One Year Later - Vaes Zaldri
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The city had transformed.
Where once there had been crude Dothraki monuments and scattered encampments, now there stood organized districts with proper infrastructure—barracks for the warriors, training grounds for the various military divisions, crafting halls where smiths worked dragon-forged materials, and residential quarters where families had begun to take root.
Families. That was perhaps the most significant change of all.
The first Dragonborn eggs had hatched eight months ago, producing children who emerged from their shells with scales already forming across their skin and eyes that held the slitted pupils of their parents. The celebration had lasted three days, with every division of the Wyrmborne—Angelus's chosen name for her people as a collective whole—participating in festivities that marked the beginning of a new generation.
The Draconian births had followed shortly after, their live births producing infants who retained more human features but showed clear signs of their draconic heritage: partial scales, pointed ears, and the occasional tail or wing-nubs that would develop further as they grew.
Angelus surveyed her domain from her preferred perch atop the central tower, her massive form now notably larger than it had been a year ago. Her horns had grown to their full extent—sweeping backward from her skull in elegant curves that caught the morning light, marking her unmistakably as a creature of ancient power restored to her proper magnificence. Her crimson scales gleamed with health, and her magma-like tail pulsed with the steady rhythm of volcanic fire contained within draconic flesh.
We've come far, she thought, her golden eyes tracking the movement of troops through the streets below. But we have further yet to go.
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The Wyvern Evolution
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Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch had grown significantly during the year of preparation.
Balerion now approached the size that historical records attributed to his previous incarnation at the height of its power—not quite there yet, but close enough that witnesses who had heard the old stories couldn't help but draw comparisons. His black scales had deepened to an almost absolute darkness, broken only by the crimson highlights that ran along his spine and wing edges. His crown of horns had developed fully, giving him the regal, terrifying appearance that had once made the original Black Dread the most feared creature in the known world.
When he flew, his shadow could swallow entire city blocks.
Mikhail's transformation had been more elegant but no less impressive. Her sleek white form had matured into something approaching perfection—mother-of-pearl scales that shifted colors in the light, golden-trimmed wing membranes that caught the sun like precious metal, and a whip-like tail ending in dark blade-fins that could slice through armor as easily as flesh. Most notably, her horns had finally emerged: graceful golden curves that swept back from her skull and matched her golden claws, completing the aesthetic of a creature that seemed almost too beautiful to be a weapon of war.
She remained devoted to Angelus, rarely straying far from her mother-figure's presence, but her combat capabilities had grown to match her loyalty.
Enoch had developed into a balanced powerhouse—not as large as Balerion or as graceful as Mikhail, but possessing a versatility that made him formidable in any situation. His deep green scales now covered a body that could transition seamlessly between aerial dominance and ground assault, and his bronze-gold wing membranes had strengthened to support increasingly aggressive maneuvers. His yellow-gold spines had lengthened into proper weapons, and his tail had developed a club-like formation that could shatter stone.
He still awaited a rider bond, patient as ever, but his protective instincts toward Daenerys had only deepened with time.
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The Beast Training Challenges
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The Z-Rexes had proven... difficult.
"The fire variant nearly ate three handlers last week," Drogo reported during the morning council, his deep voice carrying the frustration of someone who had spent months trying to establish proper control protocols. "The frost one is marginally better—it responds to commands about half the time—but the poison variant has developed what I can only describe as a malicious sense of humor. It deliberately vents toxic gas whenever handlers approach, then watches them scramble for safety."
Angelus sighed. "They're predators with intelligence levels approaching sapience. They're not going to accept Wyrmborne authority the way horses or even Drakes do—they need to be convinced that cooperation serves their interests."
"How do we convince a forty-foot carnivore that following orders is in its best interest?"
"The same way you convince any intelligent creature: demonstrate that defiance has consequences they don't want to face, and that cooperation brings rewards they do want." Angelus's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I've been working with them personally when time permits. They're learning—slowly—that I am considerably more dangerous than they are, and that pleasing me results in magical treats that accelerate their growth. Give them another few months, and they'll be reliable enough for deployment."
The D-Raptors had been easier, though not without their own challenges. Their pack mentality made them more amenable to hierarchy, but their intelligence also meant they required mental stimulation to prevent behavioral problems. The solution had been to incorporate them into scouting operations, where their speed and agility could be utilized while satisfying their need for activity and purpose.
Daenerys had bonded with one of the fire variants—a female she'd named Swiftclaw—during the early months of training. The raptor had taken to her immediately, recognizing something kindred in the dragon-blooded woman, and now served as her primary ground mount when aerial transportation wasn't appropriate.
