[Chapter Size: 3200 Words.]

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Third Person POV

North, 281 AC.

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The Dothraki Sea was not having its calmest days as the threat from the north began to be heard further south, with the Dothraki who managed to escape the disastrous battles they had with the Articans spreading the news.

Khal Mudak, Khal Zorvo, Khal Moro. All fell in battle before this enemy that came from the poisoned water and was now coming after Khal Drogo, approaching Vaes Dothraki.

The women known as the Dosh Khaleen, widows of khals who, like all those who saw their khal die in battle, had to come here, served as prophets and priestesses, holding a spiritual and political role in Dothraki culture—but not a military one.

“So you’re saying that someone is destroying khalasares of 5,000, 40,000, and 60,000 Dothraki with overwhelming victories?” One of the women, most of whom were elderly, spoke.

“Yes, Great Elder of the Dosh Khaleen.” The Dothraki said, after running non-stop from the north to their sacred land. Wanting to inform them, he had survived two battles, originally part of Khal Zorvo’s khalasar before joining Khal Moro’s forces.

Countless companions had done the same, while some had surrendered to the foreigners, offering their arakhs. He fled, unwilling to be part of that group. After Khal Moro’s fall, he came here to inform the sacred city.

“It seems you were right after all.” The elder, leader of the Dosh Khaleen, spoke to an elderly woman among the others, as they sat in a half-moon formation around the young Dothraki.

“I told you…” The named woman said, recalling the vision she had in a dream. “A great white wolf will climb the mountain and take what has been untouched for thousands of years.” She spoke with a tone of mystery.

“What are we really going to do? These are not Dothraki… They are foreigners, invading our lands to hunt the most powerful khal…” One of the other women challenged.

“Before that, tell me, do you recognize this symbol…?” The elder approached the man, stepping away from her main seat while holding out a piece of paper—something Jon had sent weeks ago.

“This… yes, this is the banner of those foreigners! They wear it on their metal clothes…” The Dothraki said.

“…” The woman nodded and returned to her seat with a thoughtful look.

“He is mocking the Dothraki, that outsider came to us without asking… he is a sorcerer!” Another woman said with disgust in her tone.

“This really is suspicious… especially with the reports. Tell me again, Zen, what was the second part of your vision?” The elder turned back to the woman who had the vision.

“No horse can be ridden before the white wolf…” The woman said.

“And you said that all the horses started to fall mysteriously, even the khals were thrown down, unable to ride their mounts.” The elder murmured.

“Yes!!! We all fell without any explanation, while the man atop that giant white wolf advanced with his men, massacring all of us. Only the Dothraki in the last ranks remained untouched.” He reported, while the woman nodded as she listened.

“It seems very strange and surreal, I admit…” The elder murmured, hearing all of this. Clearly, it was something she had never encountered in her life—a foreign group taking the initiative to advance against the Dothraki desert in pursuit of Khal Drogo.

“They are the Articans that Khal Drogo declared he would destroy, so it seems reasonable to think they are taking the initiative to come here to destroy him…” The elder said in a thoughtful tone. Then her gaze returned to the Dothraki.

“You may go.” She said as the man left, with the other women—more than forty of them—watching the elder, seeking answers.

“I know what you’re all thinking…” She commented before anyone could speak. “But we need to see what this foreigner truly wants.”

“He is coming to our sacred land. He is a foreigner, as you said—he will not respect our customs, and there will be as much bloodshed as there will be death in Vaes Dothraki.” A woman spoke from the side.

“Yes… but we cannot stop them now with two powerful khalasares destroyed…” the elder said.

“What will we do then, Elder?” A young woman murmured with some fear.

“We will have to call the only powerful Khal here, along with the lesser ones… Khal Drogo is around Vaes Dothraki, trying to conquer all the smaller khalasares to join him.” The elder said.

“But this man who rides the giant wolf… He can bring everyone down from their horses…” Another commented.

