The wilderness before dawn was a symphony of chaos. The noise of ninety thousand assembled Meereenese forces tore through the cold morning air, a cacophony of desperation and fear. Yet, it was less an army and more a mob, forcibly conscripted and poorly organized, their cohesion fragile at best.
Fifty thousand slave soldiers, huddled like cattle in a pen, trudged forward. Their eyes were glazed and vacant, the life seemingly drained from them long before the war began. Rusted spears clutched in trembling hands, leather armor tattered and cracked, they emitted the sour stench of sweat, filth, and sheer terror. Every movement was hesitant, hesitant enough to reveal that discipline had long been forgotten.
The other forty thousand, the so-called free men, fared no better. Chaos marked their ranks. Craftsmen, dockworkers, and petty merchants armed with short swords and crude shields shouted over one another, pushing, shoving, and jostling as if their weapons were lifelines to a fate they barely understood. Their formation resembled nothing so much as a muddy river, tumbling and twisting unpredictably.
Above them, on the high platform, Zach Zo Glaz was a grotesque figure of bluster and greed. His obese body, wrapped in a golden tokha robe, swayed with every gesture, every arm wave sending ripples across folds of fat. Spittle flew as he roared, exhorting the free men to fight for the riches he could not secure himself.
"Free citizens of Meereen! Fortune and glory await!" he bellowed. "Crush those savages on the steppes! Their women and their gold will all be yours! After victory, each of you will receive a manor and one hundred gold coins!"
The promise of wealth brought intermittent, greedy cheers. His gaze, deliberate and telling, ignored the fifty thousand slave soldiers entirely, lingering only on the free men whose loyalty could be purchased for the right sum.
Meanwhile, beneath the cover of darkness along the docks, another scene quietly unfolded. A caravan of carriages, disguised as merchant wagons, silently moved under the watchful escort of Zach's most trusted confidants. Packed with gold, jewels, and treasures accumulated over generations, the wealth of the Glaz family slowly disappeared from the city—along with the members of the family deemed most precious. The convoy was heading away from the battlefield, toward the waiting ships, leaving behind only chaos.
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On the coalition's flanks, however, order prevailed. The forces commanded by Sidara Nachen and allied families, particularly the Pals, were arranged in precise, disciplined formations. Soldiers polished their weapons, checking leather straps and steel edges. Each move was deliberate, measured, and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos of the central army.
Hidara Naqian's amber eyes, sharp and calculating, followed Zach Zo Glaz's stage-like display with cold amusement.
"Uncle, look," he murmured to the patriarch of the Naqian family, who stood beside him with worry etched deep on his face.
"That will be Meereen's funeral," Hidara said softly. "And we will be the ushers of a new era."
His voice contained no fear, only the cool, detached rationality of a surgeon preparing for the inevitable, coupled with absolute confidence in the execution of the plan they had set in motion.
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As the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, a dark line appeared in the distance. It began as a thin streak but quickly thickened into a wave of black, the shadow of a hundred thousand horses moving as one. The silent iron tide pressed inexorably toward the Meereenese forces, a disciplined, terrifying force that dwarfed the disorder of their opponents.
The army of Damian Thorne, the Dragon King's elite, advanced with deadly precision. There were no war cries, no frantic shouting, only the synchronized pounding of hooves—like the drumbeats of hell—resonating through the hearts of the terrified Meereenese. The oppressive sound silenced the wind itself, leaving only the rising tension of an inevitable slaughter.
"Charge! Charge!" Zach shouted, his voice cracking as panic began to creep in. He waved his arms wildly, issuing nonsensical orders, but the disorganized army around him was incapable of responding coherently.
The ninety thousand-strong coalition surged forward in chaotic waves, a pile of overturned sand more than a fighting force. But Damian Thorne's army did not meet them head-on. Like two gleaming scimitars, under the command of Dhaka and Ma Zhuo, cavalry units of over ten thousand each separated from the main body, circling swiftly to strike the weak flanks of the Meereenese formation.
