Clash of Ambitions, 9-12 (Patreon)

I don't know why I don't post chapter by chapter with my fanfic over here. I feel almost guilty--like I'm burying you guys in fanfic when you want original or something. Yeah, my issues have issues... I am well aware. Anyway, let's see what's going on in Westeros... and Essos.

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Chapter Nine

Hidiqi wiped her blade on the long grass before sheathing it.  “Tonight, tell Khal Drogo you have passed the test of boys.”

Dany cleaned her own arakh on the cloth she carried for the purpose.  “It’s such an insignificant step. I doubt he will care.”  Dany was learning Dothraki culture as quickly as she was learning to trust her own blade. So she knew Drogo cared for her. By his understanding of the world, he had done nothing wrong. After hearing that she would birth the stallion that mounts the world, he had taken her because he admired her strength.

All Dothraki women wanted to be taken for their strength. They wanted to have husbands who would elevate their children. The best and strongest hoped for husbands who wanted wives who were their equals.  The word that Dany had translated as free was so much more complex in reality.

And Hidiqi had taught her all this.

Hidiqi stopped to study Dany.  “He will respect that you will perform the whole rite.”

“But only eating the horse heart before the Dosh Khaleen matters in the end.”  Dany picked up the rabbit she had killed. It was such a minor kill, but it was the first time she had taken a life without snare or trap, using only her blade. This was her test of boys, although she suspected boy was the wrong term.  It was the first test of those who wanted to fight for status.

“To outside tribes, perhaps,” Hidiqi said, “but to claim the loyalty of this khalasar, you should show that you respect the culture.”

Dany hid her wince.  Hidiqi had taught her the many ways the Dothraki were better than the people back home. Men and women could earn their freedom by carrying out the tasks, although women in the end had to eat the heart of a horse using only tooth and nail and men had to kill another free man. The four men who killed at her wedding had been slaves making their final bid for freedom. To die or earn status at a khal’s wedding was a great honor to the khal.

Unlike the slave cities where slaves could never free themselves, those taken by the Dothraki had a pathway to freedom. They only needed to impress a Dothraki enough for one to explain the process.

Dany had no idea why Hidiqi had decided that she was worth such an investment of time, but she would be forever grateful.

Children were not born slaves, either. The child of a slave woman was the child of the father and treated the same as the children of the free wives, although they would not be granted respect until they proved themselves.  And unlike those nobles in Westeros who drank and whored and spent money at tourneys–money her ancestors had saved and sacrificed for–the Dothraki hated greed.

The earth was their mother, and they would not cut her body. They did not seek gold. They had no use for possessions they couldn’t carry.  They sought to go through the world without damaging the earth herself.

But for all that, Dany hated their culture. They didn’t till the ground, so instead they raided and kidnapped and stole thousands of slaves who would gather wild grains as the horde moved. People who lived in houses were seen as vermin infesting their mother, so killing the men and raping the women was not just accepted, but seen as good in the same way it was good to wash a horse that had grown weak with ticks. They were so dismissive of any life that wasn’t Dothraki–that wasn’t strong, that entire cultures fell under their knives.

Sometimes she thought she fought for status because it allowed her to travel with Hidiqi as the horde moved instead of riding her silver at Khal Drago side.  Out here in the grasslands with only a dozen riders watching in the distance, she could pretend she was free.

“Do you not want to impress the khalasar, khaleesi?” Hidiqi asked. Of course Dany wanted to impress because this was her life now.  No other man would ever take her as wife after she had laid with a khal. And now her belly showed the first sign of swelling.  Her child would be Khal Drago’s heir–assuming he didn’t fall in battle and one of his ko didn’t kill the boy to remove any competition.  In that way, Westerosi and the Dothraki were very much the same–they both killed children to secure their own power.

Dany tied the rabbit to her belt Dothraki style.  “You are very concerned that I prove myself to the ko and bloodriders of my husband.” 

