Ser Jorah Mormont - Two Months Prior
---
The letter from Varys had arrived on a Tuesday, carried by a merchant who claimed to be selling spices but whose eyes held the calculating gleam of a man who traded in more dangerous commodities.
Jorah had been drinking in a Pentos tavern when the merchant found him—not drunk, never drunk, but nursing a cup of wine that helped dull the constant ache of exile. The letter bore no seal, no signature, nothing that could identify its sender. But the handwriting was unmistakable to anyone who'd spent time navigating King's Landing's treacherous political waters.
Ser Jorah, the letter began, I hope this missive finds you in reasonable health, if not spirits. I write regarding an opportunity that may interest a man of your particular circumstances—one that could see your honor restored and your exile ended.
The last scions of House Targaryen have surfaced in Pentos. Viserys, the Mad King's son, styles himself king-in-waiting and has sold his sister Daenerys to a Dothraki khal in exchange for an army he'll never actually receive. I require someone to observe their movements and report on any schemes that might threaten King Robert's peace.
In exchange for this service, I can offer you something beyond gold: a royal pardon, signed and sealed, waiting for the day when your information proves useful enough to warrant its delivery.
Think carefully before you refuse. Men in your position rarely receive second chances.
Jorah had thought carefully. He'd thought about Bear Island, the home he'd lost when he sold poachers into slavery to fund his wife's extravagant tastes. Thought about his father, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had publicly disowned him. Thought about the execution that awaited him if he ever set foot in Westeros again.
And then he'd written back accepting Varys's offer.
---
Finding the Targaryens had been simple enough. Viserys was not a subtle man—he announced his presence in every city he visited, demanding the respect and deference that he believed his blood entitled him to. Daenerys was harder to read, a quiet silver-haired girl who flinched at sudden movements and rarely spoke above a whisper.
Jorah had planned to attach himself to their household gradually, earning trust over months until he was positioned to report on their every scheme. The plan was sound, methodical, exactly the kind of long-term intelligence operation that Varys preferred.
Then everything changed.
The dragon appeared.
Not the metaphorical dragons of Targaryen ambition—a real dragon, crimson-scaled and massive, intelligent beyond anything Jorah had imagined possible. The creature had somehow bonded with Daenerys, and in a matter of weeks, the frightened girl had transformed into something that made Jorah's blood run cold.
He'd watched from a distance as she killed her own brother. He'd watched as the khalasar's leadership changed hands—not through assassination or coup, but through a direct challenge that the dragon won without apparent effort. He'd watched as warriors began transforming into something that wasn't quite human anymore.
And he'd watched as his carefully planned intelligence operation became hopelessly obsolete.
By the time he finally approached to offer his services, the Zaldri-Rhaes had already destroyed two rival khalasars and was building a reputation that spread across Essos like wildfire. His reports to Varys had grown increasingly frantic, filled with observations that he suspected the spymaster didn't believe.
They're not just a khalasar anymore, he'd written in his last message. They're something new—something that Westeros has never seen and isn't prepared for. If King Robert wants to deal with this threat, he needs to understand that conventional approaches won't work.
He hadn't received a response. Either Varys was biding his time, or the Spider had decided that Jorah's usefulness was at an end.
Either way, it didn't matter. Jorah had made his choice when he'd knelt before Daenerys Targaryen and offered his sword. Whatever came next, he was committed.
---
Present Day - The Zaldri-Rhaes Camp
---
Three weeks with the Zaldri-Rhaes had taught Jorah more about the nature of power than his entire previous life.
He sat at the edge of the training grounds, ostensibly maintaining his equipment but actually observing the activities around him with careful attention.
The Dragonborn were everywhere.
That was what they called themselves—the warriors who had accepted the dragon's transformation. Jorah could identify them easily now: the bronze or copper scales that covered their arms and necks, the elongated features that made their faces look subtly inhuman, the way they moved with a grace that no ordinary man could match. They wore armor—proper armor, not the bare-chested bravado that traditional Dothraki favored—and carried weapons that ranged from the curved arakhs of their heritage to spears, crossbows, and longswords that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Westerosi army.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The rhythmic sound of training weapons drew his attention to a sparring match between two Dragonborn. They moved faster than Jorah could follow at times—their enhanced bodies allowing them to execute combinations that would have been impossible for normal men. One of them breathed fire during a clinch, a short burst that forced his opponent to disengage or be burned.
Fire-breathing. Jorah still couldn't quite believe it, even after seeing it dozens of times.
"You're staring again, Westerosi."
The voice came from behind him, and Jorah turned to find one of the senior Dragonborn—a scarred warrior named Haggo who had been one of Drogo's original bloodriders—watching him with golden eyes that held neither trust nor hostility.
"I'm trying to learn," Jorah replied in passable Dothraki. "Your techniques are unlike anything I've seen before, and I'd be a fool not to study them while I have the opportunity."
