What followed the initial skirmish was, in truth, rather anticlimactic. Anyone might have expected Zharro to put up a prolonged and dangerous fight, but his opponent was Vlad. The moment Zharro was within reach, Vlad deflected his thrust with surgical precision and—without hesitation—drove his sword through the man's throat. Quick. Clinical.
Zharro collapsed, soon followed by his two remaining bloodriders. When Vlad raised the Khal's severed head, the surviving warriors surrendered almost immediately… though not before Vlad cut down a few more to drive the point home.
Where his men had once regarded him with mere respect, they now watched him with that unique blend of terror and awe only the Dothraki reserve for a worthy leader. After tallying casualties and relocating the khalasar (along with anything of value), Vlad found himself commanding seven thousand people—five thousand of whom were warriors.
Beyond the military boost, the spoils proved generous, including one particularly gratifying surprise: a Valyrian steel dagger. A happy coincidence, indeed. Naturally, Vlad tested it on his own skin immediately, discovering that while Valyrian steel could cut him effortlessly, it didn't hinder his regeneration or cause any other ill effects. This pleased him more than he'd admit; after all, discovering fewer ways to die was always good news.
Commanding a Dothraki horde was no easy feat. They were barbarians in every sense, and it took weeks to drill basic hygiene into them. He insisted they boil water before drinking and wash daily to avoid disease—though to enforce compliance, he eventually claimed these rituals "warded off evil spirits." Only then did they obey without protest.
Speaking of spirits, they now called him the "Red Stallion." The image of his silhouette drenched in blood during battle had left an indelible mark. His warriors followed him with near-mystical reverence, and few remained foolhardy enough to challenge him. Even among the enslaved women, his reputation spread; many competed to share his bed, as if it might grant them some divine blessing.
Unfortunately for them, Vlad had standards. Hygiene, appearance, even lineage—why not? He had the bearing of a prince and the body of a warrior.
Over the next year, Vlad consolidated his hold on the Dothraki Sea with brutal efficiency. He didn't rest on his first conquest. He led his growing khalasar into four more clashes, each against larger forces. His tactics became legend: devastating swift attacks, relentless flanking maneuvers, and in every battle, the sight of his blood-soaked figure carving through the fray like an unstoppable force.
The first to fall was Khal Rhokko, a veteran leader with disciplined but predictable troops. Vlad shattered their formation using the same pincer tactic he'd employed against Zharro. When Rhokko tried to flee, Vlad split his chest open mid-gallop. Five thousand riders joined his horde.
Next came Khal Vezho, younger and shrewder—but still outmatched. Vezho avoided direct confrontation, relying on ambushes and hit-and-run strikes. It didn't matter. Vlad hunted him patiently, herding his khalasar toward a riverbank with no escape. Their duel lasted barely a breath before Vlad pierced his heart. Six thousand more warriors swore fealty.
The third battle was against Khal Jorro, famed for his riders' speed and hit-and-run tactics. He thought he could exhaust Vlad. He underestimated both the vampire's stamina and his army's discipline. After a week of skirmishes, Vlad forced a pitched battle on open plains, where speed meant nothing. The slaughter was merciless. Seven thousand more joined his ranks.
The final—and hardest—fight was against Khal Hargo, a seasoned leader with a horde nearly as large as Vlad's. Hargo ambushed him with hidden forces in the hills, the first time Vlad had ever been pushed to survive rather than dominate. He used his inhuman strength to breach enemy lines, buying time for his men to regroup. In the end, Hargo fell like the others, and ten thousand riders bent the knee to the Red Stallion.
By then, Vlad no longer led a khalasar—he commanded an army. Twenty-eight thousand Dothraki warriors swore loyalty, along with their families, slaves, and herds.
Yet he knew his rule wasn't secure. Expanding too fast without consolidation invited betrayal, and if there was one thing he understood about the Dothraki, it was that their allegiance hinged on fear and strength. For now, he'd avoid challenging Khal Drogo or the other great khals. Instead, he focused on forging his horde into a well-oiled machine.
This brought him to Meereen, where trade and supplies were secondary to a far greater prize: two Valyrian slave girls, Alyssa and Mera, fluent in the city's language and customs. They became his personal attendants—feeding him blood, tending his needs, and occasionally sharing his bed.
Initially, Vlad had planned to drain them dry, but they were too pleasing to waste. Instead, he took small amounts over weeks, coaxing their compliance. Truthfully, the girls felt two things for him: fear and lust. When first told how he'd feed from them, they'd wept and begged for their lives. But once assured they'd survive, they acquiesced; they were slaves, after all.
Luckily, his saliva numbed pain and sealed wounds instantly—not to mention the orgasmic shock it triggered. In time, they grew almost eager to "donate."
Not everything revolved around war and politics. At last, after months of searching, Vlad found what he coveted most: his Valyrian steel sword. Guided by his System's map, he unearthed a chest in a hidden Meereenese cave. Inside lay a masterpiece of Valyrian smithing—a broad, heavy blade with a dark edge that gleamed crimson in sunlight.
The moment he gripped it, he knew: it was perfect.
He named it "Scarlet Witch."