“Yes… if Khal Drogo falls from his horse, it will be a shame for the rest of his life. But we have no choice either way—the foreigner is after that Khal. We will just anticipate their meeting.” The elder said.

“He seems to be mocking us.” An old woman said angrily.

“It doesn’t matter now.” The elder reinforced. “Now we need to send a messenger to Khal Drogo in the south.” She said as all agreed.

Meanwhile, in the north.

“So this is the Mountain of Bones, near Vaes Dothraki at last.” Jon commented, with the desert sun beating against his face as he analyzed the peaks ahead. They were just a day away.

“Yes, Great Khal, Vaes Dothraki is just behind it.” A Dothraki spoke. He wore the traditional attire of his people but carried a sword of eldenmetal at his waist.

Unfortunately, this military campaign would not be without losses. Three thousand Articans had fallen in battle. With no choice, Jon distributed weapons to the Dothraki who wished to replace their arakhs with the weapons his soldiers wielded, and many accepted. The armor, however, would be sent back to their families in Artica.

“Do not call me Great Khal. I am not a Dothraki. But good to know, we are finally arriving. Now you can return to the troops.” Jon said at the end in the Dothraki language. The man nodded and stepped away, though he was not very pleased to hear those words from Jon. He did not show it, however—for those who had offended Jon were already dead.

“You know he won’t be the last to call you that…” Seryna commented beside Jon, as he sighed.

“I know… unfortunately.” Jon replied.

After all, everyone called him “Great Khal,” even though he had never asked for such a title. The Dothraki who had surrendered to him throughout the battles had given him that name, and Jon could see that it was a sign of respect for his strength as a warrior, rider, and the master of a giant, mythical creature like Ghost.

Moreover, his ability to bring down any horse only reinforced the belief that he was the “Stallion Who Mounts the World,” for he had dominion over all horses in the world, as they used to say.

Some disagreed, arguing that this title should belong to a true Dothraki, not a foreigner. However, what Jon demonstrated went beyond anything the Dothraki had ever seen in their lives. It was no great surprise that they named him as such, even though he was an outsider.

His army had lost 3,000 men in battles since entering these lands, but it still maintained 37,000 soldiers in Artican armor, while 5,000 remained on the ships to the north, along the coast. He was finally reaching his goal.

Jon’s peculiar khalasar, if he could even call it that, had formed with 20,000 men. Despite losing 5,000 in the last battle, it had grown even larger, doubling in size as more warriors knelt before him, declaring their desire to follow him.

But Jon had established his rules with clarity: crimes he deemed unforgivable would be punished by beheading. Furthermore, he began to free all the slaves from the khalasares he conquered. Many of these former slaves chose to follow him, seeing him as a liberator.

Of course, not everyone accepted this change, and Jon had to deal with the discontent. Those who had no choice but still wished to remain fighting by his side joined the army. Now, Jon commanded around 30,000 Dothraki and another 20,000 former slaves—an impressive number. To sustain this new force, he had to use the resources of the very khalasares he had conquered; otherwise, they could not be maintained with the supplies he had brought from the ships, and pillaging cities was not an option for him.

While the Dothraki saw him as a great Khal and wanted to fight by his side, the former slaves considered him a savior, almost seeing him as something divine. Tired of this kind of worship, Jon isolated himself within his army, dealing only with essential matters and avoiding unnecessary interactions with these groups. He had no time to handle strange reverence from this side of the world.

But it was amusing how, once again, he was given the nickname “White Wolf,” now in the Dothraki tongue.

Fortunately, there was no legend here like the one in Artica, where the “Great Protector” was revered in Yi-Ti. However, the Dothraki had begun calling him “The Stallion Who Mounts the World,” a legend that spoke of a man who would conquer the entire world.

Jon, however, did not see this as feasible. He had no desire to conquer the world—it would be too much responsibility. Ruling multiple continents at the same time would be unmanageable, even for him. Furthermore, he knew that as generations passed, corruption and ambition would spread uncontrollably everywhere. A King of Artica would have to handle everything at once, and that would be madness.