"Study all you want. Understanding is another matter." Haggo's scaled features twisted into something that might have been amusement. "We are not what you were expecting, are we? You came here looking for barbarians with swords, and instead you found—" He gestured broadly at the organized camp around them. "—this."
"I came here to serve," Jorah said carefully. "I've served worse causes for worse masters. At least your khaleesi seems to have a vision worth following."
"She does. And the dragon has given us the means to achieve it." Haggo's voice carried a note of genuine reverence. "Before Angelus came, we were raiders—taking what we wanted, moving on, never building anything that lasted. Now we're becoming something else. Something greater."
FWOOSH!
The distinctive sound of dragonfire drew both their attentions to the sky, where a massive crimson shape was circling the camp's perimeter. Angelus—the dragon who had started all of this—banking lazily on thermals while conducting a patrol flight.
Even after three weeks, the sight of her made his breath catch. She was enormous—easily larger than any creature Jorah had ever seen, her wingspan casting shadows that could swallow entire buildings. The stories he'd heard in Pentos hadn't done her justice. They'd described a dragon, but Angelus was something more: an ancient intelligence wearing a form of terrifying beauty.
And she could talk.
That was the detail that had shocked him most when he'd finally heard her speak—not in the guttural roars of a beast, but in actual words delivered through what he assumed was some kind of telepathic projection. She spoke Dothraki, Common Tongue, and what he suspected was High Valyrian, switching between languages with casual ease.
She's older than the kingdoms I served, he'd realized during one of her public addresses. Older than the Targaryens. Possibly older than Valyria itself.
---
The training grounds fell quiet as a familiar figure approached.
Daenerys Targaryen—Daenerys Stormborn, the Zaldri-Rhaes called her, along with a dozen other titles that grew more elaborate each week—walked through the camp with powerful steps. She was nothing like the girl Jorah had first observed in Pentos, the timid creature who had flinched at her brother's raised voice.
Now she moved like a predator.
Her appearance had changed dramatically since those early days. The silver-white hair remained, but her eyes had shifted—the purple of House Targaryen transformed into something with vertical slits that caught the light like a cat's. Her ears had elongated into elegant points that swept back toward her temples. And when she smiled—which she did now, responding to a greeting from one of her warriors—Jorah could see the glint of elongated canines that hadn't been there before.
She was also covered in scales.
Not completely—not like the Dragonborn who had undergone the full transformation—but patches of iridescent scales had spread across her cheekbones, along her jawline, down her neck and disappearing beneath her dark armor. Her hands ended in nails that were more accurately described as claws, sharp enough to serve as weapons in their own right.
Jorah watched as she passed his position, her slitted eyes meeting his briefly before moving on. The look held neither trust nor suspicion—just the cool assessment of someone cataloging a potential asset or threat.
Then her attention shifted, and her entire demeanor changed.
Angelus had landed at the edge of the training grounds, her massive form settling with surprising grace. Daenerys's face lit up with genuine warmth, and she walked toward the dragon with the eager step of someone approaching a beloved partner.
What happened next still made Jorah's mind reel, even though he'd witnessed it several times now.
Daenerys reached up to touch Angelus's snout, her clawed fingers trailing along crimson scales in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy. The dragon lowered her great head, and Daenerys pressed a kiss to the scaled surface with the casual affection of lovers.
"Welcome back," Daenerys said, her voice carrying across the training grounds. "Find anything interesting?"
"A griffin nest about three leagues northwest," Angelus replied, her telepathic voice resonating in Jorah's mind alongside everyone else present. "Two adults and what looks like three juveniles. Good hunting target once our new recruits are ready for that level of challenge."
"I'll tell Drogo. He's been looking for another opportunity to test Balerion's progress."
They continued talking, the conversation flowing naturally between a woman and a dragon as if such things were commonplace. Around them, the Dragonborn went about their business without so much as a second glance—this was apparently normal now, just another day in the Zaldri-Rhaes.
Jorah found himself thinking, absurdly, that a Targaryen falling in love with a dragon made a certain kind of sense. House Targaryen had always been obsessed with dragons—they'd built their dynasty on dragonback, practiced intermarriage to preserve their bond with the creatures, and ultimately fallen into ruin when the last dragons died. For Daenerys to take her obsession to its logical conclusion...
She's becoming one of them, he realized. Not just bonding with dragons—actually becoming something draconic. And she's happy about it.
The implications for Westeros were staggering. Whatever Robert Baratheon's spies had told him about the Targaryen threat, they hadn't imagined this.
---
Drogo and Balerion - The Hunt
---
The grasslands stretched endlessly beneath them as Drogo rode at the head of a small hunting party, his enhanced senses drinking in details that would have been invisible to his former human eyes.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The rhythmic beating of wings above him had become a familiar sound over the past weeks. Balerion flew in lazy circles overhead, his black scales drinking in the sunlight while red light flickered behind his eyes. The juvenile wyvern had grown substantially since hatching—he was the size of a war horse now, large enough that Drogo had begun contemplating whether he could support a rider.
