GoT: Blood And Fire (kingofshadows & darkangel76)

Thirsty...so very thirsty...

Daenerys had nearly forgotten what it had been like to go so long without water. She felt a sharp nudge against her shoulder blade as she took a moment to regain her bearings and senses. Glancing over her shoulder, her amethyst eyes locked onto those of the rider who'd poked her. He sneered at her from up above on his horse. How ironic given that she was Khal Drogo's Khaleesi. True, her warrior, her rider might be gone, but his spirit still remained. She could feel him within her, all the things she'd learned while living among the khalasar, embracing life and living for the first time!

A shiver ran along her spine when she recalled the jealousy of Viserys and then the satisfaction she'd felt when he'd finally earned his golden crown. It had been a triumphant night, one of liberation and so much more! She could still feel Drogo's victory coursing through her veins and oh how she'd reveled watching it all.

"I am Khaleesi to Khal Drogo!" Dany all but spat in the Dothraki tongue at the kos who only smirked at her words, his hands gripping the rippling mane of his chestnut horse. She wanted to say something—anything—but he only laughed.

"Khaleesi?" the rider mused, he circled once, then twice. "Khal Drogo lost his honor the day he no longer could ride." The warrior spat on the ground at Dany's feet—a mark of disgust. There was no respect in his voice or his eyes. To him, Khal Drogo was worthless and better off gone. "You are nothing! Therefore you ride nothing!" His gaze hardened and he shoved her along.

The trek seemed endless and Daenerys longed for rest, for Drogon to somehow find her. She worried for him, worried that he was managing after everything he endured back in Meereen and thereafter. If only she could somehow tend to him. Anything! But it was no use. She was one and the Dothraki were many.

Dany's legs were aching, her body sore and tired as the khalasar pressed onward. She was certain they were taking her to the one and only Dothraki city. The shadow of the mountains kept the sun off their backs as they forged ahead and the Mother of Mountains loomed as the ever-ominous presence that foretold of a future she hardly wished to face. She knew the superstitions of the Dothraki.

She'd not be received as a Dosh Khaleen.

Day turned to night and into another day. Dany saw the Mother of Mountains grow closer, a sign of impending fate. The mountain seemed strange as it wept black smoke, which billowed and curled, rising high into the sky up above. There were shouts as the khalasar buzzed with uncertainty and the horses neighed and whinnied reflecting their masters' emotions. Finally, Daenerys found herself swept up onto horseback, flung over a kos' lap like she was nothing more than cargo. The Dothraki were worried, stunned.

Something had happened.

"To Vaes Dothrak! Make haste, riders! Make haste!"

Dany knew that the one and only Dothraki city was still several miles away, more than likely another day's journey at the pace they'd been traveling. No doubt the smoke had caught the riders' attention and had raised an alarm. Why else would they pick up pace and suddenly find it in their interest to set her atop a horse? It was the only answer. She knew these people, their ways, their beliefs. She'd lived it and she'd loved it.

The riding had been hard and Dany felt every clap the horse's hooves made beneath her as they struck the ground like thunder. Their pace was fast, but they still wouldn't reach Vaes Dothrak until near nightfall. Already, she knew they were too late. Something had happened. Something...unnatural.

When they reached Vae Dothrak, the great statues of the stallions still stood proud and tall, but it was all that remained of the once bustling city. The men were aghast at what they saw—a city, a common home, in ruin. The men got down off their horses and threw Daenerys onto the ground with a hard thud. She did her best not to wince, though she knew she'd bruise. Standing up, she glanced around in awe.

Nothing...there was nothing, just fire and smoke and rubble. The entire city of Vaes Dothrak had been rendered to a smoldering cinder. But how? The Dothraki were warriors! Even the Dosh Khaleen whose word was law were capable fighters. No Khaleesi was considered her Khal's lesser. It was the Dothraki way! The place was always teeming with life as various khalasar came and went and it was an unspoken law that no blood was ever to be shed on the sacred ground of their one and only city. In Vaes Dothrak, they were rivals no more, but brothers in arms, a united whole! Just who would do this and why?

One of the kos looked over at Dany as she stood up and rubbed her hip. His eyes narrowed and he stormed over toward her, grabbing her arm roughly. "You! This is because of you!"

Dany's eyes widened as she tried to wrench herself free. "Unhand me!" she demanded. But the rider refused, his grip only tightening.

In the distance a voice shouted out, high and shrill in the Dothraki tongue. "Voices, I hear voices!" A woman stepped out from behind some of the rubble, her face dirty and smudged with blood. She wiped a hand across her sweaty brow and then raked it through her mousy hair. Some of the riders turned toward the woman. "You missed it...you missed it all..." she cried out, her anger evident. Her blue eyes scanned the newly arrived khalasar and then spotted Dany and the kos holding onto her arm. Immediately, her eyes widened and she ran toward the pair. "You! It is you! The Queen of Meereen!"

Dany tilted her head slightly, snowy white hair falling across her shoulders. "Yes and you are?"

"I am Kesselli, Khaleesi of the late Khal Arrokko," Kesselli began. Some of the riders nodded and mumbled, while others sneered in distaste. Arrokko clearly had a mixed reputation. The woman narrowed her eyes toward those who gave her sharp looks. "Though, you may call me Kess. I only arrived a few days ago. I was escorted by Arrokko's most trusted bloodriders."

"I see," Dany stated. Kess was to become Dosh Khaleen like most widowed Khaleesis.

"There's more," Kess pressed causing Dany to arch a brow. "A man. A great man spared my life so that I could relay a message."

"A message?" laughed one of the riders.