“You would be equal. I would have you be equal. Show his bloodriders that you respect our culture, and their blades shall be yours as much as Khal Drogo’s,” Hidiqi said.  The answer sounded reasonable, and Hidiqi spoke in simple words as truthful Dothraki did. However, she was not of this khalasar. She had joined shortly before Dany was taken and for reasons she had never fully explained, except that as a free woman she could take her blade where she wanted, and as an unmarried woman, she could lay with who she wanted, and many of these men vied for her attention, even if she was older, because they believed her sons would be stronger for her strength and her daughters would be wiser because of her age.

“I heard you, the other day,” Dany said. She watched Hidiqi carefully.  Dany had grown up at Lena’s knee, learning how women played the game of thrones, memorizing the Westerosi houses and learning how women had undermined their enemies and set their children on paths of greatness.  Lena said that women moved quieter and one must search the shadows to see their attacks, but they were hidden between the lines of the histories.  Maybe Hidiqi was Dothraki and of equal status to the men, but she still moved in shadow. She was nothing like Drogo who stated what he wanted to Dany’s face.

“I speak to many people over the course of a day. I am no slave or unequal woman to tend the fire and food for a man.”

“You told my husband that my son would not mount the world unless he could cross the poison water.”

“Am I wrong? Does not the world include those on the other side of the Narrow Sea?” Her voice was steady.

Dany frowned.  “If the khalasar goes to Westeros, they will be lost.”

Up until this moment, Hidiqi had seemed calm, but now she angrily proclaimed, “You do not think much of your husband’s khalasar.”

Dany knew little of formal warfare; she had never been taught much beyond Ser Gerold’s lessons in self-defense and daggers. While those had proved invaluable to her in this violent culture, it did not translate into understanding battle as armies fought on the field.  She did, however, know that Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell had never feared the Dothraki. When they had moved from town to town to avoid Baratheon’s spies, none of the guards had been particularly concerned.  They said the bowmen would protect their party and they were not a large enough target to attract a horde that could overwhelm them.

It was true that the bowmen among the khalasar were the lowest ranked men. Several had lost lower limbs in battle and that made it too hard for them to maintain balance while in pitched battle, leaving them to fight from behind.  Few Dothraki would take up the bow when they had a good blade, even if the choice cost them their lives. After all, dying and joining their horse god on his raids was the ultimate end all of them sought.  However, Dany struggled to find the right words for Hidiqi.

“The Westerosi fight from a distance with bow and machine.”

“Weakness.” Hidiqi spat on the ground.

Dany didn’t think so, especially given that her ancestors had fought from dragonback. To define strength as putting one’s life in as much danger as possible seemed less brave than foolish. However, that belief would not win her respect in this place, and Dany needed these people to respect her enough to keep her safe until Ser Oswell and the others could find her.

“It may be weakness, but the khalasar would be cut down through dishonorable means before their arakhs could find the necks of their enemies,” Dany explained.

Hidiqi spat on the ground again.  “I am glad you do not have the weakness.  You have a strong husband who fights with arakh, and you will earn status to be his equal–a true khaleesi. When he dies, you will be among the leaders of the dosh khaleen, not a womb wife whose value lies only in her children.”  Hidiqi smiled as if that were the greatest ending a woman could hope for. Dany imagined for her, it was. If Hidiqi could find a khal to take her as his wife or raise a great khalasar of her own, she could retire to the dosh khaleen and rule the Dothraki as part of the council of crones. Sometimes Dany wondered if she hoped Dany would advocate for Khal Drago to take her as a second wife.

It would be logical that she would want Dany to claim status as a free wife because no womb wife would want her husband to take a second wife with more status than she had. 

Hidiqi nodded as though her argument had won the day.  Dany walked over to her silver mare, not willing to push farther–not now.  Hidiqi had her own agenda, and Dany would discover it eventually, but for now she was getting what she wanted–a way to keep herself safe.

Maybe she would do that until Ser Oswell came for her, and maybe Ser Oswell and Lena had decided she was no longer useful in the game of marriages and would leave her to her husband and her fate. If that was the case, it was even more important that she have status and power of her own. If she were a free khaleesi, she could even have her own bloodriders–fighters that wanted to die for her or with her so they could ride together in the afterlife.

