He looked around. The others were still alive—unconscious, but breathing. Vlad paused to analyze. He had tested his strength, his speed, and the blood. Strangely, killing stirred nothing in him. No sadistic satisfaction, but no guilt either. The former would've been vulgar. The latter would've gotten him killed.
He ran his tongue over his fangs, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb in an almost fastidious gesture. With his pristine white tunic and upright posture, any observer might've mistaken the scene for a noble dabbing his lips after dinner—not a vampire post-massacre.
Then, knowledge erupted in his mind like a spring. The Dothraki language became as familiar as his mother tongue; the arakh's movements, riding techniques, fragmented memories of the dead leader—all flooded his consciousness.
A groan shattered the silence. The warriors were waking. When their eyes landed on their leader's corpse, their cries echoed across the plain—and this time, Vlad understood every word:
—He killed Naro! Let's gut the demon!
Vlad twirled the arakh deftly, sending droplets of blood arcing scarlet. The smile he gave them was glacial.
—Come, then. Die like your friend—he said in flawless Dothraki, each syllable sharp as his blade's edge.
The warriors froze. Their eyes, once blazing with fury, now dilated with primal terror. It was said Dothraki knew no fear, but Vlad was the exception that shattered all rules. And the most terrifying part: he didn't even seem winded. His clothes were unruffled, his breath steady. As if defeating six warriors had been nothing more than a morning stretch.
—Your friend was weak—Vlad continued, pointing the arakh at them. —But you… you might still be useful. Take me to your khal.
One of them, a young man with serpentine scars, snarled:
—We don't serve weak men!
Vlad's smile widened, fangs glinting.
—Good. Because I'm not a man… and I'm certainly not weak.
The silence that followed was thick enough to carve. Finally, with stiff movements, the warriors sheathed their weapons.
—We'll take you to Khal Bharo— muttered the oldest, avoiding his gaze.
Vlad exhaled, cleaning the blood from his blade before stripping the fallen man of his hides and belt, arming himself with his gear.
A glance at the system's map confirmed his suspicion: he was in the heart of the Dothraki Sea. For anyone else, it would've been a death sentence. For him? Convenient. The Dothraki only understood the language of force. No noble masks or elaborate lies like in Braavos or Meereen. Here, beheading the khal would suffice to rule.
He mounted the dead man's horse without ceremony. One warrior loaded the corpse onto his own steed, shooting furtive glances at the puncture wounds on the neck. Vlad ignored him, focusing on the horizon.
The Dothraki Sea stretched endlessly, a golden plain rippling like an ocean under the wind. They rode in tight formation, the five remaining warriors flanking him like reluctant escorts. None spoke, but their tense stares betrayed their thoughts: No man defeats six Dothraki riders. No man trespasses alone into our lands and lives. And no man, ever, challenges a khal without an army at his back.
Luckily, Vlad wasn't a man.
A vampire needed no armies. Just time… and an appetite. Who'd miss an entire khalasar in this grass sea? he mused, though he dismissed the thought—for now. He needed to consolidate the stolen memories before they faded. The khal wouldn't be a problem. Dothraki were predictable: a direct challenge, a few seconds of combat, and he'd have his new army.
The camp sprawled for kilometers—a chaotic mass of tents, horses, and warriors. Thousands of Dothraki moved about, tending mounts, sharpening weapons, or feasting around roaring fires. At its center stood the largest tent, adorned with braided horsehair and banners.
Vlad's eyes swept the camp, assessing warriors and defenses. One of his escorts dismounted and spoke rapidly to a guard at the entrance. The guard's gaze landed on Vlad, confusion and disbelief twisting his features.
—This pale Ghiscari comes to challenge the khal?—he jeered.
The warrior at Vlad's left leaned in, whispering:
—He killed Naro. And defeated the others… without drawing his arakh.
The guard paled. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the tents.
Vlad remained motionless on his horse, savoring the spreading chaos. Whispers swarmed: Outsider. Killer. Demon. The crowd pressed closer, some cursing, others nervously gripping weapons.
Then, the great tent's hides parted.
And Khal Bharo emerged, eyes burning with rage.
Bharo was a mountain of muscle, skin darkened by the sun. His thick, heavy braid swung with golden rings, each earned in battle. Scars carved stories across his face, and his dark eyes gleamed with arrogance. Behind him, his three bloodriders watched silently, arakhs glinting in the dusk light.
The khal strode forward, boots kicking up dust as he scrutinized Vlad with disdain.
—What is this?—he roared.—A foreign boy comes unarmed to my camp? Do you beg for your life or seek to die a fool's death?
Laughter erupted among the warriors. Dothraki knew no mercy—not even in mockery.
Vlad dismounted calmly. Hundreds of eyes tracked him, waiting. Then he spoke:
—I am Vlad Drakul.
Silence fell like an axe. His voice, quiet yet weighted with authority, smothered the laughter. Every warrior sensed the danger radiating from him. He met Bharo's gaze and uttered words that split the air like steel:
—I've come to kill you.
For a moment, only the crackle of fires answered. Then Bharo barked a laugh.
—You?— he shouted. —A foreigner with no khalasar, no sword, nothing—dares challenge a khal?
His bloodriders grinned, hands on their weapons, eager for blood. Vlad didn't flinch.
—I need no army— he said. —Just a sharp blade.
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Even for Dothraki, this was madness. Bharo's smile vanished. His pride had been wounded before his people. If he didn't respond, his authority would crumble. He had no choice: this insolence demanded death.
He gripped his arakh.
—So eager to die?— he growled, stepping forward. —Then I'll grant your wish.
Vlad's smile was cold as the grave.
—Come, Khal Bharo. Prove you deserve to be khal.