Kess only nodded, now was hardly a time to trivialize the events of what had happened. These men weren't there when the city had burned, when the children and women were stolen, the men slaughtered! "Yes. A message. The queen is to be returned to Meereen at once or else all the women and children will die."

~~~

Missandei left Grey Worm's room so that he could rest. Her heart ached seeing him wounded and his usual self. He was a fighter no one could stop! Or, so it had seemed. But even the mightiest of warriors could fall. She just hoped things could return to normal sooner as opposed to later.

But could things truly return to normal? She supposed not. Everything had changed and so much had happened.

Light on her feet, Missandei made her way down the dimly lit corridor until she came upon an ornately decorated door. The wood was heavy as she leaned her weight into it and pushed it open. Peeking inside, she saw both Tyrion and Varys poring over something she couldn't quite make out. Clasping her hands in front of herself, she nodded toward both men.

Meereen had been in an uproar since Daenerys had disappeared along with Drogon. The Sons of the Harpy were temporarily at bay, but she knew it was just that—temporary. They had much work ahead of themselves and it would only be a matter of time before they regrouped and struck again and harder. The incident at the pits was the first of many and the terrorists wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The people were frightened and rightfully so. This was unlike anything they'd ever seen before.

And how she missed her friend. Missandei hoped that Dany was all right and the both Daario and Jorah would succeed—they had to—in finding her!

"What are you looking at?" Missandei asked as she stepped closer to get a better glimpse at what the two men were doing.

Jhaqo was a fierce Dothraki warrior. He had very few scars, and his hair was long and full, never cut by a victorious enemy. He climbed the ranks of his culture, cutting his own path with arakh in hand. The Great Stallion had blessed him with strength and cunning. Jhaqo had honored the Great Stallion with the blood of his enemies, and in doing so, became khal. With his khalasar of fifty bloodriders, Jhaqo was one of the greatest khals of the Dothraki. Both in his mind, and in the minds of those who survived his conquests.

Now...looking out over the funeral pyre that was Vaes Dothrak, the stench of smoke and death dominating his senses, Khal Jhaqo had a thought that filled him with grief and dread.

I am one of the only khals of the Dothraki now.

The khal placed a steadying hand upon his large brown stallion, his truest friend, to steady himself. The horse did not move beneath him, despite the musk of fear and pain that clouded the air. His friend was a veteran in the ways of war.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to inhale the decimation of his people, and schooled his face to an iron mask of indifference. He was khal. He would not show weakness. "Do not stand around like a tribe of lost children!" The upbraiding in the harsh tongue of Dothraki made some of his kos start in their saddles. "Go! Look for survivors!" His men kicked their mounts into motion, leaving a desperate cloud of dust in their wake. Jhaqo forced his eyes, and his mind, away from the abyss that was once Vaes Dothrak, and turned his attention toward the shrill cries of anger that emerged from the ruins.

A khaleen survives!

Almost before the thought could spur him to action, the Horse Lord was off of his horse and striding toward this woman with sun-kissed hair. He passed his reins to a waiting attendant, and came to stand in front of the khaleen, hands hooked in his hide belt, fingers curved to outline his cock. A gesture of dominance; the stance of one who called himself khal.

A stance desperately needed, to battle the black tendril of horror that wormed its way into Jhaqo's heart. The rage that followed, at least, was a familiar comfort. "Dosh khaleen," he growled, inclining his head respectfully. "I am Jhaqo. This is my khalasar." His blazing eyes found the silver-haired widow of Drogo. Up until this point, he ignored her. She was beneath his notice. "You tell me that if I do not bring this honorless bitch back to the city of filth she rules over, a 'great man' will slaughter our women and children!?"

Jhaqo turned and closed a large, callused hand around Daenerys' soft throat. "I should kill you, you disgusting pile of shit. You were never khaleesi! Just Drogo's toy. His tentwarmer!"

Behind his braided beard, the khal snarled. But for all the aggrieved anger in his brown eyes, there were other emotions that battled it for supremacy: Sadness and fear. Jhaqo feared for his people. Feared for their future. Gazing into the silver-haired woman's exotic eyes, their faces close enough for his spittle to land on her cheek when he snapped at her, the khal reined in his fury as he would a bucking horse.

"If you do live long enough to see your wretched city again," he said, voice filled with quiet malice. "Then perhaps you will share my tent throughout the journey. Perhaps I will spread the thighs that drove another khal to such doomed distraction."

"My khal!"

He turned, shoving Daenerys to the ground before him. His bloodriders had returned. They arrived on foot, their mounts behind them. Between them they carried a man in frayed robes stained black and brown with dirt and ash. He looked to be an old man, with long black hair liberally streaked with silver. His beard was well-groomed, though also streaked with age. He walked uncertainly, shoulders stooped.

"My khal," the rider repeated. "A survivor. A foreigner visiting Vaes Dothrak."

"Weapons?"

"None. Only these." Jhaqo took a thick belt of dark leather that held many pouches attached. His thick fingers pried one open to find...

"Herbs?" The khal turned his attention to the newcomer in earnest. He was tall, of a height with Jhaqo himself. His form was hidden beneath the shapeless robes he wore. The old man looked to be unharmed, and carred with him a cane of smooth, unadorned dark wood. He noticed these things absently, but meticulously. It was the foreigner's eyes that truly held his attention. They were white, the pupils colorless and without focus.

Jhaqo waved his hand in front of those white eyes, and turned away in disgust. "The old fool does not see. He can tell us nothing. He is of no use"

"The old fool is a healer, however," spoke a gravelly voice at Jhaqo's back, in the guttural cadence of the Dothraki tongue. Jhaqo turned as the old man continued.

"A profession young fools inevitably find very useful."

The Dothraki's eyes narrowed as he studied the speaker's pale, placid features. "Men have been killed for lesser insults, old man."

"How fortunate. The truth, when so brandished, is always the greater insult." The old man cocked his head slightly to the side, gazing at nothing. "As a matter of fact, the lesser insult is usually the one first delivered in a conversation. I suppose that burdens me with the unwholesome bother of killing you, then."

Jhaqo heard the stifled laughter of his khalasar at his back, and smiled in spite of himself. The blind man had outmanuevered him. It took great courage, or a profound death wish, to speak so under such circumstances. The khal would let him live. If he was a healer, as he claimed, then Jhaqo would have need of him very soon. And such skills were treated with respect among the Dothraki.

"Perhaps another time, sightless fool. Give him back his herbs. You are not Dothraki, and in the wake of this tragedy you will be accorded no guest rights. You are a prisoner who will serve, or you are a corpse that will rot. Choose."

In his hoarse voice the old man replied, "I will always be a prisoner until I am a corpse. The form my gaoler takes is of no consequence."

The Horse Lord nodded, though he knew the gesture would go unheeded. He turned to his khalasar, voice raised and ringing with authority. "A great blight has been visited among our people. We will camp here. Set up your tents. We mourn our dead, and decide our course. Tomorrow we will act." The khalasar dissolved into a flurry of motion, and their khal turned again to Kesselli.

"You are my honored guest, Dosh Khaleen. Vaes Dothrak is gone. Not forgotten. All that is mine is yours to share. In return, share with me what happened here, and we will decide." Jhaqo turned and grabbed the old man by the arm, tossing him to the dirt, virtually atop Daenerys.

"Congratulations, Silver Bitch. I give you this man as your slave. You may not free him without my leave. A gift fit for a soft foreign Queen, no?" Laughing to himself, Jhaqo waved a dismissive hand. "Place them in a tent under guard, and bring them hot water. Old man, you will wash her and prepare her for tonight's feast. Should give you a nice thrill, touching that young body with your hands. Perhaps, if you serve well, you can have what is left of her when I am done. If you can wash the stink off of her, anyway. As it stands, she's too ripe to fuck."

As the khal turned away from the men that would take charge of his prisoners, the arrogant sneer evaporated as quickly as water in the desert. Part of being a khal was acting as a khal should. Now, his brow furrowed, and his dusky features were lined and grim. Only the Dosh Khaleen could see, but that was well. Truthfully, the Honorless Queen was no longer just a slave. Now she was the center of this conflict. The only bargaining chip Jhaqo possessed to safeguard the future of the Dothraki. He wanted her well kept and well protected.

For now.

~~~

"If we don't come up with a winning strategy, these Sons of the Harpy will eat us alive."

My sentiments exactly.

Varys stood before a wide stone table, his naked brow wrinkled in contemplation. A mild frown belied the frenetic workings of the keen mind within.

He and Tyrion stood in one of the upper levels of the Great Pyramid. Both men had spent all morning thus far poring over the detailed maps and meticulous inventory reports that comprised Meereen's geography and foodstuffs accordingly. With his usual penchant for cataloguing any and all information, the former Master of Whispers noted that his friend had barely touched his chilled wine. Perhaps it was an indication of how seriously the Lannister took his new duties as Meereen's administrator. Or of how concerned he was about making it out of this particular trial alive.

"One of those dragons would be nice right about now," the little man continued.

"A dragon's-eye view of the city would be most helpful." Varys' tone held a note of absence; his mental abacus still clicking away at the problem. A breeze from the open balcony fluttered the papers spread before them. Many small stones anchored them in place. They had learned that lesson already.

"In which case I would need a taller stool. I was hoping we could just let the dragon do all the killing and go for a drink."

Varys finally looked up from one of many granary reports, and eyed Tyrion with a slight smile. For all of his banter, the bearded fellow looked solemn and surly; an image heightened by the scar that cut a swathe across his face. "I'm afraid you would find Meereen a bit lacking in spirits after that. Dragons probably wouldn't pause to respect the sanctity of wine."

