave soldier with gray hair and a face marked by deep scars struggled forward on his knees. His entire body trembled as he looked up at Damian.
"Great… sir…" His voice was hoarse, dry like sandpaper grinding together. "We… we, the lowly ones… are you truly willing to give us freedom?"
He dared not speak of wealth or a future. He only wanted to confirm that this wasn't a cruel joke.
Damian's eyes fell upon him.
"Fight for me," he said simply, "and you will no longer be slaves."
His tone was calm, factual—no trace of pity.
"Your masters treated you as disposable shields. I will forge you into swords to pierce their hearts."
"Those who survive the war will be free."
"The land and wealth you win through battle will be yours."
Boom.
If the murmurs before were ripples, this was an earthquake.
Freedom.
Land.
Wealth.
Three words, like bolts of thunder, struck deep into the souls of every slave soldier present.
Some had been born in chains and had never once imagined that "freedom" was even an option. Others, once free men, had been captured and broken—but deep within their bones, the hunger for liberty still burned.
Now, hope stood before them—real, tangible, within reach.
"I do! I'm willing to fight for you!"
A young slave soldier was the first to roar. He leapt to his feet, his face flushed with excitement.
Like a spark thrown into oil, his voice ignited the crowd.
"I do!"
"Kaa! I will fight for you!"
"Kill the great masters! Kill them all!"
Hatred and desire that had been buried for years erupted. Tens of thousands of slaves surged forward, shouting and crying, tears streaming down their faces as they knelt and kowtowed toward Damian Thorne.
Their eyes no longer held fear—only awe.
This khal, this Dragon King, had given them new life.
But not all were swept away by passion.
Thousands remained kneeling, motionless, torn by hesitation. Their families were still in Meereen, hostages in the hands of the Great Masters. They dared not risk everything.
Damian watched in silence.
He did not need every man's loyalty—only their choice.
A choice that would split the enemy from within.
His gaze turned at last to the trembling nobles, their faces ashen.
"As for them," Damian said, pointing his whip toward the nobles, "and those who choose to go back…"
His voice turned to ice.
"Strip them of all clothing. Leave nothing behind."
"Let them walk back to Meereen."
The newly sworn soldiers who had been roaring moments ago fell silent for a heartbeat—then burst into wild laughter and cheers.
The nobles, however, collapsed where they knelt. Their bodies shook, and some lost control of their bowels.
"No! Please, Lord Dragon King!"
"We can give you gold—mountains of it!"
"This is humiliation! You can't treat nobles like this!"
"I have Valyrian blood! I can support your rule!"
Dhaka strode forward with a grim smile and seized the hair of the loudest noble.
"Shut up, scum."
He slapped the man across the face with the flat of his arakh.
"Now, Kaa's words are the law."
Under the rough hands of the Dothraki, more than a dozen pampered nobles—and the thousands of slaves who chose loyalty to Meereen—were stripped naked.
Their pale, flabby bodies trembled in the cold morning air.
"Go," Damian commanded coldly.
"Go back and tell your great lords that their army is now mine."
"And tell them this—" his voice rose, carrying across the field, "I will come to Meereen soon. The Valyrian Empire will rise again."
Behind him, tens of thousands of newly sworn soldiers roared with fanatic joy.
Before them, the humiliated procession of nobles and slaves stumbled down the long road home, their shame trailing behind them like a banner.
Each step they took carved Damian Thorne's name deeper into the memory of Meereen.
They would bring back a message—one that would shake the city to its core.
A new conqueror was using the oldest system of oppression to destroy itself from within—turning slaves into soldiers, and fear into faith.
Far down the road, one defeated soldier turned for a final look.
At the foot of the mountain pass, the newly born vassal army was reforming under the watchful eyes of the Dragon's Minions.
Beyond them stood the Dothraki host—disciplined, silent, and black as iron. They looked less like men and more like a forest of steel.
Two armies, different in birth, now moved with one will.
The soldier's last glimmer of hope faded into despair.
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