Maybe that was Hidiqi's goal.  Many Dothraki wanted to be ko, commanders who could one day rise to be khals of their own khalasar. However, just as many wanted to be bloodriders–blood of the blood with powerful leaders and forever at their side.

Dany leaped onto her silver’s back, the Dothraki buckskin pants riding up oddly as her belly started to distort her shape.  Hidiqi jumped onto her own horse, adjusting the thick horsehair leggings that covered her thighs and calves like a sort of Dothraki gambeson.  Because they fought on horseback, leg injuries were common, and a few riders even had armor stolen from Unsullied or mercenaries. 

Khal Drago didn’t. He insisted on riding into battle with his arms uncovered as proof of his confidence and as an insult to his enemies. One day he would be struck down because of that confidence, and Dany needed a way to protect herself before that day came. Right now, she was a womb wife.  True, Drago cared for her intensely and gave her anything she wanted. However, if he died, she would be taken to the dosh khaleen as a womb wife and her voice would not be one of the ruling crones.

She would not accept that.  “Let’s return to my husband,” Dany said.

“Yes, let us show him your kill, done with arakh and the strength of your hand.” Hidiqi looked very pleased with herself.  Dany wondered if teaching someone the path to status also brought status. That would explain Hidiqi’s hard work and even why so many Dothraki would teach boys who had lost their own fathers in battle. Maybe Dany could teach Irri and Jhiqui to hunt with the arakh. It would be easier for them to find good husbands if those husbands thought they would make strong sons.

They rode side by side, Dany wearing her long-sleeved coat of woven cloth and buckskin to keep the sun off her white shoulders. It was beaded with moons and horses, a not-subtle reminder that her husband called her his moon and expected her to give birth to a stallion that would mount the world.

When they reached camp, it was clear that a battle had taken place–one larger than usual.  Groups of a hundred to five hundred would range out from the sides of the horde, raiding and stealing what they wanted, but now scores of women huddled together, hiding children in the center. They had blank, dead faces and children sobbed wildly.  Piles of grain and cloth and other loot was laid out across the center of the camp, much of it blood stained, and slave women were at work cleaning arrows dark with blood. The whole camp stunk of it, and Khal Drago stood near his tent looking particularly pleased.

“Moon of my life! Mother of my son. Come and see what I have claimed for you!” He smiled and held up a necklace with stones that reflected the sun in vivid blues and reds.  It was a neckpiece designed for a queen, complete with small hooks to hold up the front of a heavy dress.  Dany had seen one that had once belonged to her mother, but she needed no such frippery here where loose buckskin was worn over supportive straps of leather or woven fabrics stolen from villagers. 

Still, she smiled.  “Thank you, my sun and stars,” she said. She slid off her silver and moved to him.  He wrapped an arm around the small of her back, pulling her close enough that she could smell the copper of someone’s blood, likely not Drogo’s.  

He fastened the necklace around her neck.  She swallowed and touched it. The piece was beautiful, but it felt like a part of another world–like she should have owned it in another life, but she had no right to touch it in this life. It was like the three dragon eggs she had been given at that disastrous name day celebration. She would hold them, run her hands over the warm shells and imagine she had been born into a world before the Dance of Dragons when the Targaryens ruled Westeros. She would have been given an egg in her cradle and it would have hatched for her.

But that was a fantasy of a different life, and she could not afford those. The weight of this necklace and of her dreams where a great, black dragon breathed strength into her were useless relics that served no purpose in this world.

Qotho was the worst of Drogo’s bloodriders. He gave a derisive laugh. “I would rather have a warm hole than cold stones.” He strode forward and grabbed a girl from the center of the women’s huddle, dragging her out as she screamed and an older woman clung to her arm.

“Not my daughter. Not my daughter!” The mother’s cry cut Dany’s soul.  Dany stepped away from Khal Drogo and hurried to the girl’s side, grabbing the arm that the mother clung to.

“Stop! Would you take a girl too young to leave her mother?” Dany demanded.