"If the arena is any indication," Tyrion said rather grimly, "then Meereen might have nothing left beyond spirits. The same outcome applies to our current situation. Failing here makes this place a city of the dead."

Before Varys could reply, the soft patter and scrape of bare feet on stone caused both men to turn their heads. So absorbed were they in their study, that neither eunuch nor dwarf had heard the door ponder open. Their expressions softened in unison. Missandei had that effect, Varys was coming to learn.

"Maps and supply reports," Tyrion answered. "We've been studying them all morning to gain a greater understanding of the Harpy's movements. They've been busy after the Fighting Pits. Sabotaging the storehouses and granaries that hold Meereen's food supply. So far the damage is minimal...only enough to increase tension in the city, which is their aim, we suspect."

"And if we don't find a solution to this problem quickly," Varys chimed in, gazing steadily at the beauty from Astapor. "Then that tension will cause a spark, which will trap us in an all-consuming fire of chaos. The more Unsullied we apportion to guarding the food supply, the less we have patrolling the streets. Thus granting more liberty to our enemies to go about their work against us. Unless my little birds can ingratiate themselves into the Harpy's ruling structure, we are at a distinct disadvantage."

The pungent aroma of death was strong in what remained of the once bustling city. Daenerys could taste the blood on her tongue as she'd bitten it during her fall. The weight of the old man was heavy upon her slight body and she struggled to get up. Shifting, she managed to look upon him with her eyes narrowed, studying him carefully. There was something odd in the way he talked, in the way he carried himself. And right now, he was her strongest ally. She glanced over toward Khal Jhaqo, though he'd turned away in obvious disgust. She'd known him once as her love's ko, a fine rider and warrior. Now she wasn't sure what to think as he led his men—Drogo's men—in ways that made her taste the bitter bile of betrayal rising in her throat.

Kess looked on, her blue eyes noting everything and not missing anything. She rushed to the khal's side and nodded her thanks, though she made sure to set her sights on the silver-haired girl that seemed to be at the heart of everything before turning to lead the great man deeper into the city. He had much on his mind and for good reason.

"It was like shadow moving swiftly in the night. Here and then gone," Kess spoke, her eyes scanning the area just like the rest of Jhaqo's men. "I saw nothing except what appeared to be an apparition. Glittering and gleaming." She paused a moment, collecting her thoughts. "I was allowed to live so long as I relayed my message to you," she went on. "Now that I've played my part, I fear that I, too, will be taken." It was an honest fear and she wasn't about to deny it. It would be cowardice to turn away, to run. She was a dosh khaleen, Khal Arrokko's Khaleesi. She'd never dishonor him by turning away from a threat. "He took them all, so why not me? I'm no longer of use and you see what he's done to our city," she hissed as her tiny hands balled into fists. Her cheeks radiating the heat as it swept along her smudged and dirtied face.

Kess had to wonder why it was she was spared while the others were not. So many men were slaughtered, dark swords tainting the city as they spilled Dothraki blood. Brandishing weapons against anyone was forbidden. Despair would truly rain down upon them all now. Perhaps it was why she could still hear the echoes of screaming children, the women! Every blink and she saw their faces, begging and pleading for mercy! What Dothraki made such pleas? It had been disturbing, dishonorable and no mercy had been shown that night. None! The chaos had been terrible and she'd only just managed to hold her tongue, to repress the desire to beg for mercy. Like everyone else, she feared she wouldn't see the dawn. It had been an unforeseen miracle that she'd been thrown out of her cage and cast back out into the burning Vaes Dothrak where she saw the freshly rotting corpses of men she knew, faces who'd never accepted her. And so what if most of them hadn't! Or, if most of them had mocked the fact that she'd been Khaleesi—her, a mere slave's daughter. Vaes Dothrak was still her home, her people. She would always be Dothraki! And, she'd always love Arrokko.

Daenerys finally stood up, her hip aching from her fall. She rubbed at the tender flesh and helped the old man to stand. Looking out toward Jhaqo, she felt nothing but contempt. How dare he claim this man to be her slave when she was the breaker of chains. No doubt he was trying to anger her, his own fury at seeing his home destroyed causing him to need to place blame. She looked at the man and sighed softly.

"You are no slave. Not while I'm here," Dany stated plainly as she refused to let her uncertainty show. "Tell me, sir. Were you here when the city was attacked?"

Just as Dany asked her questions, some of Jhaqo's riders grabbed at her arm and roughly escorted both her and the blind man toward the tents that were being erected. "Stay here until you're told otherwise." Moments later, a large basin with water and a rough towel were brought inside as well. The warrior men grunted and then laughed. "Maybe the healer can make you presentable," one of them said before they stalked away.

Dany lowered her eyes, anger seething below the surface. She wanted to get back to Meereen, to find Drogon! She was wasting so much precious time! With a huff, she lightly kicked at the basin causing the water to jostle and splash a little.

"Are you truly a healer?" Daenerys then asked, smiling a little as her thoughts moved to Drogon.

Kess felt the anger ebb slightly along with the fear and she let out a soft exhale. Turning toward Jhaqo, she asked. "How are you going to get her back to Meereen?" She glanced around as the riders busied themselves. Some were setting up tents, while others searched the immediate area for survivors. She caught sight of the two standing guard over the girl and the blind man. "There are others who will try to stop you. Legends of your silver-haired guest are not unknown amongst all the Dothraki. Rumor spreads fast even in the Dothraki Sea."

A part of Kess felt for the girl. She knew what it was like to be an outsider, to have those you loved look upon you with malice and disgust. Despite it all, the violet-eyed woman had managed to thrive, her reputation traversing the far reaches of Essos and, by now, Westeros. She'd soon have her throne, if that's what she was truly seeking.