"There," Drogo called out, pointing toward a cluster of rocks about half a league distant. His golden eyes had picked out movement that no ordinary warrior would have noticed. "There are preys hiding among the stones. A small herd of Antelope I think."
The hunting party adjusted their course, spreading out into the formation that Angelus had drilled into them. Balerion descended, his shadow passing over the grass like a moving thundercloud, and took up position to cut off the prey's escape route.
SCREECH!
The antelope bolted as Balerion's shadow fell across them, breaking from cover in a panicked scatter. Drogo's mount surged forward, the Dragonborn riders flanking him with crossbows raised. Three bolts flew simultaneously, and three antelope dropped without so much as a struggle.
ROAR!
Balerion dove on the fleeing remnants, his claws catching another antelope mid-stride and crushing the life from it before it could scream. The young wyvern landed with his kill, wings mantling possessively over the carcass while he tore at it with teeth that were already the length of daggers.
"Good hunting," Drogo said approvingly, dismounting to approach his kill. The wyvern's head swung toward him, red eyes evaluating whether to defend his meal or share with his companion.
After a moment, Balerion stepped back, offering access to the remaining corpses. Drogo felt a pulse of something through the connection that had been growing between them—not words, not quite, but an understanding that passed from wyvern to Dragonborn without need for speech.
Pack. Hunt. Share.
"We'll make a proper team of us yet," Drogo murmured, running a scaled hand along Balerion's neck. The wyvern made a sound that might have been approval—a low rumble that vibrated through his chest.
The hunting party gathered their kills, preparing to continue the sweep. They were still far from the magical prey that would truly strengthen their forces, but antelope meat was meat, and the Zaldri-Rhaes needed supplies.
Then Balerion's head snapped up, his nostrils flaring.
"What is it?" Drogo asked, his hand moving to the arakh at his side.
The wyvern hissed—a sound that carried warning rather than aggression—and launched himself into the air with a powerful beat of his wings. He circled once, twice, then dove toward a ravine that cut through the grassland about a hundred meters distant.
SCREEEEECH!
The sound that answered him was not an antelope.
---
Drogo reached the ravine's edge in time to see Balerion engaging something that made his breath catch even after everything he'd witnessed over the past months.
It was a wyvern—but not like any of Daenerys's three hatchlings. This creature was wild, savage, its grey-green scales scarred from countless territorial battles. It was smaller than Balerion despite clearly being fully grown, but it moved with vicious efficiency.
CRACK!
Balerion's tail whipped around, catching the wild wyvern across the face and sending it tumbling. The black juvenile pressed his advantage immediately, diving on his opponent with claws extended and jaws gaping.
SNAP! TEAR!
The wild wyvern twisted at the last moment, its own claws raking across Balerion's flank and drawing lines of red. Balerion screamed—not in pain but in rage—and his jaws found purchase on his opponent's wing, clamping down with bone-crushing force.
"To me!" Drogo bellowed, leaping from the ravine's edge. The drop would have killed an ordinary man, but his Dragonborn body absorbed the impact without difficulty, and he hit the ground running with his arakh drawn.
The wild wyvern saw him coming and tried to disengage, but Balerion's grip on its wing prevented escape. Drogo closed the distance in three powerful strides and drove his blade deep into the creature's exposed flank.
SQUELCH.
Hot blood sprayed across his scales, and the wild wyvern shrieked in agony. It thrashed, trying to shake loose both its attackers, but Drogo twisted his blade and opened the wound wider while Balerion tore at its wing with renewed fury.
FWOOOOSH!
Fire erupted from Balerion's jaws—not the weak puffs he'd been producing since hatching, but a genuine gout of flame that washed over the wild wyvern's head and neck. The creature's scream cut off abruptly as the fire seared its throat, and it collapsed in a heap of smoking scales.
Drogo stepped back, breathing hard, and examined the kill.
The wild wyvern was definitely dead—its eyes had gone glassy, and the wounds Balerion had inflicted were clearly fatal even without the fire. But what caught Drogo's attention was how different this creature looked from Daenerys's three hatchlings. The scales were duller, the build less elegant, the overall appearance suggesting a lesser species rather than the majestic creatures that had emerged from those ancient eggs.
"Well fought," he said to Balerion, who was preening over their kill with obvious pride. "We should bring this back to Angelus. She'll want to see it."
Balerion made a sound of agreement, already beginning to drag the corpse toward flatter ground where it could be loaded onto the horses.
---
The Camp - Later That Day
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The wild wyvern's body drew a crowd when Drogo's party returned to camp.
Warriors gathered around the carcass, examining the grey-green scales and the savage wounds that marked its death. But the real attention focused on Daenerys and Angelus, who had emerged from their tent to inspect the kill.