Qotho’s gaze darkened.  “I do not take orders from a woman.”  The form of “woman” he chose emphasized that she had no status of her own, and Hidiqi moved to her side.

“Are you an old man who can no longer see?  Are you a boy, too unobservant to use your eyes?” she demanded. She had never been so confrontational with the warriors, but then as a woman of status, they could challenge her without worrying about her asking a man to stand for her. Having status but no husband meant she must fight for herself.

“Peace,” Dany said, and the horde bristled at the word. Even Hidiqi.  Dany knew immediately she had made a misstep. She could not advocate for peace in this tribe who believed in strength. Instead she had to direct Qotho’s ire toward her.  “He is a child who does not notice a hare tied at my waist or care about insulting his khal’s khaleesi as having no status when she has completed the first task.”

She didn’t have time to notice Qotho’s expression because Drogo caught her up and swung her around!  “You are a mighty woman and will give birth to many strong sons. They will rule the stepps and sing of me when I have gone to ride the shadowlands with my bloodriders!” he cried.  “Come.”  He tried to pull her toward their tent, but the girl, no more than ten and two, stood trembling at Qotho’s side.

“My sun and stars,” Dany said.  “It is not right that girls too young and untutored to protect themselves are used roughly by men.”

Drogo frowned and glanced around camp.  “This is the way of war. These women are our slaves now, to do with as we please.”

Slaves.  The word carried a meaning of not-Dothraki.  Because they had no ties of kinship to the Dothraki, they could be abused. They could be used roughly. They could be gifted to the slaver cities where they would die with no hope of ever earning their freedom.  Not-Dothraki meant vermin. If this was the way of war, Dany wanted no part of it. It sickened her.

“It pleases me to hold them safe,” Dany said.  Perhaps she was daring too much, but this was her day of celebration. She had completed a step toward status, and under Dothraki belief, that meant she had strengthened her son–the heir of the khal.  “If your warriors would mount these women, let them take them gently and keep them for wives. Give them places in the khalasar and let them bear you sons.”

Qotho laughed. “Does the horse breed with the sheep?”  He looked around and other Dothraki laughed with him.

“If you lay with her, you bring sons into the world through weakness. Or perhaps you will gift her to the slavers and then your son will be born with an iron circle around his neck. Maybe the son of Qotho will be unmanned and sold to be Unsullied and stand silent in armor all his years. Perhaps you believe only a woman of no status will bear you sons because Dothraki women will bear you only daughters.” Dany spat the words out, hatred coloring every syllable.

Qotho paled.  The Dothraki believed that if a woman was stronger than a man, she would give birth to only daughters.  But the stronger a woman was, the stronger her son would be if a male could plant one in her.  She knew she had insulted him as deeply as language and culture allowed, and if he lay with the girl now, the other warriors would laugh and say he was trying to get a son the only way he could.

Drogo laughed. “See how fierce she grows!” he called. “It is my son inside her, the stallion who mounts the world, filling her with his fire.  Blood of my blood, seek strong women to carry you strong sons. These lambs are too gentle for the Dothraki.  Prepare a feast. My moon has taken her first steps toward status. She will eat the heart of a horse in Vaes Dothrak and my son will be born of the strongest khaleesi of all the khalasars!”  He pulled Dani toward their tent and began to pull off her clothes before the flap dropped.

At least he had stopped taking her in sight of the entire horde.  Hidiqi called it a sign of the great favor Khal Drogo showed her. He changed to accommodate her preferences in bed. A lesser Dothraki would never be able to do that without being challenged as weak.

She closed her eyes as his hands ran over her sides.  She had taken the first steps toward claiming status, but he still attributed any fire in her to what his seed had planted. He didn’t see her as a Targaryen, as the blood of the dragon and capable of her own fire.  Rhaenyra had started a war to protect her power, putting her son on the throne and killing her enemies. Rhaenys and Visenya had battled next to their brother-husband, conquering Westeros in two years. Yet the men were given the credit.

