The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea (GOT)

The thing with a photographic memory is that you do not merely recall anything—you see it all the time. The only reprieve you ever get is in your sleep. Dreaming about my past isn't nostalgic; it's like it just happened. I sat there naked, looking at the bed where my women lay, my mind drifting. I glanced at my leg, replaying the fight in my head. How did I let myself get hurt in that fight? The thought nagged me as I stood and limped to the balcony in all my glory.

Overlooking the charred remains of the city, my eyes fell on a cage holding a fat man—the Qohorik, I presumed. My thoughts turned eastward. Surely, the most feared people on this continent cannot only have one city and a trail of ruins. I shifted my gaze to the northern part of the city. The docks were there. Dothraki do not mess with the sea, but we have slaves now, I mused.

The door to my room opened, and Jogo entered. His eyes darted to the massive bed where the women lay naked. He handed me a pair of pants, and as I got dressed, I asked, "How are Zekko's men? Any issues?"

"They are uneasy and unruly, my Khal. I think they need to see your strength," he replied honestly.

These ravers act as if they are invincible. If strength is what they need, then strength they shall see. I limped to my headdress, necklace, and bag of paint. Jogo moved behind me, holding up a polished silver mirror. He positioned it in front of me as I applied the war paint across my body and face. This ritual of mine always elevated my presence. With the headdress in place, my intimidation factor climbed a few notches. Gritting my teeth, I tightened the splint on my leg and began walking.

Pain flared, and my leg gave out before I could fall. A giant hand steadied me. Doromon, my brutish blood rider, had woken. He looked me over and nodded, allowing me to lean on him as we hobbled through the halls. Reaching the door leading outside, memories of my past flooded in. My heartbeat quickened, and my pupils dilated. Pain numbed as I stepped through the doors. 

Grey-skinned Dothraki, those who favored ash in their war paint, looked at me hesitantly as they saw me walking without a limp. Reaching my horse, I calmed the beast with a firm touch, swung myself onto its back, and settled into the saddle. Doromon mounted his horse, waiting for me. The grey-skinned Dothraki formed ranks behind us as we rode down the scorched streets. 

Zekko's former khalasar had many Dothraki who still hungered for battle, yet they held back when they saw the undead Khal in full war paint, draped in skulls. Fear rippled through the crowd as I reached the square. I dismounted, gritting my teeth as pain flared again. I drew my arakh and extended my other hand as one of the grey-skins handed me a second arakh. Looking at the cage holding the fat man, then to the gathered Dothraki, I called out, "Who here thinks they can take my place? I will wait. Call your kos. Your warriors. Face me in single combat."

I walked to a gruesome pyramid of heads in the square and took a seat atop it, spinning my arakhs. Dust clouds rose as six kos approached. They dismounted and stood a few meters away, trying to speak. I cut them off as I stood, spinning my arakh. "Come. Die."

The first man charged with a swing. I met his strike and dropped to my good leg, swinging my second arakh to cleave his leg off at the knee. He screamed as he fell. I rose with adrenaline pumping and charged the remaining five men. One tried to block my swing but was too slow, losing an arm. I twirled to my right, decapitating a shocked man and kicking his body into another, causing him to trip. I swung down, splitting his head from behind. Grabbing my second arakh, I flung it into the throat of another, leaving him choking on his blood. 

The last man hesitated, seeing me drenched in blood and disarmed. He swung at my neck, but I ducked, punched him in the crotch, and grabbed his braid. Wrapping it around his neck, I strangled him while stabbing his side and neck. The first man, crawling away, caught my attention. I walked to him, speaking, "Welcome to Vaes Rhaeshisofrak, where you rot." 

Dropping my knee on his chest, I stabbed him repeatedly in the neck until his head separated from his body. Rising, covered in blood, I held the head aloft. My khalasar roared in celebration as I tossed the severed head onto the pyramid of skulls.

"If you feel yourself stronger, come face me. If not, follow my orders and do nothing else," I said, mock anger lacing my voice. "I am your Khal. You die when I order it. You kill what I order you to kill."