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The Champions
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Jhogo had risen through the ranks.
The young warrior who had first discovered Angelus wounded and dying in the grasslands had become one of the most formidable fighters in the Wyrmborne. His green scales—marking him as one of the rare poison-element Dragonborn—had deepened to an almost emerald shade, and his toxic breath had developed to the point where he could melt steel with a sustained exhalation.
His equipment reflected his status: custom armor crafted from drake scales and reinforced with troll hide, fitted perfectly to his transformed physique. His primary weapon was a curved blade similar to an arakh but longer and heavier, forged from Valyrian steel and enhanced with draconic runes that made each strike carry a corrosive edge. A secondary dagger hung at his hip, and a heavy crossbow—modified for his enhanced strength—was strapped across his back.
Sho'keth, his unique teal-and-gold poison Drake, had grown alongside him. The creature now stood nearly as large as Drogo's Drakkarion, its feather-like crests having developed into proper fins that could slice through air or flesh with equal efficiency. The bond between rider and mount had deepened to the point where they moved as a single organism in combat, their attacks coordinated with an instinctive precision that no training could replicate.
When Angelus had formally elevated Jhogo to the rank of Champion—equal to Drogo in military authority—the celebration had lasted two days. The first-generation Dragonborn who had followed their khal into transformation now had two leaders to look up to: Drogo, the original champion whose bond with Balerion made him the most feared aerial combatant in Essos, and Jhogo, the scout who had risen from discovery to glory through skill and dedication.
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The Army Survey
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Angelus called the full assembly on a morning that promised perfect weather for a long march.
The Wyrmborne gathered in formations that demonstrated how far they had come from the chaotic Dothraki horde that had first bent the knee to a wounded dragon. Dragonborn warriors stood in disciplined ranks, their scales gleaming in the sunlight, their armor fitted perfectly to their transformed bodies. Draconian soldiers filled the positions behind them, their partial features marking them as human/dragon hybrids but their martial bearing leaving no doubt about their combat readiness.
The Drake cavalry waited at the flanks—three hundred riders mounted on creatures that combined the best qualities of horses and dragons. Fire Drakes with crimson scales, Frost Drakes with ice-blue hides, Poison Drakes with green-and-gold patterns, and the occasional Acid Drake whose rare black coloration marked them as something special.
The D-Raptors formed swift-strike units, their riders perched atop saddles designed for the creatures' unique body structure. Swiftclaw stood near the front, Daenerys mounted and ready, her equipment arranged with practiced efficiency: bastard sword at her hip, whip coiled at her other side, dagger sheathed at her thigh, spear/glaive secured to her saddle, and heavy crossbow loaded and ready for one-handed use.
The Z-Rexes waited at the rear, their massive forms towering over everything except Angelus herself. The Fire Rex's purple-maroon scales gleamed with barely contained aggression, the Poison Rex's greenish hide vented occasional wisps of toxic vapor, and the Frost Rex's crystalline formations glittered like diamonds in the morning light. Their handlers—selected for their combination of courage and magical affinity—maintained careful control through a combination of mental discipline and the promise of rewards for good behavior.
Siege equipment rolled on massive wheels: trebuchets designed from Angelus's memories of superior engineering, battering rams reinforced with dragon-forged metal, and siege towers that could deploy warriors directly onto enemy walls. The Draconian mages who would support the assault stood in organized groups, their staffs topped with focusing crystals that amplified their developing abilities.
And above it all, Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch circled in formation, their shadows passing over the assembled army like the promise of devastation to come.
Angelus surveyed her forces with golden eyes that missed nothing.
"Wyrmborne!" Her telepathic voice resonated through every mind present. "For a year, we have trained. We have grown. We have built something that this world has never seen—an army that combines the ferocity of dragons with a soldier's discipline, the power of magic with coordinated tactics. Today, we put that training to the test."
She paused, letting the anticipation build.
"Yunkai has defied us. They have refused our offers of peaceful integration, relied on their walls and their sellswords, and believed that their wealth would protect them from consequences. They were wrong."
Her voice dropped to something almost intimate, reaching each warrior as if she spoke to them alone.
"Are you ready for war?"
The response was immediate and overwhelming.
"WYRMBORNE!"
The roar came from thousands of throats—Dragonborn and Draconian alike—accompanied by the deeper bellows of Drakes and Z-Rexes, the screeches of D-Raptors, and the thunderous cries of the three wyverns overhead. The sound rolled across the grasslands like a physical force, carrying for miles in every direction.
"Then we march!"