She had her own fire.  And she would find a way to burn Qotho’s cock off so he could never again take a girl the way he had wanted to take that child.

Chapter Ten (The Reach)

Olenna looked up, unsurprised to see Mace step into her solar and close the door behind him.  “You got a raven.”

“I get many ravens,” she said.

Mace sat his rather considerable bulk into her guest chair. “Mother, play those games with others.  That was a Red Keep raven. You seem to be receiving an unusual number of them lately.” Mace played at being a fool and sometimes actually could be an idiot. She would never forgive him for holding their forces at Storm’s End.  Stannis had hoarded so much food inside the walls, there had never been any hope of starving them out, but he had still held their forces in the Stormlands, leaving Prince Rhaegar to fight without the bulk of his forces.

She understood as well as Mace that Aerys could not stay on the throne, but she still hadn’t forgiven him for choosing such a disastrous course when she had not been there to warn him what would happen if he tacitly threw his support behind the rebels by refusing to march to Aerys’ aid.  Robert was not a man who appreciated subtlety, and Mace had not understood that his actions could lead to the downfall of not only the king but also the crown prince.

That was the problem with Mace. While he was more intelligent than they allowed outsiders to see, he failed to understand the depths of the political waters in which they waded. At least he was not like his sweet, departed father–a blundering idiot who tried to undo all the work she’d done to advance the Reach. Mace knew his own limitations and listened to her.

She handed the raven message over to him. “A simple message relayed from the North. Aubrey does well and is most in the company of Arya Stark, which puts her near Prince Tommen more often than not.”

“That’s good… right?” Mace studied her. At least he was smart enough to recognize the feel of unsteady ground beneath him.

“The North builds toward war.”

His eyebrows rose. “War with whom? The Ironborn are broken.”

Olenna tapped her desk with a blunted fingernail.  “I have suspicions.”

“The Red Keep,” Mace said after a long pause.

She looked at him, surprised he would have come to such a conclusion.

He leaned back in his chair. “Stark would never turn against a Baratheon, but the crown prince… everyone has heard the rumors,” Mace said. “The boy is no Baratheon and Stark will not bend his knee to such a petulant child. I heard he finally started taking weapons seriously only after his father took him to the training grounds and soundly beat him. Imagine–a boy needing to be beaten to take his sword seriously.”

Olenna did not regale her son with all the times Mace had fled the training grounds in favor of playing with his horses or chasing maids.  “It’s possible,” she said. “That would explain why Stark holds two Baratheon children in Winterfell.”

“Or one Baratheon girl and a Lannister bastard. He has Tywin’s tail, either way.” Mace chuckled, clearly enjoying Tywin’s situation.

“And directly behind Tywin Lannister is not a safe place to stand,” Olenna mused. “We must forge a stronger alliance with the North.”

“Why? It is a cold and barren place, mother. The only horses that do well are small and shaggy beasts.” His tone made his disgust clear. Considering the precarious place their house held, he was far too picky. He always demanded the best, whether it was falcons or horses or the food on his table.  But Olenna saw the danger. They might grow most of the food for the seven kingdoms, but they could be taxed out of existence. Lannisters could put Highgarden to the torch. Stannis could take revenge while they stood helpless.

“Whale Song is described as unaccountably beautiful given how cold it is. Castle Lyanna is wealthy and rich with growth.  White Harbor is remarkably well run. If we are blocked from the Red Keep, then we should scatter our seeds widely, and the North appears fertile ground.”

“Not Margaery,” Mace said with a gasp.

“No, not Margaery,” Olenna confirmed. She still had plots to weave with her rose.  Jaime Lannister and the Westerlands was certainly a possibility, but with the legitimacy of the two Baratheon boys in doubt, Olenna had begun to whisper in receptive ears that Renly was the next in line. After all, he had been given Storm’s End and Stannis had been stripped of it. Did not the Targaryens do that with Dragonstone–their ancestral home–when they wanted to raise a new crown prince above his elder? 

