The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea (GOT)

Motho's POV

What had he just participated in? Motho had ridden in the dark many times, but never at full speed for an entire night. Horses, like men, lacked good vision in the dark, yet his horse followed the others as if it could see. Drogo should have escaped, he thought, but that was not the case. Khal Rohan's horde rode as though it were daylight. Their horses' eyes glowed like predators in the night, a truly terrifying sight.

Most of the men were exhausted by the time they cornered what remained of Drogo's khalasar—but not Rohan's riders. They looked more bloodthirsty than ever, and their horses seemed crazed. Even in the brief battle, Motho noticed something unnatural: men and horses moved and fought as one. The horses bit and kicked with ferocity, while their riders hacked and swung like madmen.

A change was coming, Motho thought as cheers erupted, breaking his train of thought. Drogo's body, along with two others, was strapped onto a horse. A horde of nearly one hundred thousand now made its way to Vaes Rhaeshisofrak—the City of the Undead.

As Motho surveyed the scene, a voice cut through his thoughts. "Why so quiet, old man?" Khal Rohan asked, his warhorse shaking its head and baring sharp teeth. For a moment, Motho thought the teeth were unnaturally sharp.

"No," Motho replied, steadying himself. "As you say, I am old. Riding through the night is not good for one's health."

The Khal chuckled. "I suppose so. I won't need you to ride into war with me, old man, but you've earned the respect of your men. I want you to protect the cities I take."

"What do you mean?" Motho asked, frowning deeply.

"There are no khalasars larger than mine and yours," Rohan said with intensity. "There is no army more mobile. Yet we have only two cities and no trade. That will change. We are a warrior people—that will never change—but this continent will grow small once it all belongs to me. When I conquer this land, I will look to other horizons."

Motho was dumbfounded, trying to process the young Khal's ambition.

The City of the Undead

Five river ships floated uneasily at the docks of Vaes Rhaeshisofrak, unable to dock due to hundreds of Dothraki archers with bows trained on them. Onboard one of the ships stood Illyrio Mopatis, a rotund man in lavish silks with a distinctive blonde beard. He nervously observed the situation, reflecting on how he had lost track of the Targaryens before learning they had been handed over to the new power in the Dothraki Sea.

Beside him was Caggo, a Dothraki sellsword clad in tanned leather and armed with a Valyrian steel arakh. Illyrio had hired the Windblown and specifically requested Caggo's assistance.

"Ever seen anything like this?" Illyrio asked.

Caggo scoffed. "No self-respecting Khal would live behind walls."

Before Illyrio could reply, a voice shouted from the crow's nest. "Dust clouds from the gates! Someone's returning!"

Khal Rohan's POV

Riders approached me at the gates. "My Khal, ships at the docks seek a meeting. We've kept them at bay," a young rider reported. He looked about my age, and I wondered what people thought of me—a mere eighteen-year-old making such waves.

"Help the white-haired boy and ensure Bejan and Braga get whatever they need. They fought well," I ordered before riding toward the docks.

Minutes later, I stood before five ships. "Someone fetch Maria; I'll need her to translate," I said to a nearby Dothraki. As my people carried out my orders, a voice rang out in Dothraki from one of the ships.

"Black-skinned Khal, I seek an audience. I am Caggo, a Dothraki."

Hearing this from a man who was clearly cast out of his khalasar, I took a deep breath and raised my hand, signaling my warriors to lower their bows. Seeing this, a ship approached the shore.

I watched as a portly man disembarked, followed by the Dothraki with a braid adorned with a golden bell. As the man began to speak, I cut him off. "You cut it off," I said coldly, staring at the scarred man.

He looked stunned before anger twisted his features. "Who do you think—"

"I am the Khal of the Great Grass Sea," I interrupted. "The Khal of Khals. Slayer of Drogo, the Undying. I am the Stallion Who Will Bring This Continent to Heel. And you," I said, my voice steady, "are no Dothraki."

The man glared at me in disbelief. "You lie."

I turned my horse and began to ride toward the city square. The fat man, the outcast, and two others carrying a wooden box followed in silence.

The Transformation

In the city square, my people gathered as the bodies of Drogo, Jommo, and Moro were laid out. The sky turned an unnatural red, and an eerie silence fell over the square. Suddenly, screams and the clash of swords echoed through the air.

Dullahan reared up with a horrific screech as black, inky shadows engulfed him—and me. I panicked, drawing my arakh, but the darkness consumed everything.

The same shadows spread to my bloodriders and their mounts. My people watched in horror as the transformation unfolded. The horses became massive, inky-black beasts, and my bloodriders bore dark, skeletal tattoos.

Ahead of me, a throne of bones appeared. As I approached, it shifted into a chariot of bones pulled by four black horses. Reluctantly, I stepped onto the chariot.

The moment my feet settled, a voice echoed in my mind: "You have served us well, Undying Khal. The horde is yours to lead."

The inky substance retreated, revealing my people marked by shadows. Among them, Daenerys emerged. Her once-silver hair had turned jet black, her pale skin contrasted starkly, and her violet eyes now slit like a reptile's.

As I stood in shock, Dullahan neighed loudly, snapping me from my daze. I stepped onto the chariot, feeling a connection to every soul in my horde. With one command, I spoke: "Come."

Over sixty thousand heads turned toward me in unison.

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