"If I can be of aid," Kess whispered. "I will ride with you and your khalasar."

~~~

Missandei slowly approached the two men who'd been entrusted to see to Meereen's safety while both Daario and Jorah searched high and low for her friend and confidante—the true ruler of the city and rightful heir to the Iron Throne. She found it ironic that those seeking to bring her back were the two she trusted least. She could only hope that they'd find success, though she had little doubt that Daario would have trouble getting Dany to follow once he tracked her down and found her.

And he would find her. That man had a way of always finding the silver-haired Targaryen.

Dark eyes resting on Varys, Missandei nodded. These weren't the sorts of things she wanted to hear, but she knew the truth of them and she feared that more Unsullied would meet the fate of her Grey Worm...or worse. "Have you learned anything, Lord Varys?" she asked, her voice soft and calm. She had her own thoughts and they frightened her more than the masters of the city.

Tyrion seemed particularly out of sorts. Missandei could hardly fault him. The dwarf had only just arrived in Meereen, his life turned completely upside down, and now was faced with their greatest crisis. What's more, the woman he'd pledged to serve...vanished upon the back of one very large dragon. Still, she couldn't help but smile when he spoke of wine. She knew where some was stored, hidden away. Daario had it kept in a special place for those moments when he wished to indulge upon Dany. Besides, the sellsword had no impending need of it. Why waste such vintage when those in need and want were there and able?

"I can see you get some wine, Lord Tyrion," Missandei added with a smile. "My little birds know where some is kept." She turned her gaze toward Varys and she gave the eunuch a nod. Stepping closer to the maps, she peered at them in wonder. They were truly at a disadvantage, much to her dismay. The Sons of the Harpy were vast in numbers, attacking in the shadows, unable to be identified. Their stunt at the pits was a warning to say the least, a means of showing their strength and just how far their threads had woven throughout the city. Yes, they'd pushed them down, but they'd been fortunate in that circumstance. If Drogon hadn't returned, Meereen would have no ruler.

No, it would be ruled by 'The Harpy'.

"Perhaps we are going about this the wrong way," Missandei suggested, brows slightly furrowed. "Perhaps we have more than just the masters to worry about."

Jhaqo forced his eyes to take in the devastation as he walked with Kesselli. He forced his mind to mark the faces of the dead. Those that had relaxed into eternal stillness, as well as those who were frozen in a rictus of pain and fear. He forced his heart to see them as more than just meat rotting in the sun. They were fires that had been snuffed out by this...cursed shadow.

The khal grunted his dismissal of the woman's fears. "You will not be taken." Jhaqo's voice was roughened by the smoke of dying fires; edged with the anger that would burn within his breast for many days to come. "There would be no point. If this...'apparition' as you call him only cares about getting the girl back to Meereen, then any further assault would be of no benefit. You have served your purpose to this demon, Kesselli. He needs you no longer. And if he has not already slaughtered them, he has plenty of hostages. One more would not shift the balance."

Gripping his arakh so hard his knuckles popped, Jhaqo paused some distance from his men, following Kesselli's eyes back toward Daenerys and the old man. "I want to kill her for this. Slowly. Making her suffer as our people have suffered. This Westerosi whore poisons everything she touches. I was happy riding with Drogo. Until she changed him. Now his khalasar is in ruins...those that I did not manage to save. Now Vaes Dothrak is no more. Because this woman cursed us with her appearance in the Sea."

Quiet and solemn, the khal stood pensively among the dead. The initial wave of shock and fury had passed. Only sorrow and resolve remained. Jhaqo would not allow more of his people to suffer. The Dothraki killed amongst themselves, of course. But that was as it should be. A culling, to keep all Dothraki strong and pure. This...this decimation was unspeakable. Jaw clenched, brown eyes smoldering, the Horse Lord forced himself to release the hilt of his sword, and turned to grab Kess rather roughly, large hands squeezing both of her upper arms. He turned her toward him, speaking with the quiet promise of vengeance.

"You will ride with me. You will be of use. To begin, tell me of this Shadow. Tell me everything you know. I would have the look of my enemy burned into my skull."

***

The Old Man neither spoke nor made any resistance as he and Daenerys were moved to a newly erected tent. He shuffled as quickly as he was able, dark cane tapping and sweeping the ground before him for obstacles. When they were finally left alone, he loosed a quiet sigh. "I hope you won't mind a change of language," he said hoarsely, slipping into the Common Tongue. "My Dothraki has seen better days."

With a quiet grunt of effort, he bgan questing round the tent, flicking his wrist to and fro, the swishing sound of his cane evident in the relative quiet of the tent. When his companion kicked the water basin, the Old Man turned his white eyes toward the sound with a light scowl on his bearded face. "If you find yourself so offended by a bowl of water, my Lady, then I fear you lack the constitution to last the night. There is anger that emboldens and anger that enfeebles. Best not to confuse them."

Finding a blanket of furs, he plucked his fingers at the hair and rubbed them together. "Clean enough," he muttered. "I have knowledge of medicines, maladies, and anatomy. I have a collection of herbs to complement that body of knowledge. When I combine the two, I am a healer."

The more he spoke, the more it was apparent that his gruff tone and gravelly voice was its natural disposition. Retracing his steps, Old Man brushed a light hand across Dany's elbow to orient himself in front of her. "The Dothraki who spoke to me referred to you as the 'Silver Bitch'. A colorful epithet that is also informative once he called you a queen. I imagine this makes you the one they call the Mother of Dragons. Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen."

He raised his hands before him, palms facing outward. "Now I know your name. I would know your face. If I may?" Gaining her assent, he stepped forward, close enough to feel her breath on his neck. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders, sliding his fingertips up along the curve of her neck. The healer's hands were large and callused, fingers long and slender. His touch was firm, yet gentle and precise. "You are a beautiful woman," he remaked, hands cupping Dany's cheeks. His thumbs curved their way along her jawline, as a tinge of amusement colored his hoarse voice.

"I can finally understand why so many brothels across Essos are offering some of their depraved wares in your image. It seems like every house of pleasure advertises the opportunity to profane the Dragon Queen. More expensive ones offer more depraved services." He chuckled quietly. "A true measure of your fame, my Lady. Everyone either wants to fuck you or kill you. Or both. Quite the ordeal."

the pads of his thumbs brushed along her ample lips, and he tsked in displeasure. "You have been too long without water. Your skin is dry and your lips are cracking. To be expected of a prisoner, but no less vexing for that expectation." White eyes narrowed in concentration, lips pursed in focus, the Old Man raised his hands, fingers stroking along Dany's brow. "Your face is dirty." His voice was free of accusation, but redolent with the slow cadence of observation. "But there are cracks in the dirt...indicative of an often furrowed brow. That, when compared to the sagging skin beneath your eyes tells me that you are in an almost constant state of worry. Unsurprising. You also need to sleep more. Something I suspect you don't do enough of even when you are not a prisoner."

With a sigh, he dropped his hands. "I was here during the attack," he said abruptly. "I heard the screams of the dying. Smelled the smoke of razing flames. The stink of sweat, piss, and shit was pungent and inescapable. As was the abrasive celebration of the carrion birds that followed." His smile was grim. "Make no mistake, Daenerys Targaryen. I was born a slave, and you chose to become one. Even if you survive long enough to return to your city, this will not change. You are the Breaker of Chains. Yet the only chains you can never break are your own. You are condemned to a life of servitude, thankless labor, assassination attempts, and coldly political marriage beds."

The Old Man's tone was calm, but disapproving. "Your story is known all across Essos. You have repeatedly had the opportunity to free yourself from the filth and fetters of rule. Yet each time, you push harder to claim a throne that has no desire for you. You are a masochist."

Almost as soon as it had formed, however, the look of consternation faded into something far more bleak. "And I am a fool," he said with a weary sigh. "One slave castigating another. Forgive me my scolding, Queen of Light." His smile turned rueful. "As you have no doubt noticed, it has been many years since I have opened my eyes and beheld anything but darkness. I must examine you for injuries, and ascertain the state of your health. Then I will wash the dirt from you. Please disrobe, and guide my hands. I promise I will resist the urge to ravish you." He paused, with a rakish grin. "Probably."

~~~

Tyrion curled his lips in a smirk. "'Little birds?' It appears Lord Varys is a bad influence on you, Missandei." He quirked a sardonic eyebrow. "Or perhaps, you are a bad influence on him?" The Lannister Lord hopped off of his chair and placed a light kiss on Missandei's hand. "Some wine would be a gift from the gods. Thank you." The man often called the Imp had a terrible weakness for beautiful women. It didn't help in the slightest that he respected her. She had shown great courage in the Pits, refusing to leave Daenerys' side. Missandei was rather fetching, after all.

"I have learned nothing of import about the Sons of the Harpy as of yet." Varys bowed his head apologetically. The 'my Lady' at the end of the statement, while unspoken, was implied. Tyrion eyed his dubious comrade with piercing eyes. Nothing of import about the Harpy. But I would be willing to bet all of Casterly Rock that you've gained a trove of new information since our arrival here. What are you not sharing?

Aloud, he said: "Actually, the Masters are a secondary issue." The dwarf moved about the chamber as he talked, stretching his legs. "Famine is our primary concern. An attack on the food stores promises a shortage soon to follow. Shortages breed famine, which itself breeds sickness and death. And that doesn't even account for the fact that the people may well revolt long before we reach such a pestilent state. Rebellion would require a stronger military presence."

"Ergo, taxing our finite resource of Unsullied yet further. Either path plays into the Harpy's hands," Varys finished.