"Interesting," Angelus said, her great head lowering to examine the corpse more closely. "Daenerys, use Observe on this. Tell me what you sense."
Daenerys closed her slitted eyes, reaching for the ability that had become second nature over the past months. When she opened them again, her brow was furrowed in concentration.
"It's... definitely draconic, but the bloodline is thin. Weak, compared to Balerion or the others. The magical signature is barely there—more like an echo of what a true wyvern should be."
"Exactly." Angelus's voice carried a tone of approval. "What you're looking at is what this world calls a 'wyvern'—a degenerate offshoot of the true draconic species. They're descended from the same ancient lineage that produced Valyrian dragons, but somewhere along the way, the bloodline became diluted beyond recognition. They're to Balerion what a feral dog is to a direwolf: technically related, but the difference in capability is staggering."
"So the wyverns that Valyrians rode..."
"Were a superior strain. The eggs you hatched contained that superior bloodline, which is why your three are growing so much faster and showing so much more potential than creatures like this." Angelus gestured dismissively at the corpse. "This thing would have been prey for any of my Valyrians' mounts. It's barely more dangerous than a griffin, and significantly less intelligent."
Balerion had been listening to this exchange with obvious interest. Now he stepped forward, lowering his black-scaled head toward the kill with a questioning look in his red eyes.
"Yes, you can eat it," Angelus said, amusement coloring her telepathic voice. "You and Drogo earned this kill—enjoy the spoils. The magical essence in its flesh will help you grow, even if it's not as potent as I'd prefer."
CRUNCH. TEAR.
Balerion needed no further encouragement. He tore into the carcass with enthusiasm, his jaws making short work of scales that had seemed formidable moments ago. Drogo joined him, his Dragonborn teeth proving capable of handling raw meat that would have been impossible for a human to consume.
The crowd watched in fascinated silence as the two devoured their kill. By the time they finished, only bones and scales remained—and even those were cracked and scattered, their marrow consumed.
Daenerys felt the change through her bond with the wyverns before she saw it physically. Balerion's presence in her mind grew stronger, more defined, as the magical essence of his lesser cousin was absorbed into his system. His fire burned hotter now—she could sense it building in his chest, ready to be unleashed.
"It's working," she said, watching as Balerion stretched his wings experimentally. "I can feel him getting stronger."
"Magical consumption accelerates growth," Angelus confirmed. "It's how I recovered so quickly after arriving in this world, and it's how your wyverns will reach their full potential faster than natural development would allow. Keep hunting creatures like this one, and Balerion will be battle-ready within months instead of years."
Drogo rose from his meal, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of a scaled hand. He looked different now—not dramatically, but noticeably. The bronze of his scales had deepened slightly, and his eyes burned with an intensity that hadn't been there before.
"I feel it too," he said, flexing his clawed fingers. "Like fire in my blood, but controlled. Waiting to be used."
"The magical essence affects Dragonborn as well as wyverns," Angelus explained. "You're both developing faster than expected. At this rate, you'll be flying together within the month."
Daenerys stepped forward, examining the bond between Drogo and Balerion with new understanding.
"He's chosen you," she said to Drogo, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Balerion has decided you're his rider. I can feel it through my connection with him—the way he thinks of you now is different from how he thinks of everyone else."
Drogo's golden eyes widened slightly. "A rider? Like the old dragonlords?"
"Exactly like that. The wyverns form bonds with those who have dragonblood—it's part of their nature, an instinct that goes back to when Valyrians first learned to ride them. You're Dragonborn now, which apparently counts as far as Balerion is concerned." Daenerys's smile widened. "It makes sense, honestly. You're both proud, aggressive, and completely unwilling to back down from a challenge. I'm not sure anyone else could handle him."
Balerion rumbled in what sounded like agreement, pressing his massive head against Drogo's shoulder in a gesture of unmistakable affection.
"Then we train together," Drogo said, his voice carrying a new weight of determination. "You'll teach me what I need to know?"
"Angelus will teach you. She's the expert on aerial combat—I'm still learning myself." Daenerys glanced at her partner, who nodded her great head.
"We begin tomorrow," Angelus declared. "Balerion is large enough to carry you now, and there's no point in delaying. The sooner you're operational, the sooner we can put you to use."
---
Wyvern Bonds
---
The days that followed established new patterns in the Zaldri-Rhaes camp.
Drogo and Balerion trained constantly, the Dragonborn champion and his black wyvern developing the instinctive coordination that marked a true rider-mount pair. They flew together, hunted together, and gradually learned to fight as a single unit rather than two separate warriors. Balerion's fire breath grew more powerful with each successful hunt, the flames taking on a distinctive black-red coloration that left magical burns on whatever it touched.
Meanwhile, the other two wyverns had developed their own patterns.
