chapter 20 killing more khals

Three days. Three dead khals.

Khal Ogo, Khal Jhaqo, and Khal Pono—each of them legends in their own right, leading vast khalasars of 10,000 to 15,000 riders. Yet all fell before me, their blood staining the ground, their heads severed by my blades. Their warriors now march under my banner, swelling my forces to an overwhelming 65,000 strong. It's an army that could burn a large city and its populace to the ground —and I intend to do just that.

And with every fallen khal, their riches become mine. I have 2.5 million gold, mountains of silver and copper spilling out of my chests. I laugh as I think of it. The wealth, the power—it's all mine. Soon, everything will be and all i gotta do is kill some fools greedy enough to come for mine while betting theirs.

Today, another fool approaches.

As I stand outside my tent, I see the horizon ripple with the approach of yet another khalasar. Dust rises like smoke in the distance. This one is even larger than the others—30,000 men it looks like. Their numbers stretch far, a tidal wave of Dothraki riders moving as one. Soon, they are close enough that I can see the leader and his four riders break away, coming toward me.

Their leader halts, a cruel smile cutting across his face. "I am Khal Bharbo," he declares, his voice sharp like a blade. "I am here to take your head, your gold, and your army. When this is over, all the khalasars will kneel before me." His eyes gleam with savage intent.

I study him for a moment, my gaze shifting to the riders behind him—and that's when I see Drogo, the one who will change everything. My lips curl into a smile.

"I accept your challenge, Khal Bharbo," I say, my voice steady, a predator's smile forming. "But when I win, I will take your head, kill your bloodriders, and take your son, Drogo, as my own bloodrider." I point at Drogo, locking eyes with the son of soon to be a fallen khal.

Bharbo's grin falters for a heartbeat as he looks at his son, doubt creeping in. But pride is a chain heavier than gold, and he's a slave to it. "Then it is decided. The victor takes all."

He dismounts, his three bloodriders following him like loyal hounds. But Drogo stays on his horse, watching with the cold indifference of a man who's seen death up close too many times to care.

I unsheathe my twin long swords, each weighing 100 pounds, each blade the length of a man. The ground trembles beneath me as I move. Bharbo and his bloodriders ready themselves—but it's already too late for them.

I charge. My blades flash in the sun, a blur of steel and death. Before Bharbo's men can even raise their weapons, their heads are rolling on the ground, their bodies crumpling like broken puppets. Blood splashes the earth, and in mere seconds, it's over.

I stand among the dead, their bodies still twitching, and look at Khal Drogo. His face remains unreadable, but his eyes—there's something there. Recognition. Understanding.

"From this moment, you are my bloodrider," I say, my voice strong, speaking in perfect Dothraki. "Do you have any objections?"

Drogo dismounts slowly, deliberately, like a lion assessing another predator. He's huge—nearly as big as Gregor Clegane, with the same raw, brutal strength carved into his flesh. He steps closer, towering over most men, but I stand my ground, unyielding.

"My father was weak," he says, his voice deep, reverberating with power. "That is why he fell. I will follow you, as the bloodriders before followed my father." He bows his head—not out of submission, but out of respect for strength.

I sheath my swords and turn, leading him into my tent. "Good. Now, tell me everything about my new army."

Inside, I pour two glasses of whiskey, the firelight casting a warm glow on the golden liquid. Drogo takes the glass, eyeing it with curiosity. He sips, and his eyes widen with surprise.

"What is this?" he asks, astonishment flashing across his hard face. "I've never tasted anything like it."

I smirk. "Whiskey. My own invention. I'm surprised you haven't come across it yet—we've been selling it in Essos for months, though only to the richest merchants and nobles. It seems even they haven't shared it widely enough yet."

He takes another sip, clearly savoring the unfamiliar taste. "It is good, my khal."

I lean back, watching him closely. "Now, tell me about my new men."

Drogo straightens, his tone all business now. "You command 35,000 riders, my khal. Along with them are 15,000 women, children, and elders—50,000 in total. Adding them to the men you've already taken, you now have 95,000 riders and 55,000 civilians under your rule."

Guess his father did his research on my forces I think to myself grinning

I tap my fingers against the table, calculating in my head. "That's too many to roam the Dothraki Sea freely. We'll need a city. Or take one." I glance out toward the horizon, my thoughts turning to Astapor. It's the perfect place to start.

Drogo nods. "There are still two dozen more khals who heard of your challenge. They will come soon, driven by greed and pride. The smaller khals—those with only a few hundred soldiers—will avoid you out of fear. But the larger ones will come, knowing that to refuse would be to admit they are weak. They will come, thinking they can beat you." He smirks slightly, a rare glimmer of emotion. "They are wrong."

I smile. "You understand them well. It's why I'll trust you to oversee my forces. I want an exact count of everyone under my rule. In two weeks, I will finish what I've started, and then we march on Astapor."

"As you command, my khal," Drogo says, bowing his head once more before he turns and leaves the tent.

As I sit alone, emptying my whiskey back in its bottle and pouting myself a cup of apple juice, I can't help but laugh. The sound echoes in the quiet of the night, sending a shiver through the guards outside. These Dothraki—they only respect strength. They can watch their fathers die and, without hesitation, submit before the man who did it. Loyalty? Honor? Those are for weaker men. Here, only power matters. And I have more than enough of it.

I crush men with my bare hands. I break armies with a glance. I don't need finesse or strategy when brute strength is enough. But even brute strength has its art. I'm carving my own path, my own style, in this world of blood and fire. What is theirs will be mine, and none can stand against me.

I laugh again, louder this time scaring the guards outside even more sounding like a maniac already exited for tommorow wanting to kill more and gain more from my fallen enemies.

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Hope yall enjoy this chapter since it's still about four years before the start of the show i thought khal drogos father might still be alive and I wanted someone like drogo in the mcs bloodrider group