"That is the way things stand, Missandei." Tyrion clasped his hands before him with a crooked smile. "If we don't find a way to change the game, we lose no matter what the outcome."

Kess nodded. Her golden hair reflected the light of the dancing flames from the burning fires as it gently bobbed up and down. Most of the fires were smoldering embers of what remained of a once thriving city, the beacon of life and common thread to all the Dothraki of Essos. But the true fire of the people would never truly be extinguished. Not while at least one khalasar survived this terrible genocide. She looked toward Jhaqo, her blue eyes pleading for hope, though she'd never speak of it aloud. Seeing his khalasar ride into what was left of Vaes Dothrak had already planted those tiny seeds and she could feel their vines sprouting, unfurling throughout her body as he spoke. His words were enough to set the worst of her fears at ease, though she knew her people had suffered a great and terrible loss. The apparition that had swept through their lands, tried to take and destroy what was most precious would certainly pay.

The Great Stallion would see to it.

There was a soft grunt as Jhaqo roughly grabbed Kess' arm and pulled her close, her eyes finding his. Yes. He was khal and a strong one. He would see justice served, vengeance found! The Dothraki would indeed rise again. She swallowed then, her resolve holding. She would not wince or cower. She was khaleesi, a dosh khaleen. She'd always prove her strength despite the blood flowing in her veins. "He was white like the cloud," she began. "Hair like the fog rolling over our mountain." Her eyes went distant as memory flooded her mind. She could see the shadow as he stood above Vaes Dothrak, leading his men, giving orders. They'd all been caged by then, surrounded, mostly slaughtered. But she'd never forget that ethereal figure wearing black. His armor encrusted with glittering jewels the color of blood. "And his armor was blacker than any starless night. He donned the blood of men. I saw it," she continued. "It glittered upon that bewitched armor!" For a moment, she wondered if that man had been a demon, a great ghost sent as a warning. Why had it wanted them to bring the Stormborn back to Meereen? How did it know she was on her way?

Too many questions and it reeked of dark magic.

~~~

Daenerys felt her face grow warm as the old man spoke. She knew her anger would garner her nothing. Right now she needed to figure out who exactly was behind the attack. More than anything, she was grateful that this ordeal would lead her back to Meereen, but a pain lingered in her heart. She thought on Khal Drogo, those first nights as his wife and Khaleesi. She'd been terrified at first, so very lost. But slowly, she'd come to understand the great rider and warrior and the love that grew between them was unlike anything she'd found since. Not even Daario could compare. Ah Daario. Her thoughts flitted to her sellsword back in Meereen. She'd left him behind in the Pits. Was that the act of bravery to leave your loved ones amidst a slaughter? Drogo would've been furious. She was furious.

Yet, somehow she knew it had been the right thing to do. Drogon—her dragon named for the only man she'd truly loved—had come back for her, summoned by the shedding of blood as those vile Sons of the Harpy slit the throats of several who'd come to see the games. It had been utterly horrific and most unexpected. She hoped Missandei and Tyrion were faring well. Meereen was no doubt in utter chaos!

"You're right," Dany muttered as she turned to approach the old man. It was clear that he'd been well-traveled, not someone from this rough and ragged land she'd grown to love. He harbored secrets. Just what had those eyes seen before his sight had been taken away?

Dany stood before the old man and let his hands freely move over her face. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks and sweep down the slope of her neck when he mentioned her beauty. She'd heard tell of the brothels, though she wanted to dismiss the notion. It made her think on things she'd rather not for her mind had far more pressing matters than who wanted to get between her thighs.

"Sleep is luxury I haven't been able to afford in quite some time," Dany admitted. No amount of wealth or protection could ever bring her peace. She wondered if that was something she'd ever truly find or if it would forever elude her. She thought she'd come close in the arms of Khal Drogo, but that was just a shadow, an illusion of what peace could truly be. It was a disturbing thought, but the truth nonetheless.

As the old man continued his examination, checking for any signs of issue, Dany did her best to remain still and calm. She listened carefully, intently, her muscles going taut when his tone turned from soft to terse. What did he know of thrones or blood? This wasn't a game and she intended to finish what had been started. Her family had been disgraced, exiled cruelly and wrongfully over the actions of one man. The Baratheon's were not fit to rule Westeros. None of the noble houses were. For a moment, she thought of Tyrion Lannister. Oh how she hoped be able to lend aid in this most dire of times.

"This isn't about masochism," Dany whispered. "This is about doing what's right." Turning away, she unfastened her tattered dress and let it slowly slip from her body. Her heart swelled suddenly, longing for home...not Meereen or even a simple Dothraki tent. But, for Westeros.

Daenerys stepped out of the puddle of clothes that lied at her feet and moved toward the old man. He needed to check her more closely, more intimately. She'd been seen by doctors and midwives before. This was nothing new. But somehow, there was an odd sense of familiarity in this man. Did she know him? Did he know her family? Her head was swimming and too much had happened and her bones ached. She longed for rest, but like she'd told the old man...

Sleep was a luxury she could not afford.

~~~

Kess felt her tummy clench as the khal looked into her eyes. Yes. She'd ride with him, stay with him. It was his right as the last surviving khal. These were dark times, dangerous times. And misfortune seemed to be smiling down upon them from their mountain looming in the distance.

"Our people will rise again, khal," Kess spoke, her voice refusing to falter. "You will lead us to victory. The Stallion will guide you." She smiled then and, against better judgment, let the hope she felt growing inside, burn brighter, burn warmer.

~~~

This was worse than she'd thought. With both Jorah and Daario gone they were at an even greater loss to be sure. Missandei sighed. The Sons of the Harpy were swift and cruel, their attacks precise. Before long, they'd have no more army and Dany would have nothing when the time to return to Westeros came upon them all.

Missandei turned toward Tyrion, her eyes soft and pleading. "Something must be done then, to perhaps unite the people. Famine and starvation are enough of a matter to bring master and slave together. Without a slave, there is no master and no master will live if there is no food. Perhaps reason is the best approach?" she began to pace and understood now why Dany often times did the same. "We cannot keep on as we have. I'm sure Khaleesi would agree," she went on.

Her gaze moved from Varys and then to Tyrion, but her eyes lingered on the dwarf. He had experience in such matters back home in Westeros and Missandei found herself trusting him much more so than the eunuch. If anyone could help her hold Daenerys' realm together, she was sure it was him.

"There's another matter," Missandei pressed, her thoughts turning to Grey Worm as he rested, healing from his wounds. "The Unsullied." Her eyes shifted down to the floor. "They were taken unaware by these people. Unaware, unprepared." She sucked in a sharp breath. "They do not know how to fight this way..." It was difficult for her to admit that such men, men she'd once thought to be near invincible were so very flawed. "They need someone to train them."

The khal remained silent throughout Kesselli's description of his enemy. The anger of a Dothraki warrior was a thing unbridled. It reduced his enemy to ash. The anger of a khal, however, was as a beast bridled. Fury was a tool to hone the edge; a weapon of proper timing. Jhaqo would unleash it at the pivotal moment, when he had this Black Shadow standing before him, solid enough to bleed. For now, he buried it. Let the embers warm his tent in the meantime.

The Horse Lord was too experienced a leader to see Kess's confidence as adulation. He could almost feel the muscles in his shoulders and legs shift, as if moving to support a great weight. It falls to me then, he thought grimly. It is my blade that must redress the balance my people have lost. Jhaqo clenched his jaw. More burdens to bear. More sleepless nights. The life of a khal was not an easy one, and after today he was counting on a challenge to his leadership soon. One of his warriors would see this an opportunity to vie for the glory of leading the khalasar to slay this Demon. Especially when he announced their next move.

"If we intend for our people to rise, khaleen, then we must soil ourselves with the work to lift them." Pausing, Jhaqo issued a frustrated growl. "We will return the Westerosi Witch to her soft city. The lives of Dothraki matter more than our grief. Our rage." As if saying the words had allowed him to finally swallow the bitter draught of necessity, Jhaqo turned on his heel, wrapped his large hand 'round Kesselli's wrist, and began marching back to his newly erected camp. His action decided, the khal's step was smooth and sure.

"When I announce this path to my khalasar, at least one of my men will try and kill me." Jhaqo's tone was simple; matter of fact. "They will not take easily to serving another. Especially not this harbinger of death. I will be challenged for leadership." He paused, looking toward his blonde companion with a wolfish, bloodthirsty grin, the hand on her wrist sliding up her well-muscled arm to rest on the shoulder.

"Should I survive this battle, I want you in my tent tonight. I will swim in a lake of shit, if I must, for the good of my people. But I will take my pleasures where I can. And I have no appetite for some soft, cold Westerosi."

