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

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.