That would make Renly the heir, and Margaery would make a proper queen for Renly. Loras had been Renly’s squire and, if servants were to be believed, his bed partner. He could argue for Renly to wed Margaery, and that would put her rose on the Iron Throne right next to her sword-swallowing husband. Oftentimes, those were the best sorts of husbands. They did not bother a wife with unwanted attention, and as long as a woman was careful with her dalliances and she chose lovers who shared her husband’s looks, she would be free to live her own life.

Olenna would not settle for less than either Jaime and Casterly Rock or Renly and the Red Keep itself. Olenna would keep Margaery home until it was clear which path would put Margaery in the best position.

“Garlan is of an age with Wynafryd Manderly, and she is her father’s only heir.  Given that Lady Leona does not appear willing or able to bear more children, Wynafryd will inherit White Harbor and Garlan could have a powerful and wealthy keep of his own.”

Mace half rose out of his chair, his face turning red. “Or the Northmen would reject her in favor of her uncle.”

“Who is also childless and shows no interest in breeding,” Olenna snapped.  “The Manderlys stand in the light of the Seven. They were originally a Reach family. Is it not appropriate for us to seek an alliance with a family that shares roots with us?” Olenna also noted that Wyman Manderly was quite clever in his handling of both Red Keep politics and Tywin Lannister. He had tweaked the lion’s tail by giving preference to Reach ships until Tywin had relented on the matter of taxes. It took a clever and brave man to face Tywin, and Olenna had faith that any such lord could only improve his family’s lot.  Getting Garlan in there would be a good move.

Mace dropped back into the chair and leaned forward, his elbows on her desk. Olenna did hate slovenly posture, but she had grown tired of chastising Mace.  He was of an age when he should not have to.  “Why are you so concerned with the North?” He asked, his voice petulant.

“Because Ned Stark is sure to back Stannis when the fat king dies, and Stannis hates us. We need someone to speak for us, and the more connections we have with the North, the more likely he is to do that.” Olenna had hoped Aubrey would earn them valuable ties, but from what she had heard the girl enjoyed her Northern freedom to ride horses and learn to play with swords and generally make a menace of herself at Arya Stark’s side. Arya Stark was not a valuable enough piece to make a play for, but then Aubrey had never been prepared to play the game as Margaery had been.

“Stannis,” Mace said, disgust in his voice.

Olenna narrowed her eyes.  “His injury makes him no less a man, no more than Willas’ injury makes him any less.”

“I know that!” Mace cried.  “But he continues to blame me for a stray arrow during the war. What have I do to with an arrow cast carelessly over their walls?  It was war.”

“And if he becomes king, we need protection,” Olenna countered.  “The North is clearly preparing for war, but Stark could speak for us if Stannis wins.”

“And who will we fight for?”

Olenna glared at her son. “Perhaps I will take your lead and march our armies in circles until everyone else has determined a winner.”

Mace flushed.

Olenna sighed.  Her son’s one great moment of idiocy was past and she should stop needling him. They were going into perilous times–the most perilous since she had first felt rumblings of the rebellion.  They had to pull together if they hoped to grow strong. “This time, that might be the best choice. There is no Prince Rhaegar to rally behind–no one whose ascension will benefit the Reach.”  Unless she could move Renly to claim the throne and get Margaery wedded to a king. But that was not the sort of scheme to share with Mace. “We can fight for a Lannister boy who seems to have his father’s hatred for us and a Targaryen cruelty at its worst or we can fight for a Baratheon who believes you are personally to blame for being lame.”

Mace grimaced. Perhaps he now saw why they needed to find allies and why the North was a rich store of them. Stannis respected the honor of Northmen, and Stark held the only true Baratheon heir with Myrcella. More importantly, he held Tywin’s younger grandson and Tywin’s golden son called him lord.  Ned Stark was much better at politics than his father, that’s for sure. He might have a Northman’s honor, but he was far more of a pragmatist who jealously guarded his sources of wealth and fought to get Northmen on the Small Council.

“They are growing wealthy,” Mace said slowly. He sounded as if he didn’t want to admit that Olenna’s plan was well-reasoned, but that was Mace’s way. He blustered and protested before capitulating.