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The March
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The army moved in coordinated order, each unit falling into its designated position as the column stretched across the landscape like a serpent of scale and steel.
Drogo rode at the front of the vanguard, mounted on Drakkarion, his masterwork griffin-material armor gleaming in the sunlight. His arakh hung at his side alongside the additional weapons he'd learned to carry—a heavy crossbow, throwing axes, and a backup blade for close-quarters combat. Balerion flew overhead, the black wyvern's shadow passing over his bonded rider.
Jhogo commanded the scout elements, his green scales and teal Drake marking him as something unique even among the diverse forces. His scouts ranged ahead on their D-Raptors, the swift creatures covering ground that would take horses three times as long, their riders trained to observe without being observed.
Jorah rode near Daenerys, his black Draconian scales catching the light with an obsidian gleam. His enhanced Valyrian steel sword—etched with draconic runes—hung at his hip, and his upgraded armor of griffin materials and troll hide fit his transformed body like a second skin. A year of service had erased any lingering doubts about his loyalty; he was Wyrmborne now, as committed to their cause as any native-born warrior.
And high above them all, invisible beyond the clouds, Angelus flew.
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Daenerys's consciousness warmed with affection. "<>"
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Drogo, Jhogo, and Jorah rode together during one of the brief rest periods, their mounts positioned close enough for conversation.
"A year ago, I was still thinking like a khal," Drogo said, his deep voice contemplative. "Raids and glory, blood and conquest. I thought power meant having the most warriors, the fastest horses, the sharpest blades."
"And now?" Jhogo asked, his younger voice carrying genuine curiosity.
"Now I understand that power means controlling the terms of engagement. Having warriors is nothing if they fight without coordination. Speed means nothing if you don't know where to go. And blades..." He glanced up at where Balerion soared overhead, a smile crossing his scaled features. "Blades are nothing compared to dragonfire."
"The Dothraki would hardly recognize what we've become," Jorah observed, his Westerosi perspective adding nuance to the discussion. "You've taken their ferocity and combined it with discipline they never possessed. The result is something that would terrify any army in the known world—including the ones I grew up fearing."
"Fear is useful," Drogo acknowledged. "But it fades. What we've built doesn't rely on fear alone—it relies on capability. When Yunkai sees what we can do, they won't surrender out of terror. They'll surrender because they'll understand with perfect clarity, that resistance is mathematically futile."
"That's almost philosophical for a former khal," Jhogo said with a hint of teasing.
"Angelus has been teaching me. She says that the greatest warriors don't just fight—they think. Understanding why you win is as important as the winning itself."
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The Scout Report
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The scouts returned as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.
Jhogo gathered the intelligence personally, his green eyes scanning the reports with careful attention. When he was satisfied, he rode to where Daenerys waited with the command group.
"Report," she said.
"Yunkai has prepared extensively, Khaleesi, but they've prepared for the wrong war." Jhogo's voice held a note of professional satisfaction. "They've reinforced their walls—standard construction, nothing magical—and assembled a garrison of approximately eight thousand defenders. Three sellsword companies supplement the city guard: the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, and a smaller outfit called the Long Lances."
"What about siege defenses?"
"Scorpions on the walls, oil reserves for burning, the usual arrangements. They've stockpiled food for a prolonged siege and secured their water supply." Jhogo paused, his expression shifting to something approaching amusement. "But they have nothing that can counter our Drakes, our D-Raptors, or our siege beasts. They've clearly heard reports about our forces, but they don't understand what they're facing. The scouts observed several officers pointing at the sky and arguing—probably trying to figure out what Balerion and the others actually are."
"And the Z-Rexes?"
"Complete confusion. One patrol spotted our column from a distance and nearly trampled each other trying to flee. They have no frame of reference for creatures of that size that aren't dragons—and even their dragon knowledge is centuries out of date."
Daenerys nodded slowly, processing the information. "What about civilian evacuation?"
"Some have left through the southern gates—mostly wealthy families who can afford to relocate. But the majority remain. The Wise Masters have ordered their slaves to stay, and the free citizens are either too stubborn or too invested in defending their homes to flee."
"Then we offer them one last chance."
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The Ultimatum
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The Wyrmborne army made camp at a carefully calculated distance from Yunkai's walls—close enough to demonstrate their strength, far enough to avoid immediate artillery range. The Z-Rexes were positioned where the defenders could see them clearly, their massive forms creating a skyline that no medieval mind could have anticipated.
Angelus remained hidden beyond a ridge several miles distant, her presence concealed but her consciousness linked to Daenerys through their bond. The Wise Masters would learn about her soon enough, but there was something to be said for tactical surprise.