"Shoot! Shoot!" the nobles at the center screamed. A scattering of arrows hissed through the air, but they merely glanced off the polished armor of the Dothraki. Shields remained unnecessary; speed and precision were the true weapons.
In the next heartbeat, carnage erupted. The Dothraki arakhs carved arcs of death, slicing through leather, flesh, and bone with devastating ease. Warhorses struck with the force of battering rams, knocking soldiers aside like rag dolls. The flanks of the coalition disintegrated almost immediately, pierced before the army could even engage fully.
"Support! Flank! Sidara! Pal! What are you doing?" Zach's voice screamed across the battlefield, panic overtaking his usual bluster. The collapse of the flanks was catastrophic.
But no help came.
At that critical moment, Hidara Naqian, positioned on the right wing, acted with surgeon-like precision. His spear did not point toward the enemy; it pointed to the side—toward the Weizhu family phalanx.
"For the new era," he said calmly.
"Charge!"
At his command, thousands of elite soldiers of the Naqian family, trained, disciplined, and loyal only to their own, turned on their so-called allies. Like a poisoned dagger, they pierced the backs of their former comrades without hesitation.
Simultaneously, the Parr family forces acted. Chaos erupted. Soldiers froze, staring in disbelief as swords descended from the hands of their supposed allies. The word betrayal ricocheted across the battlefield like a thunderclap, infecting the army with panic.
"Run! We've been betrayed!"
Slave soldiers, already unwilling to fight, dropped weapons and fled in waves. Freemen, witnessing the sudden treachery, saw their morale shatter like glass. Within minutes, the ninety thousand-strong force dissolved from a semblance of an army into a fleeing mass, driven by fear and confusion.
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High above, nearly ten thousand meters in the sky, a colossal black dragon circled silently. Damian Thorne's golden vertical pupils scanned the battlefield below with divine indifference. He did not roar, he did not breathe fire, nor did he intervene directly. Every move below was orchestrated subtly, manipulating the airflow, nudging the cavalry to encircle and annihilate. The battlefield was a chessboard, and he was the unseen hand guiding every lethal piece.
The slaughter was inevitable. The Dothraki dispatched the remaining Meereenese forces with minimal effort, turning the chaotic retreat into a systematic massacre.
Amid the chaos, Zach Zo Glaz, desperate and sweating, finally mounted a horse under the protection of a few personal guards. Ecstasy lit his face as a servant ran alongside, shouting, "Sir! The boat is ready! Let's go!"
For a fleeting moment, hope bloomed in Zach's heart. Escape was possible—if he could only reach the docks.
But death was faster.
From the side, a scimitar flashed like lightning, and the blade cut through the air with deadly precision. Zach's ecstatic grin froze mid-expression as the weapon severed his head from his body.
The massive form of his corpse collapsed from the horse, rolling onto the ground in a grotesque display. Blood spattered, glinting in the morning sun, as Ma Zhuo raised Zach's dripping head high.
"Zach is dead!" he roared, a sound that echoed across the battlefield and silenced any remaining resistance.
The last noble private armies surrendered instantly, seeing their leader dead. The plain became a graveyard. Tens of thousands of corpses littered the earth, and the remaining survivors were rounded up and driven to kneel like lambs at the mercy of their victors, shivering in the autumn wind.
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Amid the carnage, Hidara Naqian adjusted his armor, calm and composed, and led his personal guards to the forefront of Damian Thorne's forces. He dismounted and knelt, holding up the severed head of one of the great lords in both hands. Beside him, three more heads dangled from saddles, grim trophies of betrayal and strategy executed with ruthless precision. His amber eyes, calm and unreadable, reflected the enormity of their victory.
The battlefield, now quiet except for the wind and the faint whimpers of prisoners, lay under the shadow of a new order. Damian Thorne had won without even needing to leave the sky. Meereen, in all its chaos, greed, and betrayal, had delivered itself into his hands.
The dawn of the Dragon King's era had arrived.
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