“Exceedingly so,” Olenna confirmed.  “With both White Harbor and Weeping on the east coast and Whale Song on the west, they will continue to grow wealthy on their exports.”

Mace pursed his lips. “I hear Domeric Bolton is a worthy boy, spoken well of in the Vale. And the Boltons hold both the Dreadfort and Weeping–two major keeps for one heir.” 

Olenna said, “But I’m not sure I would marry anyone into that family.  They have kept the flayed man as their banner, which suggests they are more barbarian than most. We have no daughters for Domeric or his father, who I hear is looking to the Freys for a bride.”

Mace wrinkled his nose in disgust.  “Where is the newly legitimized Stark bastard?” Mace asked.

“Travelling the world,” Olenna said.  That bothered her too. The North was training troops, fortifying their coast, building new settlements and stockpiling food if the shipping receipts she’d received were correct.  Despite having more food production than ever with Castle Lyanna and Whale Song, they were buying more Reach food than ever before.

And yet Benjen Stark allowed his heir to wander away. That was something second and third sons did.  Any house that saw the coming war would hold their children close. Olenna had even tried luring Loras back home, offering tourneys and beautiful boys from Lys. Unfortunately, his loyalty to Renly overshadowed his common sense.  Why would Jon Stark leave the North when the realm was uneasy, and where had he gone? His father’s castle–his inheritance–stood vulnerable, the only Northern settlement south of the Neck, and yet he decided to travel. She disliked loose ends, and something about the situation worried her.

Jon Stark was an honorable boy–defending a man whose back was turned during the melee. She could find nothing in his behavior to criticise, which was rare enough in a young man. But still her mind kept summoning his image as though trying to get her to see something, but she knew not what.

“Is Castle Lyanna a prize we want to play for? The castle is unfortunately placed between the swamp and the Freys, but they are the source of the blood poison powders and headache medicine.” Mace sounded unsure.

“No, the Reeds control the blood poison powders–Lord Benjen only guards their southern border.”

“But surely they own a percentage of the trade for that service. The boy might be a bastard, but he performed well at the tourney. He impressed people.  He might be worthy of a lesser daughter of the house.” Mace seemed to warm to the idea of marrying some lesser cousin to a bastard-born Northman.

Olenna tapped her desk. Until she could identify why she was so unsettled by Jon Stark, she would do nothing.  “Let us wait to see where he appears. If he travels, he may have a lady in mind.  Meanwhile, I want you to travel with Garlan to White Harbor. Open a discussion with Wylis Manderly with an eye toward a betrothal. We also need to quietly move toward a war footing. Have the bannermen train more often and send men to see to the border outposts to the west and north.”  

Olenna had heard that Ned Stark was doing the same. Oh, he couched it in terms of rebuilding damaged parts of the wall, but as he travelled, he had just happened to take stone masons to finish defensive structures at Whale Song and reinforce his strongest bannermen.  Yes, the North was moving toward war–quietly and with far more finesse than Olenna would have ever expected from a Northman.

“We should take gifts,” Mace said, “and a fine pair of falcons would make a good one. Since the Manderley girl is a Northerner, I might also take along a fine bow. You don’t think she’d be offended if she does not know how to shoot, do you?”

Olenna pulled a small raven parchment.  “I will write to Aubrey and have her ask the Starks whether Wynafryd favors the bow or sword or more feminine pursuits.  Until we receive word, you should visit our bannermen and speak with Tarley.  And this time, Mace, do not come up with a battle strategy without either Tarley or myself,” she said firmly.  Mace bristled, but he couldn’t defend himself, not given what his decision had cost Prince Rhaegar and the Reach last time.

The rest of the realm might prefer Baratheon to Aerys, but for the Reach, even a mad Targaryen had been more advantageous than a sane and prudent king of any other house. And the fat king was not prudent by any measure.

