Thread: GoT: Blood And Fire (kingofshadows & darkangel76)

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.