~~~

"Place your hands atop mine," the Old Man instructed. "And move them beneath your arms, above your ribs. I will begin my examination there. In acquiesence of some form of propriety, keep your hands with mine, and remove them if you grow uncomfortable."

Lips pursed and head cocked, the healer focused the majority of his attention in the soft pads of his questing fingers. He slid them along Dany's ribs, tracing the bones firmly, listening for a hitch in her breathing to indicate a bruise. Bones fractured or broken would be easier to ascertain with his fingers.

He remained silent for sometime. Only the slight flutter of the tent and the muted clamor of the Dothraki broke the silence. The Old Man slid his hands all the way to her hips before he felt the first flinch. The flesh was slightly softer here, and warmer. The hip itself seemed in good form, however. "A nasty bruise," he murmured. Stepping closer, he slid his large hands around her waist and began trailing them up the expanse of her back, fingers kneading roughly, looking for signs of strain in the thick musculature of the back.

"A common failing of the nobility," Old Man whispered hoarsely, feeling Dany's breath on his neck from the intimacy of the examination. "Noble blood only applies at the societal level, Daenerys Targaryen, not the anatomical. You bleed red and piss yellow as well as the next woman. Sleep is no more a luxury for you than it is for the miller, the butcher, the merchant, or the slave. Without it, your wits will dull, and your reactions will suffer. Make the time to sleep and eat. Attend to your needs, or you will find your altruistic endeavors unexpectedly brief, and the knife that kills you deathly quick."

He quickly slid an index finger down her spine, feeling the vertebrae. A cursory palm across the stomach yielded flesh both smooth and soft. Pausing once more at Dany's hips, Old Man's face grew still. "You would know far better than I had you been raped, my Lady. If this is so, I will give you what medications I can. Otherwise, there is no need for me to touch your womanhood."

Turning away from his only company, the bearded healer felt around for the water basin, placing it, and two clean rags by the blanket of furs. "Sit on that pelt," he commanded, kneeling beside them. "I will not argue with you the maze of moral relativism that engenders 'doing what is right'." He slid both hands down one thigh, fingers pressing the muscles of both the inside and the outside. "That is above my station, and beneath my sense of wonder." Suddenly, he slapped inside of Daenerys' thigh hard. The crack was loud in the small tent. One of their Dothraki guards poked his head in curiously, before withdrawing with a chuckle.

"That was to test the muscle reactions. Your reflexes. Bear the pain well, because I will do the same to the other thigh." Old Man fulfilled his promise shortly thereafter, making the other leg jump.

"But this is about masochism. You like the pain of your life, woman. I imagine you have known little but. You have allowed it to shape you, and define your strength. You want the pain. Be it to keep such suffering from the people you purport to rule, or for another reason, yet remains to be seen." A ghost of a smile softened the hard cast of his face. "Figuratively speaking."

~~~

Tyrion saw Varys lift his shoulders just slightly in a shrug. It was the most frustration he had ever seen the eunuch display. "Opening a dialogue with the Masters also opens the door to the Harpy learning of our plans. We know not who among them is allied with the Sons."

Tyrion nodded silently in agreement. "It is a risk we will have to take, though." The Lannister kept his eyes on Missandei, though even in the face of her beseeching, his mind clicked and whirred on the problem at hand, his expression a frown of concentration.

"The truth is, we cannot fight the Sons of the Harpy this way. Reallocating more Unsullied to protect the food supply is a temporary response at best."

Tyrion quieted in thought, but spared a moment to reach up at pat Missandei's hand in an awkward gesture of reassurance. We cannot fight them at all. Without Daenerys, matters will worsen. Even with her, without control over those dragons; the fear of them to keep enemies at bay, we have little recourse. What we need to do is strip the Harpy of its talons...remove the reason for its existence...

After a moment, a slow, nefarious smile split Tyrion's face. "If we can't beat the Harpy, then we should join them."

Varys cocked an eyebrow. "You would have us overthrow the Mother of Dragons?"

"No, my old friend. I would have the Harpy ally with her." The Lion's eyes sparkled in dark mirth. "With your network of spies, how difficult would it be? A great illusion; a magic trick. A Mummer's Masterpiece."

Tyrion smiled up at Missandei, and spread his hands in a slight bow. "We will create for ourselves a common enemy. A beseiging army manufactured from scout reports and rumor. We will make Meereen believe that external forces come to take advantage of her civil strife, to rape, pillage, and plunder her. Forcing the Sons of the Harpy to join with us, or face extinction alongside us."

After a moment, Varys said quietly: "I do not know if you are brilliant, or mad."

"Nor do I, my friend. Nor do I."

Kess knew that Jhaqo was right. Something much larger than them was stirring and their people were what mattered most here. The sooner Daenerys Targaryen was out of the hands of the Dothraki, the sooner they could regroup and regrow. And grow they would. She had no doubt in her mind that they'd rise again and Vaes Dothrak would be rebuilt. The great city would be bigger and stronger than it ever had been. The Mother of Mountains would smile upon their new city and the Great Stallion would buck and whinny his approval, granting them the finest and strongest sons yet. They'd find their enemy, cut it down and crush it beneath the hooves of their horses, bleed it with every blade! They were Dothraki! They would not die out with the weak! They would not be ash scattered to the wind.

With a curt nod, Kess understood full well what would happen. She'd seen Arrokko challenged several times over. He'd even been challenged the day he'd decided to take her as his Khaleesi. But the Stallion had smiled down upon her khal that day and she'd become his wife, his mate, his greatest support. Only that smile never bore them sons. It never bore them daughters either. Often times it made her wonder if she truly belonged at Arrokko's side, but he demanded it so long as he could ride. She loved him for that and fought bravely, with determination like no other, to prove herself a worthy choice.

Kess found a small smile creeping along her lips as she looked at Jhaqo, the strong grip on her arm making it clear where he stood amongst the riders. He was khal and now her khal. She would follow him willingly.

"Your tent will be warm as I wait for you," Kess said, confidence lacing every word. "My khal." Her pale eyes remained fixed on Jhaqo's brown, the heat of his palm radiating down along the flesh of her taut arm. She expected him to be victorious, to meet any adversary and vanquish him without remorse. He would win.

He had to.

~~~

Dany studied the man carefully as she placed her hands over his. Just what was it about him that seemed so familiar? She was certain he didn't hail from Essos. He understood far too much to not have ventured across the Narrow Sea. Suddenly, she let out a soft hiss as his hands touched her hip. Glancing down, her strange eyes fixed upon the bloom of blues and purples upon her hip. It would be a few days before the muscles no longer were tender to the touch. But no matter. She'd suffered worse. She could endure this minor injury.