Mikhail—who Daenerys had started referring to as "she" after observing certain behavioral patterns that Angelus confirmed indicated female—had become Angelus's shadow. The white wyvern followed the crimson dragon everywhere, perching nearby during council sessions, flying patrol routes alongside her, and curling up against Angelus's flank during rest periods. The devotion was absolute and unwavering, and Angelus seemed to appreciate it in her own reserved way.
"She sees you as her mother," Daenerys observed one evening, watching Mikhail nuzzle against Angelus's neck. "Or maybe her queen. Either way, she's completely devoted."
"Mikhail has a loyal soul," Angelus replied. "The name suits her better than I expected. In the stories I remember, the original Michael was defined by his devotion—this one carries that same quality, even if she doesn't remember why."
Enoch, the green wyvern, was more independent. He stayed close to Daenerys during the day, often accompanying her on training exercises or council sessions, but he hadn't formed the intense bond that his siblings had developed. He was friendly with everyone, aggressive toward no one, and seemed content to wait for whatever role destiny had in mind for him.
"He'll find his rider eventually," Angelus assured Daenerys when she expressed concern. "Some bonds take longer to form than others. Enoch is patient—he'll choose when he's ready, and whoever he chooses will be worthy of the selection."
---
The War Council
---
Two weeks after Drogo's wild wyvern kill, Angelus called a formal council.
The tent they used for strategic planning had grown substantially since the early days, now large enough to accommodate Angelus's wyvern form along with her key advisors. Daenerys sat at her partner's side, wearing the dark armor that had become her standard attire. Drogo stood opposite them, his bronze scales gleaming in the lamplight. And Ser Jorah Mormont occupied a position at the edge of the gathering, his presence tolerated but not yet fully trusted.
"We've built our strength long enough," Angelus began, her telepathic voice carrying to all present. "The Zaldri-Rhaes numbers over eight hundred Dragonborn and three thousand human auxiliaries. Our three wyverns are approaching combat readiness. Our supplies are adequate, our training is sufficient, and our reputation has spread far enough that we can leverage fear as effectively as force. It's time to start expanding."
She projected an image into their minds—a map of Essos that Jorah recognized from his own travels, marked with the major cities and trade routes.
"Our ultimate goal remains Valyria," Angelus continued. "But reclaiming the old homeland requires resources and manpower that we don't yet possess. Before we can tackle that challenge, we need to secure territory—to build a base of operations that can support the kind of campaign I'm planning."
"Where do we start?" Drogo asked, his voice sounding like someone who'd been waiting for this moment.
"That's what we're here to decide. The obvious targets are Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen—the slave cities of Slaver's Bay. They're wealthy, they're defensible, and they have the kind of infrastructure we need." Angelus's eyes swept the gathering. "But there's another option that I think deserves consideration: Vaes Dothrak."
Drogo's expression shifted, a complex mixture of emotions playing across his scaled features.
"The sacred city," he said slowly. "Where all khalasars are forbidden from spilling blood."
"Where the dosh khaleen hold court, where the market serves as neutral ground for trade, and where the collected wealth of generations of Dothraki raids sits gathering dust." Angelus's voice carried an edge of contempt. "It's also a symbol—the heart of Dothraki culture as it currently exists. Taking it would send a message that the old ways are finished, and that the Zaldri-Rhaes represents something new."
"It would make enemies of every khal who still follows the old traditions," Ser Jorah pointed out, speaking carefully from his position at the edge of the council. "The Dothraki may not be able to challenge you directly, but united against a common enemy—"
"Then we'll destroy them united rather than piecemeal," Angelus interrupted. "I appreciate caution, Ser Jorah, but I'm not interested in half-measures. If the remaining khalasars want to fight us for Vaes Dothrak, they're welcome to try. The more of them we eliminate now, the fewer we'll have to deal with later."
"And after Vaes Dothrak?" Daenerys asked. "Assuming we take it successfully?"
"Then we move on Slaver's Bay. Yunkai first—it's the weakest of the three slave cities, with the least significant military presence. We take it, consolidate our position, and use it as a launching point for Qarth and eventually Meereen."
The council continued for another hour, debating logistics and timing and the thousand details that separated a theoretical campaign from an actual one. By the time it concluded, the plan had taken shape: Vaes Dothrak first, then Yunkai, then a reassessment based on how the political landscape had shifted.
Drogo would lead the assault on the sacred city, with Balerion providing aerial support. The main force of Dragonborn would form the core of the attack, supported by human auxiliaries and the two remaining wyverns. Angelus and Daenerys would participate directly—their first true war in this new world, fought together as partners.
"We move in three days," Angelus declared as the council dispersed. "Make sure everyone is ready."
---
The March on Vaes Dothrak
---
The Zaldri-Rhaes moved like a crimson tide across the Dothraki Sea.