Regardless, Jon turned his attention to Seryna, looking directly at her stomach, which had started to grow by a few centimeters.

“How are you? You should be in the cart.” He said.

“You know I am stronger than that. After all, I am a giant—I can withstand the desert… Especially now, with our little one beginning to grow.” She replied.

Jon sighed, nodding, though he did not agree. His eyes returned to the mountains ahead as he moved toward a hill. As he climbed, he analyzed the terrain in front of him, seeing only a few small khalasares in the distance—at most 10,000 people. They seemed to be heading toward Vaes Dothraki, just as he was, but they had not even noticed the approach of Jon’s group.

He then turned his attention back to the sea of men following him. The Artican group had grown to over 90,000 people. Satisfied with this number, Jon resumed leadership and led the group toward Vaes Dothraki, which lay just beyond the mountains.

Meanwhile, in the south…

Khal Drogo was finishing his latest conquest, capturing a khalasar of 15,000 people and adding it to his own army, when a man—who had departed from Vaes Dothraki days earlier—finally managed to reach him. The messenger demanded an audience, claiming to have urgent information about something happening in the north and about the one Drogo sought.

Surprised, Khal Drogo summoned the man to explain further.

“The Dosh Khaleen have sent me to deliver this message about the one you wish to kill.” The man said as he kneeled inside Drogo’s great tent.

The Khal raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The man then pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. Drogo immediately recognized the symbol drawn on it—it was the banner of the man who had stolen his bride, the symbol of Artica. He wanted to take her back, for it was a humiliation to him, and even though he did not know if Daenerys was still with that foreigner or not, he held a certain hope that she was.

“You said he is coming from the north?” Drogo asked, now much more interested.

“Yes! They say he is destroying all the khalasares in his path. Even Khal Moro fell before him. But there are also rumors… They say he is a sorcerer. That he can bring down any horse before him and that he rides a creature larger than anything ever seen in the Dothraki army. Some are saying he is the ‘Great Khal.'”

“Great Khal? Impossible! Khal Drogo is the Great Khal!” One of his bloodriders exclaimed, laughing scornfully at the thought.

“Yes, he is just a mad foreigner who came here to die!” Another warrior mocked.

Khal Drogo, however, simply smiled without saying anything. Then, he stood up with determination.

“Very well… Prepare yourselves to go to death as well! Since he has come to us, I will destroy him.”

“Wait, Khal Drogo! Don’t you even want to hear more information about him? There are important things you should know!” The messenger pleaded, as they all seemed to ignore the part about Jon Artica being a sorcerer.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Drogo shrugged, unconcerned with anything other than destroying that foreigner.

With no other choice, the khalasar began to move. The warriors dismantled the camp to start heading toward the sacred land.

Meanwhile, Drogo left his tent, accompanied by his bloodriders, and walked toward another specific tent—where there was someone he wanted to see one last time if possible.

Drogo entered, and soon he was standing before a man with platinum hair, his body extremely thin and visibly weakened. His skin revealed protruding bones, exposing the deplorable state he was in.

The reality was that Viserys Targaryen was not at the best moment of his life—far worse than ever before. Even in Braavos, he had never fallen this low when he became the beggar king.

He had suffered greatly in the past years, traveling with Khal Drogo, who kept him alive only to extract information on how to destroy his enemy once and for all.

Of course, Viserys had not been a very cooperative prisoner. During his journey with the Dothraki, he constantly demanded things and proclaimed himself a king. This enraged Khal Drogo, who, in a fit of fury, began punishing him to force him into obedience. Madness seemed to have taken over Viserys, and now he was kept almost like a slave by the Khal.

Viserys had lived his last year in fear and torment. He constantly questioned how his life had come to this point, but above all, what grew most inside him was the desire for revenge. He wanted vengeance against those who had put him in this situation—whether it was the Dothraki, his own sister, or that damned Artican king.

“You said you hate that foreigner?” Khal Drogo suddenly spoke, knowing well the hatred Viserys held for the man who had stolen his sister.

