MC's Thoughts
This world is oddly pure in its simplicity. I am strong, so I lead. Yet, I hardly even do that—I simply tell them to train, and they obey. I am told this is a trait of the Dothraki, unlike the city dwellers, who are more prone to scheming and backstabbing. The Qohoric learned the hard way that words and titles mean nothing when faced with an angered Dothraki. I have taken to this world and body easily. I have my pick of women, and killing is hardly frowned upon here. I am not a bloodthirsty killer by any means, but with so many khalsars absorbed into my own, a few fools think they can take what is mine. My arakh has done plenty of head-cutting.
Much has changed, though. My men seem to have embraced my eccentricities—well-groomed hair and beard, a stoic demeanor, and the company of five or six beautiful women who do not fear me. Well, some were afraid at first. Either way, there are many couples now—Dothraki warriors with five, sometimes ten women. These women bear the eyes of the content, looking down on the slaves and even some of the unclaimed Dothraki women. It is strange to see what would have been sex slaves acting as wives, prizes, while these savages act like hopeless romantics—bringing gifts, tending hair, braiding beards with intricate designs, even adorning themselves with feathers. To call us savages would not be a lie, but we are handsome savages now—a cleaner, more dashing barbaric horde of raiders and killers. At our core, nothing has changed.
Among the Dothraki, a Khal's word is law. Unlike a king or politician, there is only one law—the law of power. I am a born killer. Killing has always come easy to me. In my old world, there were guns—aim, pull the trigger. Here, there are bows and swords. A sharp stick hurts, so don't get poked. Some may call that an oversimplification, but when you never forget anything, when you've seen army rangers fight and move, you learn. The Dothraki fight simply—strength and speed, swing and move. Even the larger men use this tactic. Against armored foes, it works best when you know the weak points.
The Qohoric slaves taught me that full plate armor is useless for Dothraki mobility. Instead, I have implemented a new way—chest plates, wrist guards, shin guards. Our cavalry is more organized now. Horse archers first, then spears, followed by arakhs. The former slaves wear helms, breastplates, and tower shields. They will form a moving wall when we march south. The days pass, and this beautiful world will be mine.
A Marked Woman's Thoughts
Born to one of the smallest khalsars, now a marked woman of the great Undead Horde—few would have believed it possible. Another city falls, an armory of the Dothraki, my husband calls it. Yes, husband—an odd word among our people. As the first of five women and the only one marked by the Great Stallion, my place is secure. The others my husband brings home serve only to strengthen the horde. I have borne a child—a marked one—and carry another now.
Our future Khaleesi, the Mother of Dragons. My son trains among her guards. He speaks of how she will rule the skies while the Khal rules the plains. The Great Stallion of the Earth, the Mare of the Skies. They call them many things.
Many things have changed—for the better. We have become a great people, a proud people.
An Old Man at the End of His Life
I have never ridden for the Khal, yet he took me across the Dothraki Sea, fed me, gave shelter to many old men who would have otherwise been left to die. My friends have gone to the Great Grass Sea, to guard the afterlife. Soon, I will join them.
Before Khal Rohan, I would have been stripped of my arakh and slain, a burden to the horde. Now, I stand among the largest khalsar to ever roam these lands. In a few weeks, I and three others will leave this world. We will ride once more.
All the old Dothraki in the khalsar have seen it. When we take our own lives at the Monument, our blood and flesh will turn into the black ink of the Undying. The young boys will dip their blades in it and receive the blessing of the Great Stallion. The unmarked will bathe their infants in it, gaining the mark of the Undying.
How blessed we are to live in the time of this great Khal—a Khal who understands the value of walls.
MC's POV
An older man stood before me, clad in armor with a longsword at his side. He was in his forties, maybe early fifties—grizzled, hardened by battle. No, the name my people gave him suited him well.
"The Bear," I muttered in Dothraki.
The man raised an eyebrow. The merchants and guards who came to trade for our horses had always been wary of us, but this one was different. He sized me up, though I could tell he looked past me. My size was nothing special—I knew that much.
Then he spoke, his voice deep and steady, his Dothraki surprisingly fluent.
"My Khal, I have come to pledge my allegiance to Princess—no, Queen Daenerys Targaryen."
I tilted my head, glancing at Maria.
"Deal with the merchants," I said, before turning back to the man. "Man-Bear, my bloodriders know of you—know of your skill. But I do not."
I gestured for him to follow and walked toward the square, where the macabre pyramid of skulls loomed. As we moved, the Bear took in his surroundings—slaves and workers moving swiftly, swords and spears in hand, hundreds upon hundreds of arrows being prepared. His eyes lingered on them, and finally, he spoke.
"Since when do the Dothraki produce weapons at this level?"
My bloodriders glanced at him before looking to me. I smirked.
"Since I became Khal."
When we reached the shrine at the pyramid's base, the Bear's expression shifted to one of unease. Before us, an old man knelt, a black dagger resting on the shrine before him. His daughter stood behind him, a child in her arms. The old man took the infant and laid the child gently upon the shrine before gripping the dagger.
Jorah's POV
The sight was unsettling. My hand instinctively settled on my sword.
"Uh… Khal, what is this?" I asked cautiously.
The dark-skinned man beside me—the one they called Khal Rohan—spoke without hesitation.
"That, Bear Man, is loyalty. This is what men do to ensure a strong grandson."
I barely had time to process his words before the old man plunged the dagger into his own chest. His body slumped forward, hitting the ground hard, blood spilling onto the shrine. I was about to step forward, but then—it happened.
The flesh and blood rotted, no—melted, as a black substance oozed toward the shrine. The woman standing by remained calm. She took the man's bones, walked toward the pyramid, and carefully placed them alongside countless others. The child wailed, but the mother rushed to soothe them—her eyes locked onto the newborn, whose skin now bore the strange, dark markings of the ritual.
I was still lost in thought, my mind racing, when Khal Rohan spoke again.
"You see, Bear Man, I do not trust you to protect my wife. I do not care about your claims. But I will keep you near me—for in a few moons, I will begin my conquest. They say you are from the West, Bear Man, and if that is the case, you will see your homelands soon."
He met my gaze, his expression unreadable.
"I only fear you will not like what I do to it."
There was no threat in his voice. No bravado. He was simply stating a fact.
And I believed him.