Three thousand warriors marched in disciplined columns, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, their banners—the new standard that Angelus had designed, a crimson dragon on a field of black—snapping in the wind. Ahead of them, scouts on swift horses probed for enemies and obstacles. Above them, four dragons flew in formation: Angelus's massive crimson form leading, with Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch spread behind her like a deadly escort.
Daenerys rode at the head of the main column, her dark armor marking her as the army's khaleesi even as her draconic features marked her as something more. Drogo rode beside her on a massive war horse, his bronze scales and golden eyes drawing awed looks from warriors who still weren't entirely used to what their champion had become.
And behind them, Ser Jorah watched it all with careful attention. He was rapidly reconsidering every assumption he'd ever made about how wars were won.
This isn't an army, he thought, watching the Dragonborn move with coordination that would have been impossible for ordinary troops. This is something else entirely. Something that Westeros and maybe the entire world isn't prepared for.
---
Vaes Dothrak appeared on the horizon three weeks after they set out.
The sacred city was enormous—a sprawling collection of pavilions and monuments spread across what felt like leagues of grassland. The great bronze horse statues that flanked its entrance gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the smoke from a thousand cooking fires rose into the sky like prayers to gods who had never existed.
"They know we're coming," Angelus observed, her telepathic voice reaching Daenerys and the other commanders. "I can see riders on the perimeter—scouts, probably reporting back to whoever currently holds authority here."
"The dosh khaleen," Drogo replied. "The widows of former khals. They'll try to negotiate before resorting to violence—it's not the Dothraki way to fight within the city's limits."
"The Dothraki way is about to change." Angelus banked, adjusting her flight path to bring her closer to the city's entrance. "All forces, prepare to advance! We give them one chance to surrender peacefully. After that, we take what we came for."
---
The surrender negotiations lasted approximately ten minutes.
The dosh khaleen emerged from the city under a flag of truce, a delegation of ancient women whose faces bore the marks of lives spent in Dothraki service. They demanded to know who dared approach the sacred city with weapons drawn. They invoked traditions dating back centuries. They threatened curses and divine retribution.
Angelus listened to their protests with apparent patience, then delivered her response.
"You have until sunset to evacuate everyone who wishes to leave peacefully. After that, anyone remaining within the city limits will be treated as an enemy combatant. The sacred city belongs to the Zaldri-Rhaes now—your traditions hold no power over us."
The dosh khaleen's eldest member drew herself up with furious dignity.
"No blood may be spilled within Vaes Dothrak! It is forbidden by—"
FWOOOOOOSH!
Angelus's fire breath cut off the protest, a controlled burst that struck the ground between the delegation and the Zaldri-Rhaes' front lines. The flames burned with unnatural intensity, leaving a smoking scar in the earth that would take years to heal.
"I don't recognize your prohibitions," Angelus said calmly. "You have until sunset. I suggest you use the time wisely."
---
The Battle of Vaes Dothrak
---
They didn't surrender.
Jorah hadn't expected them to—the Dothraki were many things, but cowardly wasn't among them. As the sun touched the horizon, thousands of warriors emerged from Vaes Dothrak's sprawling districts, mounted and armed and determined to defend their sacred city against the invaders.
The Zaldri-Rhaes answered in kind.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The drums started first, a thunderous rhythm that synchronized the entire army's advance. Dragonborn warriors formed the vanguard, their scaled bodies providing natural armor that traditional Dothraki weapons struggled to penetrate. Behind them, human auxiliaries with crossbows provided covering fire, their enchanted bolts punching through leather and flesh with devastating efficiency.
SCREECH!
Balerion dove from the sky, his black form cutting through the evening light like a nightmare made flesh. Fire erupted from his jaws—the black-red flames that he'd developed after consuming the wild wyvern—and a section of the Dothraki cavalry simply ceased to exist, horses and riders alike consumed in magical conflagration.
"FOR THE ZALDRI-RHAES!" Drogo bellowed, leading the charge from Balerion's back. The wyvern landed in the midst of the enemy formation, his claws tearing through warriors while his rider's arakh flashed in deadly arcs.
SLASH! CRACK! SCREAM!!!
The sounds of battle filled the air as the two forces collided. Jorah found himself swept up in the chaos, his sword finding Dothraki flesh almost by instinct as the years of combat training took over. Around him, Dragonborn warriors cut through their opponents with terrifying efficiency, their enhanced strength and speed making a mockery of traditional warfare.
FWOOOOSH!
Mikhail's white flames joined the carnage, the female wyvern diving on a cluster of archers who had been targeting the Zaldri-Rhaes' crossbowmen. Enoch followed moments later, his green fire sweeping across a group of mounted lancers and scattering their formation.
And above it all, Angelus waited.
---
Daenerys fought on the ground.
She had insisted on participating directly rather than watching from dragonback—something about needing to prove herself to the warriors she was asking to die for her. Angelus had disagreed but ultimately relented, and now the khaleesi of the Zaldri-Rhaes was demonstrating exactly why that trust had been well-placed.