A tense silence fell over the burnt square. I called for my horse, and the black stallion trotted to my side. I mounted and held out my hand as my arakh was returned to me. Pulling the reins, my horse reared on its hind legs as I lifted my arakh into the air.

"This is the city of the undead. Men come to die here. Dothraki come to kill here!" My declaration was met with cheers and war cries as I rode toward my blood riders, Kota and Doromon. The twins were overseeing the camp's relocation closer to the gates.

Sweating profusely from pain, I nodded to Kota and said, "I want the heads of every body treated and displayed in that square."

Kota broke off, yelling orders to the Dothraki. Doromon sat on his horse, observing. He was a brute but no fool. I continued riding through the city, giving orders. The slaves—those we brought and those taken from Zekko—numbered over fifty thousand, compared to my thirty-five thousand Dothraki. Cleaning the city and rebuilding it as the first Dothraki harbor city would be achievable. We may not sail, but no one said we couldn't trade.

Reaching the artisans, Maria joined me as a translator. I addressed the gathered people, "You are my property now. Work, and you will keep your families. I want weapons—spears, arakhs, axes. No Dothraki in my khalasar will ever lack a weapon. I want carriages and chariots made. Slaves will assist you in this."

Maria relayed my words to the terrified artisans. The city's remaining buildings included a few blacksmith shops. I planned to construct one large forge, one woodworking shop, and one leatherworking workshop. The palaces and manses would remain untouched, reserved for my women. Mimicking Vaes Dothrak's sanctity, I would keep my women in pristine conditions, guarded by thousands of bloodthirsty warriors. The goat motifs would be replaced with horse motifs, fitting the Dothraki identity. 

Vaes Dothrak may be a weapon-free zone, but Vaes Rhaeshisofrak would be a weapons depot. I would arm my riders to the teeth. In months, I would meet all the khals on the field of battle.

Jogo's POV

Sitting on his brown horse, Jogo, still in full war paint, watched the slaves move wooden pallets and stones. As a Dothraki, Jogo felt no pity for them. In his eyes, they brought their fate upon themselves. He had witnessed the burning of countless villages and cities by his people. Yet, he had never seen a man like his Khal, Rohan Sunak.

The first time Jogo saw him, the man was skin and bones, cutting down a blood rider in that frail state. Phiro had been Jogo's Khal, but Jogo had never feared him. He would have challenged Phiro in time. But Rohan—this figure was unnerving, decisive, and ruthless. Terrifying, even. He was a leader worth following. Jogo saw the opportunity and pledged his loyalty. Today, they had sacked a city in a single night. Rohan was hurt for the first time, yet even wounded, he commanded respect and inspired fear. 

Jogo broke his train of thought and returned his attention to the slaves, watching them carry materials. Glancing down at his ash-grey war paint, the mark of his loyalty to his Khal, Jogo knew the future of the Dothraki lay with this man.

Back to MC

With the camp moved near the gates, my large tent was not erected. Instead, I collected tents from the defeated khals for future raids. I wanted the camp to grow, to build. I would never force my khalasar to abandon their way of life, but as they aged or lost limbs, they would find purpose within my horde. This continent would be mine, I thought. No, not mine—I was never hungry for power.

Looking over my people, my body still sweating from pain, I knew the day would be long. It felt more like a parade for those unfamiliar with the undead Khal. The twins finally joined me, staying close as I paraded myself around the city and campsites. Heading to the square where my pyramid of skulls was being constructed, the stench of human flesh hung heavy in the air. The fat Qohorik remained in his cage, forced to stand due to its cramped size. As I passed, I addressed the men working on the pyramid, "Keep the fat man alive. He makes a good prop."

My blood riders exchanged confused glances. Maria, one of the few women among my inner circle, asked, "Why not kill him?"

I turned to her, replying, "Any city that dares to think me weak will suffer the same fate. Their leader will decorate my monument until his head joins the pile."

The message was clear, and the lesson would be taught in blood and ash.

Let me know where you'd like this added, or if any further refinement is needed!