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

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.