CLANG! SLASH! SPIN.
Her bastard sword moved in patterns that would have been impossible for an ordinary human, enhanced strength and Pact-granted reflexes allowing her to match opponents twice her size. A Dothraki screamer lunged at her with an arakh; she parried the blow, stepped inside his guard, and drove her blade through his throat in a single fluid motion.
GURGLE.
Another attacker came from the left. She spun, her blade coming up in a defensive arc that caught his strike and turned it aside. Her follow-through opened his belly, and he collapsed with a sound that was half scream, half sob.
"More coming," one of her guards shouted, pointing toward a fresh wave of Dothraki cavalry that was forming for a charge. "Too many—we need to fall back!"
Daenerys assessed the situation with tactical awareness. Her guard was right—the cavalry would overwhelm their position if they stayed to meet it. But falling back meant losing ground, and losing ground meant giving the enemy hope.
She made her decision.
Angelus, she sent through their bond, I need you.
COMING.
The response was immediate, and seconds later, the sky darkened as Angelus's massive form descended on the battlefield.
Daenerys didn't hesitate. She ran toward her partner, gathering her enhanced strength, and leaped. The jump carried her thirty feet into the air and she landed on Angelus's back with practiced ease.
"Hold on," Angelus advised, banking toward the approaching cavalry.
FWOOOOOOSH!
But this wasn't ordinary dragonfire.
The flames that erupted from Angelus's jaws were golden-white, blazing with an intensity that made the sun look dim. They spread across the battlefield in a perfect circle, consuming everything they touched—not just the cavalry, but the ground beneath them, the air around them, the very concept of their existence.
"BUTCHER'S JOY," Angelus intoned, and the name felt like a death sentence given form.
BOOOOM!
The spell detonated with a sound that rattled teeth and shattered bones. Where the cavalry had been, there was now nothing but scorched earth and smoking ash. The circle of destruction was perhaps a hundred meters across, and within it, not a single living thing remained.
The Dothraki who witnessed the display from outside the blast radius stopped fighting. Some fell to their knees, weapons dropping from nerveless fingers. Others turned and fled, their courage finally broken by the sight of magic that made dragonfire look like a candle flame.
"THE CITY IS OURS," Angelus declared, her telepathic voice resonating across the entire battlefield. "SURRENDER OR BURN."
They surrendered.
---
Victory and Its Aftermath
---
The conquest of Vaes Dothrak was complete by midnight.
The remaining defenders had laid down their weapons en masse, their will to fight shattered by the display of power that Angelus had unleashed. The dosh khaleen had been captured trying to flee, and were now being held in one of the city's larger pavilions while Daenerys decided their fate.
"We have approximately three thousand prisoners," Drogo reported as the sun rose on the morning after the battle. "Most are warriors who surrendered after the cavalry was destroyed. The rest are servants, traders, and support personnel who were caught in the city when we attacked."
"Separate them," Daenerys ordered, her voice carrying commanding authority. "Warriors in one group, non-combatants in another. We'll evaluate each category differently."
She was sitting beside Angelus in what had been the dosh khaleen's council chamber, the ancient meeting space now serving as her command post. Her armor was still stained with the blood of the battle, and she hadn't slept, but there was no fatigue in her eyes—only the cold calculation of someone thinking several moves ahead.
"The warriors will need to be converted or eliminated," she continued. "We can't afford to have potential threats at our backs when we move on to the next campaign. Offer them the choice: accept transformation and join the Zaldri-Rhaes, or..." She paused, considering. "Or be sold as labor to fund our expansion. I won't waste resources executing prisoners who might be useful, but I also won't coddle enemies who refuse to become allies."
Jorah, standing at the edge of the chamber, felt his estimation of her shift once again. The girl who had trembled at her brother's raised voice was gone forever. In her place sat a queen who spoke of slavery and execution with the same casual pragmatism a merchant might use to discuss inventory.
She's becoming like the dragon, he realized. Not just in appearance—but in mindset it seems. The old Daenerys I've seen from a distance would've agonized over this decision. This one treats it as simple logistics.
"And the non-combatants?" Drogo asked.
"Servants can remain servants. Traders can continue trading—under our supervision, with appropriate taxes. Anyone with useful skills gets evaluated for potential conversion." Daenerys's slitted eyes swept the chamber. "The Zaldri-Rhaes isn't just an army—it's a civilization. We need craftsmen, healers, merchants, farmers. Anyone who can contribute to that vision has a place with us."
"And the dosh khaleen?"
Daenerys considered this longer, her clawed fingers tapping against the arm of her chair.
"They're a symbol of the old order," she said finally. "Keeping them alive gives people something to rally around, a focal point for resistance. But executing them makes us look tyrannical, which undermines our legitimacy."
