They found the sign at dawn.
Riders, the scouts of the great Khalasar, had been scouting the edges of the hordes' advances, watching and waiting for rival Khals, for caravans from the Ghiscari or from the Free Cities, or even from further east or west. Everyone had heard the explosions, had seen the enormous plumes of smoke and fire, streaming from far off Valyria.
Some, the older men and women, the foolish and the superstitious of the Khalasar, had said that such a sign was symbol that the Great Stallion was manifest, that it had trode across the surface of Valyria as a precursor towards the destruction of all those who slept in the great cities, that it was the precursor for the entire world becoming servants of the one mighty Khalasar, that this was the day of the Dothraki! . . . but the wiser, the smarter, knew that there were few good signs, in this world, and that this was unlikely to be one.
One of the slaves, a man from Yi Ti, who said that he was sure that these were merely volcanos, and that the Valyrians would be sure to have it under control any day, any moment now.
Some even believed him, for that matter.
But then the riders found it. Found . . . her.
There was a dragon, an adult one, which would be able to snap up and devour a full-grown horse – and it's rider, for that matter – in a single great bite. It was a dark green, the color of a forest, the type of color one would never see on the Great Grass Sea, with eyes like deep sapphires, and claws like immense swords. With every breath, a burst of fire, small and rapid, darted out. On any other day, any other situation, it would have been a gloriously magnificent sight.
But this was not that day.
The dragon was burned, scarred, its wings pockmarked with burns and immense, gaping holes. Its ribs were smashed in, and one eye glassy, and blinded, the other simply gone. It's every breath was labored and slow, a struggle to be completed. It had a rider, too, a young woman, her skin nearly as pale as her hair. She, too would have been lovely, if not for the burns that covered her face and, stretched down her body, as well.
The scouts had sent word back to the Khalasar, and from the Khalasar had come the Khal and his bloodriders. Khal Mengo was a large man, even for the Dothraki. His braid tinkled with bells, the long curved arakh of the Dothraki hung at his side, and scar tissue criss-crossed his chest. His bloodriders chatted, gayly and happily, but the Khal himself rode in silence, till he arrived. He swung off his horse, and stalked forwards, cutting off the words of his scouts before they even began. At a distance, he surveyed the dying dragon, then uttered a single command to his men.
"Kherikhat."
Skin it.
He crouched, grasping the face of the burned, dying rider, and in poor, thickly accented Valyrian, asked a single question.
"What happened to the dragonlords?"
The woman – girl, really – could barely speak, as burned as she was.
"We . . . we died. We all died."
A grin broke across Khal Mengo's face.
"Good."