Daenerys remained standing in a corner of the temple, protected by the five bloodriders—almost as tall as Vlad—who stood firm, ready to strike down anyone who dared approach her.
But there was no need.
Their broad shoulders didn't allow her a clear view, and yet she could still make out Vlad's figure, moving with the grace of the most gifted dancer in Pentos.
He wasn't moving particularly fast for a man, and yet he dodged every attack as if he could see them coming before they were even thrown. Daenerys saw him take a spear from one enemy and use it to impale another, then spin and leap to break the neck of a third with the motion of his fall.
She had never witnessed anything like it. Vlad made killing look like a dance, as if each movement was part of a choreographed performance. And Daenerys felt her knees tremble as she saw him standing there, facing the last five warriors still alive—less than a minute into the fight.
Vlad said something, but Daenerys didn't hear it. She couldn't. She could only look at him, mesmerized.
She had never seen anything so horrifying. She had never seen anything so beautiful.
His broad, powerful back. His immense arms, tensing with every movement. His bare chest, covered in blood that, instead of repulsing her, made him seem even more imposing. He was brutal. He was majestic. She wanted him right then and there, without delay. But the fantasy shattered when Vlad spoke.
—Daenerys —he called, shaking her gently.
—Huh?... Ah, yes, sorry. Did you say something? —she answered, startled, blushing to the tips of her ears.
—I asked if you were all right —Vlad looked at her in a strange way. After all... he could smell what the little princess was thinking.
—Ah... yes. I'm excellent. You fought incredibly —she replied, and though she seemed to have regained her composure, her expression made it clear she was deeply impressed by Vlad's performance.
Vlad just raised an eyebrow at her before turning to his bloodriders.
—Talan, take her to the tent. Protect her at all costs —he ordered.
—As you command, blood of my blood.
Vlad then turned toward the temple doors, but not before making a gesture toward the Dosh Khaleen, who were huddled in a corner, terrified. Controlling their blood, he stopped their hearts in unison. It was the least they deserved; after all, they had saved him nearly two years of war by gathering all the Khals in one place.
What followed wasn't a particularly pleasant annexation. Vlad presented himself to each of the Khals' camps with the head of their leader in his hands. He made it clear that he had defeated him in combat and that, by right, all their armies now belonged to him.
Needless to say, the Dothraki were not pleased. Whether because of his appearance or a desire for revenge, many attacked—alone, in groups; many declared themselves new Khals, many tried to kill him.
They all died.
For two weeks, Vlad focused solely on eliminating anyone who refused to follow his command. He did not allow any man in his army to intervene. He did it all by himself.
Each challenger was impaled on a three-meter-high wooden spike, driven deep into the ground, leaving their body suspended in the air as a silent warning.
Twenty thousand men impaled was the final count. Of the nearly ninety thousand scattered across the various camps, twenty thousand formed what would henceforth be known across Essos as the Forest of the Dead.
No one opposed Khal Vlad anymore. Every man in his horde followed him with that unusual blend of respect and fear that only a Dothraki could feel.
Then came logistics. Organizing so many men was a difficult, full-time job, but at least Vlad could count on the help of his bloodriders—and even Daenerys, who proved surprisingly skilled at managing parts of the immense horde.
Naturally, Vlad needed to establish some rules. He made it clear: no killing children, and no rape. The barbarian horse-lords seemed especially offended by the latter, as if it were an essential part of their culture. For them, looting and rape were rights of conquest as natural as drinking water or riding a horse.
But a quick walk through the Forest of the Dead was enough for their complaints to turn, quite suddenly, into cooperation.
[King's Landing]
Robert Baratheon barely paid attention to the first messenger who brought the news. He spoke of a man who bathed in blood during battle and impaled his enemies—a man who had filled the landscape with impaled corpses numbering in the thousands. Still, a problem on the other side of the world didn't interest him in the slightest.
But when Varys presented a more detailed report on what was happening in the plains of Essos, the king shifted in his seat with an expression of annoyance.
—Are you telling me some damn foreigner has gathered all the Dothraki under his command? —he growled, gripping the arms of his chair with hands barely visible beneath his large belly.
—Not exactly all of them, my king —Varys replied with his signature enigmatic smile—. But his army already exceeds a hundred thousand riders. And it seems his khaleesi is none other than Daenerys Targaryen.
Robert fell silent for a moment before hurling the wine cup he had been drinking from to the floor.
—The girl? That dragon-spawn? Now she's married to some demon from Essos?
Even across the sea, the stories of the Impaler had reached them. Ned Stark, seated to his right, frowned with visible concern.
—The Dothraki have never crossed the Narrow Sea. They have no ships, nor do they seek them —his voice was firm, but Varys raised a finger before he could continue.
—True. But Vlad Drakul is not a Dothraki. He has proven his capabilities. He's unified the riders through discipline and terror. You've all heard the stories of the Forest of the Dead.
—Tales to frighten children —Pycelle interrupted with disdain.
—My little birds confirm them —Varys insisted, though he could see most still believed it was just a story.
Renly let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.
—The Dothraki following rules? That's a first.
—Indeed, my lord —Varys nodded—. And not only that. He's established contact with merchants in Pentos and Myr. He's resupplying, quite generously I must say.
Robert slammed his mug onto the table, splashing wine across the cloth.
—To hell with the merchants of Essos! If he sets one foot in Westeros, I'll crush him!
But Ned wasn't convinced. He knew his friend had a nasty habit of underestimating his enemies.
—It's not just Daenerys. Eighty thousand unified riders, reorganized… it's more dangerous than you think. What if he acts under Viserys' command? They could be preparing an invasion.
Robert scoffed, brushing the matter aside. In his mind, there was no reason to fear anyone from Essos.
—Keep us informed, spider… and bring me more wine. I'm the king, damn it! —he growled, quickly losing interest and moving on to the next item on the agenda.