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

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.