"I've not been touched," Dany mused.

No, no. The Dothraki had certainly not touched her. Shoved and prodded, laughed and spat. But not a one of them dared claim her as their own. A part of Dany knew that the only one among the riders who could start a bidding war for sharing her bed was the khal. And so far, he'd made no such attempts. Now, with Vaes Dothrak destroyed and a nameless apparition lurking in the shadows and making demands...the Dothraki would want to remain as far away from her as possible. If she had to make a guess, she was sure civil unrest would soon befall the khalasar. Soon, more Dothraki would die.

"These men might be barbaric, but they are not imbeciles," Dany went on. She felt the old man's hands on her back, moving down toward hips. "And whoever has threatened their numbers has seen to it that none will dare try."

It was a puzzling thing, but the ominous shadow slaughtering men and stealing women and children had gone to great length to ensure no one touched her.

Dany watched the old man retrieve the water basin she'd kicked earlier. He brought it close and she awaited further instruction. Finally, she moved to sit down and knelt before the old man as he readied the rags to wash her body. She let out a soft breath, allowing her muscles to release all the tension that gripped at her tiny body. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, but was startled when she felt the sting of a hard slap against her inner thigh.

"I..." Dany stammered, her violet eyes darting back and forth before resting upon the old man in front of her. She was glad, in that moment, that his eyes could not see. Her skin heated and she turned away in embarrassment.

Daenerys could hear the muffled voices outside grow louder before prying eyes peered inside the tent. Immediately, she moved to cover herself, not wanting these men to see her bared as she was. Anger welled up and she turned toward her newfound audience with gritted teeth. Fortunately, they didn't watch for long.

"You speak of masochism and pain," Dany said plainly. "But I come from a world where everything was taken from me. My home, my family, my son, my love..." She felt her voice falter and took a deep breath. " It's time to stop allowing things to be taken. No more sitting idly by." She paused a moment, her brows furrowing. "I've spent far too long in Meereen," she whispered. "I...I need to go home."

~~~

Missandei's eyes softened when Tyrion reached out to gently touch her hand. She needed the reassurance in that moment and somehow the dwarf had known. She was grateful for his presence in Dany's absence. Without him she was sure Meereen would fall back into the hands of the masters, that great and horrible harpy re-erected for all to see as it glared down upon everyone residing in its shadow.

A shiver ran along Missandei's spine. That couldn't happen. Not after everything Dany had accomplished! A pang of fear filled her when Tyrion spoke and she found her dark eyes widening as she quickly turned to look his way.

"A common threat," Missandei whispered. She smiled and knew Dany would approve without question. She nodded and walked over to one of the bodyguards in the room and whispered a request that he retrieve the wine stashed away by Daario. The guard nodded and left.

Missandei paced the room, her face the picture of calm. When she stopped she looked over at Varys and then Tyrion.

"Our queen would approve of this tactic," Missandei began. "Perhaps we enlist our strongest Unsullied to guard the food supply as a start to this diversion." She looked over at Tyrion and smiled. "We can have those Unsullied seeking refuge in the brothels planting their seeds of another threat?" She tilted her head, her eyes fixed on Tyrion before moving to Varys once more.

Just then, the guard returned with the wine Missandei had asked him to fetch. She gestured he bring it to Tyrion and pour him a glass.

"What about the Second Sons?" Missandei then asked as she laid a gentle hand on the guard's arm who prepared the wine. When it was poured, she handed the full glass to Tyrion. "Would they not be helpful in this fabrication of an army set to destroy the Breaker of Chains?" Her eyes were innocent and hopeful, begging for answers none them could hope to find. But she had to admit, this was their best chance at keeping Dany's reign intact. Together, they'd snuff out the Sons of the Harpy. Together, they'd bring peace and control back to Meereen.

A fierce smile eclipsed the lines of grief on Jhaqo's face, if only for a moment. The Dothraki learned early that life was a brief and savage thing. If they would live a good life, then it was necessary to wrestle life into submission, and take what pleasures one could. Breathe in happiness wherever it may be found, before the end. Curling his hand around the back of Kess's neck, the khal nodded his acknowledgement of her acceptance and respect. "Stand away from me then. The challenge will come soon."

But from whom?

Jhaqo's steps slowed as he entered his newly erected camp proper. One deep inhale, nostrils flaring. He filled his lungs to bursting, allowing himself to experience his surroundings. The ground was still warm from the heat of the now settling sun. He could feel it radiate through the soft hide of his leather boots. The air was cool; a light breeze kissing the land and its people. It would be a chill night. Many would sleep with their fires burning.

The Horse Lord could taste the dust on his tongue, stirred up from their settlement. It was heavy with ash, and the destruction of Vaes Dothrak. He had neglected to tell Kesselli that he needed this challenge. His people needed it.

"Jhaqo!"

There.

Noticing the lack of the honorific khal, Jhaqo opened his dark eyes and exhaled. With his loosed breath came the anger, the grief, and the worry that would slow his muscles. "Sephelo," he acknowledged. The younger warrior had respectfully waited until Jhaqo's conference with the dosh khaleen had finished before issuing his challenge. The khal realized his opponent already held his arakh.

"You subjugate the honor and the lives of the Dothraki by cowering before this dark shadow, and Drogo's Cursed Khaleesi. You spit on the dead of Vaes Dothrak. You are no khal."

And so the challenge was issued. The Dothraki buzzing around the encampment paused in their various labors and gathered silently to witness. Jhaqo drew his blade, and with it, his clarity of mind. His face was calm and ready. It held the expressionless cast of a man so focused, that the mind chose to disregard nonessential functions. The arakh was a familiar weight in his hand. Muscles rippled as Jhaqo tested his body for tightness. A pulled muscle meant death in this fight.

Sephelo attacked, running six steps to close the gap, and committing his full weight to the first strike. The young Dothraki's blade was raised over his head. Jhaqo raised his own sword centered before him, parallel to the ground. His eyes rested, not on his enemy's blade, but on his upper arms and shoulders. Many inexperienced swordsmen would keep their eyes fastened on the weapon. Most of them were not lucky enough to regret that mistake. The sword was the quickest moving target, and was the most difficult to track. But the sword could not go where the body did not will it to, and so by watching the body, Jhaqo could judge accurately predict the blade's target.

At the last instant, Sephelo dropped his arms, letting the curve of his blade scythe upward from the hip, across to the opposite shoulder. Jhaqo was already moving, angling the flat of his arakh to catch the oncoming edge. He did not resist the strike, but added his own force to it, flipping the blade up to slightly alter the angle, and send Sephelo's blade arcing safely above Jhaqo's head. Taking the shortest path between two points, Jhaqo jabbed an elbow, and dealt his foe a blow to the mouth.

To the young Dothraki's credit, he did not falter. He used the blow to speed him along the next line of attack, spinning in a deadly circle to cleave the khal in half at the hips.

Jhaqo stepped quickly, facing Sephelo's back to turn as he turned. He held his sword close to his body, letting his bodyweight stop the strike. Jhaqo planted his feet as the blow hit, feeling the shock of the strike travel up the muscles of his arms and shoulders. With his feet planted, however, he did not budge.

Sephelo immediately began to push. Jhaqo let him, resisting just long enough to let his enemy achieve maximum effort, tanned muscles straining in the dying sun. With his sword anchored so close to his body, the khal could use the strength of his legs, core, chest, and shoulders to keep Sephelo at bay. Just as he was about to be pushed back, Jhaqo twisted his hips and shunted his body to the side, snapping the toe of his boot right into Sephelo's ankle. Suddenly feeling no resistance, the young Dothraki went sprawling, ankle buckling beneath him.

He fell hard to his knees, and barely managed to grunt at the impact, before Jhaqo's arakh swooped down like a bird of prey, and cut the man's head from his shoulders. Even using the weight of weapon, Jhaqo felt the jolt of cleaving bone all the way in his upper back. And just like that, the fight was done.

"I am khal," he said quietly. Waiting a moment to see if another would take up the challenge, Jhaqo finally turned and walked to his tent with eyes of cold steel.

