Vlad's stay in Vaes Dothrak was surprisingly pleasant. He spent his time in his tent, in the company of Daenerys, enjoying pleasant meals as they talked about anything and everything. He had shared his plan with her and kept her informed about the massacre that was coming. The poor girl, of course, had expressed concern for his well-being and asked him to consider a more reasonable and less violent alternative.
Vlad laughed as he kissed her forehead; the thought that he could conquer anything with words was adorable. As for the preparations, he didn't need much. Really, if he wanted to, he could destroy any army on his own. What army of men could stand against him?
The problem was the waiting. Just the messenger's journey would take weeks, then more weeks for the khalasars to prepare, more time for them to set out, and even more for them to arrive. If it weren't for the need to carefully prepare the runic sets for the ritual, he would have died of boredom. The only positive point was Daenerys, who was becoming more and more open with him, talking freely, even making jokes and showing a tendency to seduce him of her own accord, which he enjoyed. After all, what man didn't like to feel desired?
After almost two damn months in that pompous flea market, the horse lords finally began to arrive. Vlad could see the clouds of dust raised by the riders from a distance and practically hear their war cries. There were at least 90,000 men, divided into at least fifteen khalasars. Vlad was thrilled; at the end of the day, they would be his men.
Or corpses.
After spending a couple of full days setting up camp around the city, the leaders of the khalasars finally entered Vaes Dothrak, each accompanied only by their blood riders and khaleesis.
Vlad didn't even bother to ask their names; he simply prepared his own blood riders and Daenerys for the "ceremony."
The leaders of the khalasars entered one by one into the temple, their firm steps resonating on the stone. In the center of the room, the Dosh Khaleen were gathered around a large bonfire, their faces tense, their expressions neutral; all were under Vlad's compulsion.
He was already there, ahead of everyone. Sitting in one of the chairs set aside for the Khals, he waited patiently for them to gather around the fire.
The eldest of the women raised her hands and, with a trembling voice, proclaimed:
—The Great Stallion has spoken to us in dreams! —she announced—. The one who will ride the world is here, among the sixteen khals who honor this sacred land.
One of the warriors, a man broad as a bull, furrowed his brow.
—There are only fifteen Khals gathered here —he pointed out the obvious.
Vlad stood up.
The darkness that seemed to cover his position lifted as if a torch had dispersed it.
—I am here —he announced, holding his Scarlet Witch, the Valyrian steel sword.
The Dosh Khaleen suddenly blinked, as though waking from a long sleep. The same elder who had announced the prophecy pointed at him with a trembling finger, her eyes filled with dread.
—It's a demon! He used vile sorcery to control us, to make us call you here!
—Kill him! —another one cried—. Bleed him dry and bury his body before he condemns us all!
Chaos threatened to erupt. Some Khals were already reaching for their weapons. But Vlad didn't move. He simply looked at his blood riders and ordered calmly:
—Protect her —he said, referring to Daenerys, who watched from a corner with a furrowed brow and held breath.
Kharon and Nork immediately positioned themselves by her side, their vampiric senses alert to everything around them.
Vlad turned his gaze to the rest, one by one, without hurry, as if he already knew exactly what was going to happen.
—I challenge each of you —he then said, his tone laden with disdain—. Here and now. For the leadership of the Dothraki.
—Kill him! —roared the youngest khal, almost frothing at the mouth.
—Surrender —ordered another, older, with cold eyes—. You're surrounded.
Vlad practically smiled, savoring the moment before responding:
—The only thing I'm surrounded by... is fear.
He then looked at them all and continued in a calm voice:
—And dead men.
And then, they all attacked at once. Nearly thirty men: the Khals, their blood riders, all leaping from their seats and charging at him with a crash of steel and war cries.
For an instant, the world seemed to freeze.
The fire from the bonfire cast shadows against the walls as the warriors charged towards Vlad. But for him, everything happened slowly, as if time itself had yielded to his will. He saw clearly the gleam of each drawn blade, the tightening of muscles, the sweat beading on brows, the steps raising dust in slow motion.
He inhaled deeply. The air smelled of leather, old blood, wood smoke... and fear.
His body moved fast. He took one step, just one, but it was enough to dodge three blows. He twisted his torso, tilted his neck, and felt the blade of an axe brush his hair without reaching his skin.
Another strike came from the right, descending, but his left arm rose with precision. He caught the attacker's wrist and broke it with a sharp twist before plunging the man's own blade into his neck.
—One —he whispered to himself.
A rider lunged from the side with a spear, aiming to pierce his flank. Vlad spun on his foot, caught the spear with his bare hand, and dragged the man towards him as though he were a toy, then propelled him into another man charging with two short swords. The spear's point pierced the second man's chest before both fell.
And then, without looking, he threw his sword upwards.
The blade spun unnaturally in the air, turning upon itself as Vlad dodged an axe swing under the elbow of another enemy and slid between them as though it were all part of a carefully rehearsed choreography.
One enemy attacked him from behind, thinking he had the advantage, but the sword spun in the air, deflecting his blade with a metallic ring. Vlad caught it mid-flight with his free hand and drove it into the throat of another.
The circle didn't close. They fought in a group, surrounding him, but he had already killed four men in less than a second.
His long blonde hair moved with every turn. Vlad kicked the body of a dead man with such force that it sent it crashing into two other riders. One fell. The other was caught by a hand that grabbed his neck and slammed him against a pillar.
Three more: one with a mace, another with curved blades, and a third with a long spear.
Vlad advanced. A mace was dodged with a minimal movement of his head. Vlad's hand sank into the enemy's chest as though the flesh were clay. With a yank, he lifted him and used him as a shield against the following blades. He then threw the man at the center one, spun on himself, and dropped his knee onto the third's neck, breaking it.
Blood soaked the stone. And Vlad felt it.
Without even turning, he extended his senses, and the blood pooled under his feet rose like reddish threads. At his command, they solidified and, like spears, pierced the legs of the riders trying to flank him.
Only when they fell did Vlad stop moving.
The last five looked at him with a mix of fury and fear. The ground was covered in bodies, hot blood, and broken bones. Vlad breathed calmly, as if all of it were nothing more than a well-rehearsed dance.
He rested the tip of his sword on the ground. The Scarlet Witch, as though following an unspoken command, stood perfectly balanced.
—You are Khals. Warriors of the Great Stallion. Honor your name.
And the last ones charged, shouting.
Vlad smiled.
The Scarlet Witch rose from the ground as though moved by his hands, but it was not so. As fast as lightning, it spun on itself, dancing among the last men standing.
Valyrian steel, the metal that cuts through anything, sliced through the trembling necks of the former barbarian leaders, now terrified after Vlad's display, until the last of them fell. Then, there was only silence.
A minute had passed.