Even without hearing the name, Viserys knew exactly who he was talking about. His gaze, though weak, burned with hatred, though he himself wasn’t sure whether that feeling was directed at the Khal before him or at the mentioned enemy.

“You will fight soon.” Khal Drogo continued, watching him with disdain.

“I have wanted to get rid of this thing for some time now. That is why I will put him on the front lines of battle.” Khal spoke to his companions, and they all nodded, sharing the desire to finally kill Viserys.

Viserys remained silent, despite wanting to scream, but he had no strength for it. He knew Khal Drogo well enough to understand that he had only been kept alive for information, but it seemed he was no longer useful.

Drogo then left the tent, preparing to march with his khalasar of 100,000 people.

Two days later…

Jon finally circled around the Mountain of Bones and caught sight of the sacred lands of Vaes Dothrak. The mountains rose around the city, and between them, towering sculptures of giant horses guarded the entrance.

Scattered throughout the area, a dozen khalasares could be seen, each occupying a space within the sacred city. The khals and their warriors had gathered in Vaes Dothrak, and Jon’s presence was quickly noticed. After all, an army of 90,000 warriors, nearly half of them wearing armor, would draw attention anywhere.

However, instead of hostility, Jon noticed that a specific group emerged from the city and advanced directly toward him, passing through all the other khalasares.

In the past few days, no one had dared to challenge him. The sight of Jon and his immense army inspired fear. Some warriors had even shown interest in joining him, but Jon refused. He did not want more Dothraki. Those already at his side would soon become a problem, and he would have to deal with that once Khal Drogo was dead.

Casually, a group of Dothraki approached, led by a woman wearing a black veil among them. It was easy to recognize her as a female figure. They moved cautiously as Jon stepped forward, still mounted on Ghost. The group stopped about ten meters away from him. Around them, tens of thousands of warriors observed the scene with curiosity.

Then, the woman took a step forward and, with a gleam of admiration in her eyes, spoke.

“So, you are the White Wolf everyone speaks of.”

Jon listened to the elderly woman and nodded.

“Well, that is what they call me. But I have a name in Artica. Jon Artica, the Artican King.” He introduced himself.

“Jon Artica… I see.” She murmured. “I am the Elder of the Dosh Khaleen, leader of the priestesses. And I see you have a khaleesi among your people as well.” The woman said, glancing at Seryna, who had removed her helmet but held her war hammer in hand.

“Does that matter? I am not a Dothraki. But he is my husband.” Seryna replied coldly.

“Yes, I know that.” The elder nodded and turned back to Jon. “In any case, you are here for Khal Drogo, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I have two objectives here: to kill Khal Drogo and to take something that is on the mountain in Vaes Dothrak.” Jon replied.

The woman narrowed her eyes for a moment before nodding.

“I understand. We will have to discuss this, but if you enter Vaes Dothrak, you must know that bloodshed is not permitted within the sacred city. Do you agree to this?”

“I know your rules, Elder of the Dosh Khaleen, and I will respect them. But I will not tolerate any man attacking me or my people. Do you understand that?” Jon asked.

“No Dothraki will launch an attack against you while you are in our sacred lands. We will receive you, even if you are foreigners.” The elder assured him. “Besides, you can expect your enemy to come to you. We already knew they were in the south, and we have informed Khal Drogo about your activities in the north. They should be on their way here now. I am certain that a conversation without killing would be a good start before any battle between the two of you.”

“So be it.” Jon replied with a shrug, turning to his men. “We will move forward and set up our camp in this area. We will not fight anyone else for now. In the meantime, I intend to enter the city. I am sure this woman wants to speak with me.”

He spoke calmly as his men began to move. The elder nodded, and thus, Jon finally entered Vaes Dothrak.

————-Nexts Chapters —————-

Chapter 245 – Time to return home.

Chapter 250 – Threat from the North.

Chapter 260 – Divergences in the South.

Chapter 269 – Reunion.

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