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Daenerys rode forward with a small honor guard—Drogo on Drakkarion, Jhogo on Sho'keth, and Jorah mounted on his enhanced war horse. They stopped within shouting distance of the main gate, their scales and armor catching the fading sunlight in a display that was half intimidation and half pageantry.
"I AM DAENERYS OF HOUSE TARGARYEN!" Her voice, enhanced by magic that Angelus had taught her, carried across the distance with perfect clarity. "KHALEESI OF THE WYRMBORNE, BLOOD OF THE DRAGON, AND CONQUEROR OF VAES DOTHRAK! I SPEAK TO WHOEVER LEADS THIS CITY'S DEFENSE!"
A long pause followed. Then movement on the walls—officers conferring, messengers running, and finally a figure appearing at the main gatehouse.
The captain who emerged was a middle-aged man with the bearing of a professional soldier and the insignia of the Yunkai city guard. His voice carried well enough, though it lacked the magical enhancement that made Daenerys's words effortless.
"I am Captain Grazdan mo Eraz, commander of Yunkai's defense! What do you want, Targaryen?"
"Your surrender." Daenerys's voice was calm, almost conversational despite the distance. "Open your gates, release your slaves, and accept integration into the Wyrmborne. Do this, and your city will be spared. Your citizens will be protected. Your soldiers will have the opportunity to join something greater than anything Yunkai has ever offered them."
"And if we refuse?"
"Then I give you one day. Twenty-four hours to evacuate your civilians—anyone who wishes to leave may do so unmolested. When that time expires, we will take this city by force, and everyone who remains will be treated as a combatant." Her eyes swept the walls, taking in the defenders who watched with expressions ranging from fear to defiance. "This is not a negotiation. It is a courtesy. One that will not be extended twice."
Captain Grazdan's expression was difficult to read at this distance, but his posture suggested someone wrestling with duty and common sense. "I will convey your terms to the Wise Masters."
"Do so. You have until sunset tomorrow."
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The Yunkai Response
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Inside the city, the debate was fierce but brief.
The Wise Masters had gathered in their council chamber—elderly men whose wealth came from the flesh trade and whose pride refused to acknowledge the possibility of defeat. They listened to Captain Grazdan's report with expressions that ranged from contempt to barely concealed terror.
"Surrender?" The eldest Master's voice dripped with outrage. "We are Yunkai! We do not surrender to barbarian queens and their scaled freaks!"
"With respect, Wise Master, these are not ordinary barbarians." Grazdan's voice was carefully measured—the tone of a professional trying to communicate reality to employers who didn't want to hear it. "The creatures in their army—the massive beasts that look like nothing I've ever seen, the flying monsters, the soldiers covered in actual scales—these are not things our walls were designed to resist."
"Walls have held against dragons before."
"Have they? The histories suggest otherwise, Wise Master. When the Targaryens conquered Westeros, no wall stood against dragonfire. And these people have multiple dragons—or things that look very much like dragons—plus other creatures that I cannot even identify."
"Then we kill the girl," another Master suggested. "Without their leader, the army will fall apart."
"The girl personally killed four Faceless Men sent to assassinate her. Four of the most skilled killers in the known world, and she defeated them alone. My scouts have confirmed this information from other sources. I do not believe assassination is a viable strategy."
The argument continued for hours, but the outcome was never really in doubt. The Wise Masters were too proud to surrender, too invested in their position to accept the loss of face that capitulation would represent. By the time the sun set, they had made their decision.
Some civilians fled through the southern gates, taking what possessions they could carry. But the majority stayed—slaves who had no choice, free citizens who believed their walls would protect them, and soldiers who had been paid to fight regardless of the odds.
When dawn broke over Yunkai, the city's gates remained closed.
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The Siege Begins
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Daenerys received the news without surprise.
"They chose poorly," she said, her voice carrying resignation rather than satisfaction. "I gave them every opportunity."
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Daenerys turned to her commanders—Drogo with his black-red scales gleaming, Jhogo with his poison-green armor fitted perfectly, Jorah with his Draconian features lending him an air of dangerous competence.
"Begin the bombardment," she said. "Trebuchets first. Target the wall sections our scouts identified as weakest. And have the Z-Rexes move into visible positions—I want the defenders to see exactly what's coming for them."
"At once, Khaleesi," Drogo replied, his deep voice carrying anticipation.
The first trebuchet released with a sound like thunder.
WHOOOOSH—CRASH!
Stone met stone, and the siege of Yunkai had begun.
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End of Chapter Ten