- 27 章內容
- 評分
- NO.200+鼎力相助
Synopsis: The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea Born into a war-torn country, a boy’s earliest memories are a grim mosaic of violence, hunger, and despair. His mother, a battered and broken teenager, shielded him from hyenas, soldiers, and starvation at great personal cost, her screams and tears becoming the soundtrack of his childhood. For seven long years, he grappled with a bleak truth: survival often demanded cruelty, and humanity seemed devoid of hope. By the time he was a teenager, the boy had become a seasoned hunter, scavenger, and child soldier. Among the corpses of fallen soldiers, he learned to wield weapons, scavenging not just for sustenance but for purpose. Over time, he built a grim kingdom of his own—leading a horde of dead-eyed children, sold to him in exchange for scraps of food. The atrocities he committed—the razed villages, the military outposts he obliterated, the screams of the innocent—haunted him less than the knowledge that his actions were part of a cycle of survival. But in the depths of his despair, amidst the chaos of war, an unlikely glimmer of humanity emerged: a book. A dying soldier, whose face had been melted by white phosphorus, handed him a copy of A Game of Thrones and a pilgrim began to teach him how to read. For the first time, the boy found something that transcended the horrors of his existence. Yet, as he burned alive during an airstrike, his final regret was not the lives he had taken or the pain he had endured, but that he would never finish the book. In this harrowing tale of survival and loss, The Undead Horde Of The Great Grass Sea explores the resilience of the human spirit and the fragile threads of hope that can emerge even in the darkest of places.
The Birth of the Undead Khal
Rhythmic chanting and drumming rang out, echoing through the cavern. It was too loud. Why were the Sangomas (witch doctors) so loud today? Born in an African country, the young man was used to chanting. Rituals had been performed on him before, though he never believed in them.
I remember burning. I survived that stuff... bullshit.
A scream broke through his thoughts, the drumming intensifying, followed by even more unsettling chanting. "Damn it, they're loud," he muttered, looking around. Bodies lay scattered across the floor, some groaning, others eerily still. Most were scarred and clad in rags, though a few wore leather pants and short ponytails.
He pushed himself up, his chest burning in pain. Looking down, he saw a puncture wound. Before he could gather his thoughts, a cold hand gripped his arm. A woman, barely clinging to life, stared into his eyes. Her dark skin was streaked with blood, and she was almost cleaved in half.
"Run… run, Rohan. Escape," she whispered, her words foreign yet perfectly understood.
Without hesitation, the boy leaned in, embracing her battered form. Gently caressing her curly hair, he twisted her neck with a swift motion, ending her suffering. The sharp snap echoed through the cave, alerting the chanting shaman.
The shaman, wearing a horse's skull adorned with feathers, turned to face him. His necklace of predator fangs rattled as he approached, unsheathing a curved sword. The boy's eyes narrowed. His hand found a small carving knife on the woman's body.
The shaman raised his sword, but before he could swing, the boy flicked his wrist, sending the knife flying. It pierced the shaman's eye, driving into his brain. He dropped instantly.
The boy stood, assessing his surroundings. His chest wound wasn't fatal, though his emaciated frame caught his attention. He hadn't been this skinny since he was seven. Stretching his body, he scavenged the shaman's belongings. He took the skull headdress, the necklace of fangs, and a small pouch containing dried meat and gold coins. The curved sword replaced his knife, heavier but serviceable.
Stepping out of the cave, he was met with the sight of men drinking and women dancing, though some women were chained and collared. To him, it wasn't shocking—just another day in hell.
A drunk man with a ponytail spat out something that caught his attention: "Braavosi merchants don't go this far southeast anymore."
His sudden appearance silenced the crowd. The men stared at the skinny boy wearing the shaman's headdress, anger and confusion etched on their faces.
"Take me to your leader," he demanded in their language.
Shouts erupted, men questioning the shaman's fate.
"He's dead," the boy said coldly. "Now take me to whoever's in charge, or I'll cut my way there."
Two men charged him. With practiced precision, he flicked his carving knife into one's throat and sidestepped the other's swing, delivering a fatal blow to the back of his neck. Picking up the fallen man's sword, he turned to the most imposing figure among them.
The man spat and drew his blade, approaching slowly. As they squared off, the boy ducked under a flying sword, countering with a second curved blade that cleaved half the man's head, exposing his brain. The remaining men froze, shocked.
"Take me to your leader," the boy repeated.
A chained woman pointed toward a large tent. The boy murmured, "Good," as he picked up the man's sword and strode toward the tent.
The crowd whispered in awe. "He killed a blood rider… Who is he?"
An older, dark-skinned man among the slaves suddenly cried out, "Rohan Sunak! Rohan Sunak!" The boy paused, looking back.
The old man ran toward him but was tackled by one of the remaining warriors. Without hesitation, the boy approached, severing the warrior's head with a single stroke.
"They have your sister, Rohan. She's with the Khal," the old man said breathlessly.
The word Khal struck him. Recognition dawned. Game of Thrones. He laughed.
"Who's the Khal?" he asked.
"Khal Phiro," the old man replied.
The boy roared, his voice echoing across the camp. "Phiro! You sniveling coward! Face me, you shit-eating horse-fucking scum!"
Two men emerged from the tent, followed by a tall, muscular man—the Khal. Phiro laughed as he spotted the boy.
"Ah, the small boy rises from the dead. Looking for your sister? Don't worry. She'll soon birth a great stallion," Phiro taunted.
The boy's lips curled into a sneer. "No, you misunderstand. I'm taking your khalasar. I'll rip your heart out and throw your body into the sea. Now come at me—or don't bother."
He charged. The two blood riders moved to intercept but fell swiftly—one killed with a blade through the chin, the other with a strike to the back of the skull.
The Khal, now trembling, stepped forward. He tried to speak, but the boy's blade flew at his head. Ducking, Phiro barely deflected it, only to be brought to his knees by a kick.
The boy snapped the Khal's thumb, drove his fingers into his eye sockets, and left him writhing on the ground. Grabbing a dagger from a nearby corpse, he sliced Phiro's tendons, leaving him immobile.
Before the shocked khalasar, the boy gutted Phiro, spreading his chest open to reveal his beating heart. As Phiro screamed, the boy tore it out, holding it aloft.
"I am a man of my word," he declared, blood dripping from his hands.
The slaves cheered. The Dothraki warriors murmured in awe, their gazes shifting. Five of the strongest warriors knelt before him, offering their blades. "Blood of my blood," they said.
Rohan, the new Khal, turned his back on them. "Food and sleep. Make it happen."
He walked to the tent where his supposed sister was held. The girl, heavily pregnant, stared at him in fear.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Removing the headdress, he met her gaze. "I am Kwaze Kahle… or I was. Now I am Rohan Sunak. Watch over me—I'm done for the night."
He collapsed, adrenaline finally leaving his body. That night, the weakest khalasar in the Great Grass Sea saw the birth of the Undead Khal—Rohan the Undying, Rohan the Black, and Rohan of the Bone Men. History had begun for the Undying Horde.
Current count
Fighters:200 Dothraki riders
Slaves:400 Slaves
Horses:600 Horses
Thought id write another Fan fic im not stopping my first one im just deciding to over work myself before why not and at the start of 2025 ill be writing and original piece i hope ill get eyes on that one too