"Exile?" Angelus suggested. "Send them away with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They become someone else's problem, and we get the benefit of seeming merciful without actually taking any risks."
"Exile," Daenerys agreed. "Let them wander Essos preaching about the evils of the dragon-blooded invaders. By the time anyone takes them seriously, we'll be too powerful to challenge."
---
Consolidation
---
The weeks that followed were consumed by the work of turning a conquered city into a functional base of operations.
Vaes Dothrak was renamed Vaes Zaldri—"Dragon City" in a hybrid of Dothraki and High Valyrian that felt appropriate for what the Zaldri-Rhaes had become. The ancient monuments to Dothraki conquest were left standing, but new banners flew from every prominent structure: the crimson dragon on black that marked all things belonging to Angelus and Daenerys.
The prisoner conversion program proceeded with surprising efficiency. Nearly half of the captured warriors accepted the Dragonborn transformation when offered, either out of genuine belief in the Zaldri-Rhaes' vision or simple pragmatic recognition that the alternative was worse. The remainder were put to work as labor—not slaves exactly, but not free either, occupying a legal gray area that Daenerys had designed specifically to avoid the moral complications of traditional slavery while still extracting useful work from conquered populations.
"They're treated well as long as they cooperate," she explained when Jorah hesitantly raised the question. "Fed, housed, protected from abuse. If they prove their loyalty over time, they can earn their freedom and potentially even conversion. It's a system that rewards compliance without requiring me to trust people who were trying to kill us a month ago."
"It's also a system that would horrify anyone in Westeros who claims to oppose slavery," Jorah pointed out.
"Then let them be horrified." Daenerys's voice carried no defensiveness, only the certainty of someone who had moved beyond caring about such concerns. "I'm not building a kingdom for people who think principles matter more than survival. The Zaldri-Rhaes exists to serve our goals—everything else is secondary."
---
The other khalasars came, exactly as Jorah had predicted.
Word of Vaes Dothrak's fall had spread across the Dothraki Sea, and the response was predictable: outrage, calls for vengeance, and the gathering of forces that intended to teach the dragon-blooded invaders a lesson in Dothraki supremacy.
They came in waves. First a single khalasar of perhaps five thousand riders, confident that numbers would overcome the magical advantages they'd heard about. Drogo and Balerion met them ten leagues from the city and broke their charge so thoroughly that fewer than a hundred survivors fled to tell the tale.
Then two khalasars together, nearly twelve thousand riders who had put aside old rivalries to face the common threat. That battle was harder—it lasted most of a day, and the Zaldri-Rhaes lost several hundred warriors before the enemy's morale finally collapsed. But collapse it did, and the prisoners taken in the aftermath swelled the ranks of both the labor force and the conversion candidates.
By the time the third wave arrived—a coalition of six khalasars representing nearly fifty thousand riders—the Zaldri-Rhaes had grown to nearly five thousand Dragonborn and eight thousand auxiliaries. The battle that followed was the largest the Dothraki Sea had seen in generations, and it ended the same way all the others had: with the crimson dragon ascending from a field of burning corpses, her victory complete and unchallengeable.
---
"We've broken them," Drogo reported after the last battle, his bronze scales splashed with blood that wasn't all his opponents'. "The khalasars that remain are scattered, demoralized, and leaderless. They'll raid our borders for a while, but they're no longer a strategic threat."
"Good." Daenerys studied the map that dominated her command tent, her clawed fingers tracing the route from Vaes Zaldri to the shores of Slaver's Bay. "Then it's time to move on to the next phase. Angelus, how are the wyverns developing?"
"Balerion is fully combat-ready and has proven himself multiple times in the recent battles. Mikhail and Enoch are close behind—another month of feeding them magical prey, and they'll be able to handle anything short of a truly legendary threat." Angelus's voice carried satisfaction. "Our aerial superiority is as close to absolute as it's likely to get in this world."
"Then we begin planning for Yunkai." Daenerys's eyes glittered with anticipation. "The slave cities have been exploiting weakness for generations. It's time they learned what happens when something stronger comes along."
"I'll begin intelligence gathering," Jorah offered, speaking up from his position at the edge of the tent. "I have contacts in Slaver's Bay from my years of wandering—merchants, sellsword captains, people who might be willing to share information in exchange for the right incentives."
Daenerys studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"Do it," she said finally. "And Ser Jorah? If any of your contacts happen to be reporting to King's Landing, I trust you'll convey an accurate picture of what they'd be facing if they tried to intervene in our affairs."
It wasn't quite an accusation. But it wasn't quite not an accusation either.
"I'll make sure they understand," Jorah replied, keeping his voice steady despite the chill that ran down his spine.
Daenerys nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned her attention back to the map. The council continued, plans taking shape for the next stage of expansion.
Jorah watched it all and wondered if Robert Baratheon had any idea what was coming.
---
End of Chapter Six