~~~

Ringing hot water out of the soft cloth, the Old Man began to gently wipe away the dirt from Dany's face. "You said yourself that you had no home. No family left to avenge. The dead either have larger problems, or none at all. Regardless. They care not for matters of wordly succession. What lies in Westeros for you, but a past you have never known, and a people who have never known you? I have never met a woman so hellishly devoted to making herself miserable. All your time amongst the Dothraki, and you never learned to sieze life and make yourself happy."

With a shrug, he fell silent, only the sound of wringing water, and the soft scrape of cloth on flesh filling the tent. He wiped the rag down her arms, and scrubbed across the clavicle. Old Man was nothing if not fastidious in his duties. "Feel free to punish me for my impertinence, if we survive long enough for you to become a queen again."

He did not linger any longer than necessary on any part of her body. Firm, but gentle in his ministrations, the old healer's expression remained quiet and thoughtful, white eyes cast to the side, narrowed slightly in thought. "I hear the clash of swords, and the clamor of acitivity has siezed. It appears someone is fighting within the camp. Judging by how quiet everyone is, it sounds like a spectacle. I suppose the Dothraki are battling for leadership, as they are often wont to do in times of turmoil. Should the old khal die, I wonder what the new one will do with us?"

~~~

"The Second Sons would indeed be helpful," Tyrion replied, taking the glass of wine from Missandei with a grateful smile. He drained it just as quickly, as happy for the cool liquid down his throat as he was for the alcohol that would dull the edge of his perennial despair.

"Let the Unsullied plant their seeds in the brothels. They would be first to do so without a cock. It promises to be quite a milestone."

"Your humor is as indelicate as ever my friend," Varys murmured with the ghost of a smile.

"The mercenaries already serve as our scouts. They will be given reports--carefully crafted by us, of course--which they will share in the taverns, tongues loosened by whatever swill they find flowing there."

The dwarf smiled, reaching up to take the carafe from the guard to refill his own cup. "Then we wait for our seeds to sprout weeds of fear, and for those weeds to grow into a meeting of the Masters here, at the Great Pyramid. Varys, I bet you ten gold pieces it takes no longer than a month."

"Do you have ten gold pieces?"

"I will. In a month."

He was fluid grace as his muscles worked over bone, hands familiar with his weapon and his eyes—fierce and all-seeing—not missing a single thing. He was khal. He knew his riders, his men who'd stood with him, rode and followed, cut through the Dothraki Sea as they deemed necessary. He was khal. He'd earned this title not because of some declaration, but because he'd seen much, done much...because he always won. He was khal because he was the one all turned to—rider, woman, child and slave. And, as Sephalo's head severed from his spine, Kess knew he always would be. She nodded her head in acknowledgment. Victory belonged to Jhaqo. She waited a moment, her lungs stopping as the breath burned in her chest and the blood pounded in her ears. Would another rise to challenge?

The silence was deafening. Kess allowed her blue eyes to drift over the sea of men as the looked upon their fallen, the one who'd chosen to stand up against their khal. No. No other would dare speak out again. Not after so much death had already weakened their numbers. No. Jhaqo was khal. This night was his. The silence continued as Jhaqo turned away from the bloody scene, his body taut with the tension of his challenge. It would take special attention to ease those knots away. She could see the fury, the aggression lingering in his eyes. But he said nothing. He just made his way to his tent, while his men moved to retrieve the fallen Sephalo.

Kess slowly backed away from the scene, her eyes fixed upon the riders as they carried the corpse away—not a wasted loss, a necessary one, a needed one. When she felt the flaps of Jhaqo's tent brush against her arms, she turned her blonde head and felt a small smile tug at her lips. The sun was low on the horizon, soft purples and oranges marking a darkening sky. She could smell the fires as they burned, the flames crackling as she lifted the flap and entered. Her blue eyes fixed upon Jhaqo, a man much like her Arrokko. Yes, Jhaqo was khal.

~~~

"Shh..." Dany hissed, almost demanded. She brought up a slender finger as if to hush the old man, though his whitened eyes could not see. She strained her ears as she listened to the sound of metal on metal. There were shouts as the fight wore on outside and how she wished she could watch. She was Khaleesi, widow to the late Khal Drogo. Blood never bothered her, not when such challenges were necessary. She understood the ways of the Dothraki far better than these men realized. They thought her soft, weak. But she rode with Drogo once, her body accepting the heart of the stallion! She might not have approved the fighting pits of Meereen, but she understood when death was necessary.

Then Dany heard it. She heard the loud thump and the grave silence that followed. Her face was solemn and she turned to gaze at the old man. A victor had been declared. Was it Jhaqo or someone new? She sucked in a breath, held it and closed her strange violet eyes.

"Jhaqo has won," Dany whispered. "The khalasar remains his." Oddly, she began to smile. "Defeat falls with the challenger." Her eyes fluttered open and she felt her cheeks begin to warm.

Thoughts of the past, of a time with Drogo, entered Dany's mind. She'd been so frightened the day that Viserys had promised her to that wild Dothraki man. He'd grunted and stared, large hands prodding her like a prize. Little had she known the man that truly resided beneath such a proud exterior. She missed him, but he'd taught her much in the ways of the world. For that, she'd always be grateful.

"Jhaqo," Dany continued, her eyes looking upon the old man. "Will take me back to Meereen as requested. Soon, I'll be going home."

~~~

Missandei watched Tyrion down the wine. For a man of nobility, he had absolutely no reservation or care in how he was perceived. Perhaps it was his being far from home or the fact that he was a rarity amongst the fine folk of Westeros. No matter, she found it oddly charming and bringing a smile to her face while they faced dark times and had to make difficult decisions. She hung forced herself to look away, not wanting to offend, but soon found her eyes widening at his twist on her own words.

Immediately, Missandei found her face growing warm though she refused to let on the such words would spark a reaction. Instead, her dark eyes remained fixed on the floor and she let Varys chastise, while her thoughts took a turn for Grey Worm. He hadn't been among the Unsullied choosing to take their leave to the brothels when time permitted. Ever proud and diligent, the man did not give in to such temptations. It had surprised her that he'd even glanced her way at the river, had accepted her chaste kiss in the infirmary. Was he like the others? Did his needs go beyond that of mere friendship?

It was hard to say and so much was stirring that it made it difficult for Missandei to dwell on such things. They all had larger issues to worry about, after all.

Missandei finally felt her cheeks cool and she looked up, Tyrion already pouring himself more wine. The scouts and Second Sons serving to create this common enemy would work in their favor. The dwarf was right. It wouldn't take long for the masters to seek council and meet...if only Dany were there. Still, she knew Tyrion wouldn't let Meereen fall back to the way it was. Too much was at stake and too much was to be gained.

"How will you get this gold?" Missandei then spoke up, her voice a soft contrast compared to the dwarf and the eunuch. Her eyes rested on Tyrion as she finished her question, her footfalls light as she took a few steps in his direction. There was a tiny smile on her lips before she cast her gaze back down to the floor. "I should like to know how you plan to acquire it."