Night stained the sky as Vlad entered what had once been Khal Bharo's tent—now his own. The air smelled of aged leather and cold ashes, seeping into the thick fabric walls. The interior was warm and well-appointed: animal pelts covered the ground, while armor and gold ornaments glinted faintly in the corners. The bed was primitive but undoubtedly comfortable. At least his first night wouldn't be spent in squalor.
Time passed swiftly. Vlad didn't need sleep, so he didn't. Instead, he strategized silently while eavesdropping on the khalasar's murmurs. Outside, riders gathered around fires, devouring roasted meat and speaking in hushed tones. There was no celebration. Not yet. He'd defeated Bharo and taken his khalasar, but Dothraki didn't give loyalty lightly. They'd follow—yes—but they hadn't fully accepted him.
He laid his arakhs on a rough-hewn table and stripped off his travel-stained tunic. His eyes scanned the available arsenal: curved arakhs, Dothraki spears, bone-handled daggers. But it was a longsword with a straight blade of dark steel that caught his attention. Not Dothraki-made—likely tribute from some conquered city—and though it wasn't Valyrian steel, it was a worthy weapon.
Thinking of Valyrian steel, Vlad unfurled his map. The items he'd brought into this rebirth were far away. Meereen was the nearest city, and his sword lay between Meereen and Yunkai, days of travel distant. First, he'd consolidate control over this khalasar; then he'd march there for supplies, Valyrian-speaking slaves, and to reclaim what was his.
He dressed in leather breeches, layered belts studded with gold, fastened the sword to his hip, and stepped outside. He wore no armor—Dothraki scorned it as the garb of cowards—but Vlad needed none. Common steel would struggle to pierce his skin, and if it did, he'd heal in seconds.
Prepared, he moved with supernatural speed, leaving the camp behind in moments. At the nearest settlement marked on his map, he dissolved into mist to infiltrate undetected. He surveyed the terrain, the men, even the khal's hut. Alarmingly easy.
With the intelligence gathered, he returned swiftly. The horde awaited him, their troop leaders gathered around a great fire. Their faces were hard, their eyes wary. They didn't trust him.
—We ride within hours—Vlad announced, shattering the silence with steel in his voice. —We'll take Zharro's khalasar. We attack from three fronts. I'll lead the main charge myself.
Some grunted approval, but others exchanged doubtful glances. Qavo, a man with scars crisscrossing his face, crossed his arms.
—Zharro has twice our numbers— he objected skeptically. —And you'd split our strength further.
Vlad held his gaze, cold as moonlit steel.
—We don't need numbers. We need strategy. You'll only attack after I do—when they're already distracted by me.
Most leaned in immediately, likely assuming arrogance. Vlad bent over the makeshift map where stones marked enemy positions.
—Zharro relies on his numbers, so he's grown careless. There's a hill east of his camp. If we circle wide, we can approach unseen until it's too late.
He pointed to three strategic points around the enemy camp.
—Three fronts. My group engages head-on as the distraction. When they're surrounded, the other two groups close the trap.
Riders exchanged glances, some openly skeptical.
—And if they detect us early?— another asked.
Vlad smiled in a way that promised no comfort.
—They won't.
He let silence hang before concluding:
—Believe me or not, but obey. And when Zharro falls within hours, you'll see I lead you to victory.
A heavy quiet settled over the gathering. Finally, some nodded. Not from loyalty—from fear. Fear of being the first to fall beneath his blade.
Dawn painted the sky in scarlet and gold as the first Dothraki riders began to move. From atop a dusty hill, Vlad watched his khalasar split into three fronts exactly as ordered. The air thrummed with tension—warriors' murmurs, horses' whinnies, and the clatter of weapons forming a symphony of war across the plains.
Ahead, Zharro's khalasar massed like a gathering storm. They hadn't expected an attack, but it hardly mattered. Dothraki needed no elaborate preparations; mounting their steeds and drawing steel was enough. They outnumbered Vlad's forces nearly two-to-one, but he didn't need numbers—only perfect timing.
He turned to his own group, the central contingent of his strongest warriors… for now. Some watched him with respect, others with doubt. They knew this would be a bloodbath, and that their leader planned to spearhead the charge—at least that much they could respect. Without hesitation, Vlad signaled the flanking groups to encircle the enemy. Then he inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of impending battle settle over him.