Mace left without a word, and Olenna was left in her solar, still musing over the strange behavior of the North and Lord Benjen’s bastard son.  It was a rare day when she felt like age had slowed her mind, but today was one of those days.  She moved to a new problem.  What woman would be equal to Wylis? The problem was that, like Margaery, she had high hopes if the political winds changed. Maybe she should send word to the North and ask after Sansa. She’d heard rumors of a Northern betrothal, but what lord would choose a bannerman over the wife of a future Lord Paramount of the Reach?

Yes, she would write to Ned Stark or whoever was handling his affairs as he prepared his bannermen for war.  This time, she would make sure her house came out of the war on the right side.

This time, they would grow strong and send their vines into the Red Keep–one way or another. If Stannis took the throne, his only heir was a daughter.  She was ugly and would likely swoon under the attention of the knight of flowers, and Loras would not mind courting an ugly girl–not when all girls were anathema to him.  Of course, that would require Stannis to overcome his hatred of Tyrells, but she had already considered assassinating one king. It would not be a hardship to switch her plans to another.

She touched the drawer where she had hidden a tiny vial.  This time she had prepared in ways she never had when Robert’s Rebellion had started. Back then, Stark and Baratheon had moved too quickly.  Stark seemed to rush from victory to victory, leaving loyalist forces in shambles without their prince to lead them.  And Olenna had been caught off-guard, not sure enough of her mind to ride to the army and force Mace to act.

This time she was older and wiser and far less concerned about what anyone else thought of her. She was the queen of thorns, and she would prick the world to advance her family.

Chapter Eleven

Arthur walked up to the rough mud house with the dark orange flag flying from the roof.  A number of goods were set out in baskets on the ground.

A man in tattered clothing came out a shadowed door, ducking to clear the low opening. “We offer good wares. No rot. Honest goods.” He bowed toward Arthur, but he was scanning the small village, searching for danger. Jon couldn’t see anyone who could possibly pose a danger. These were ragged people living on the edge of starvation. The only people in Westeros he’d seen who were this poor were the tenant farmers on Frey land. And those farmers had all moved onto Stark land as soon as his father had started rice farming.

The Freys hated that, but the smallfolk had the right to move to a new lord’s land ever since the Targaryens had taken over.  Jon knew his Targaryen grandfather had deserved death, but earlier Targaryens had given the smallfolk rights. They’d stopped lords from taking brides on their wedding nights and had outlawed slavery in those parts that had not yet outlawed it on their own.

Of course, Arthur had taught him most of that, and now Jon knew why.  Sometimes he struggled with the idea that his whole life had been a game–a manipulation that others played while he lived in ignorance. If his father was here, Jon would yell. A lot. But for now, all Jon could focus on was his missing aunt. They had asked after his aunt at a dozen villages, and so far they had found no word. They were both starting to fear that Daenerys was dead. Jon could see that in how tense Arthur became every time they walked away without any information.

“I would buy all you have here,” Arthur said, and the man’s eyes widened. “Maybe,” he added.

“What do you need, good master?” The man bowed lower.

Arthur cringed. None of them liked being called ‘master,’ but on this side of the Narrow Sea, many used it as a term of respect.  “I am looking for a khalasar.”

The man scoffed. “Don’t look for one. Run if one looks for you.”

Arthur continued. “This one took a woman I will rescue. She has white hair and violet eyes. She is very beautiful.”

The man suddenly looked alarmed. He shook his head. “No. Do not look for that khalasar. Your woman is lost. Find another. Have children with another, good master. Do not look for her.”

“I will get her back. Tell me what you know.” When the man tried to retreat into the shadow, Arthur caught the man by his tunic with one hand and rested his other hand on his sword. “If I draw this sword, I will not sheath it again until it has tasted blood,” he threatened. This was a side of Arthur that Jon was not used to seeing.  

The man fell to his knees and openly wept. “Please, master. Please. I am a poor farmer. Please spare me for my wife and child.”

Arthur stepped back, his expression flat, but Jon could tell this obsequience bothered him.  “Tell me what you know of this khalasar.”

The man’s weeping grew. “Rumors. Only rumors.”

Jon stepped forward. Arthur reached for him, but Jon waved him away and crouched down in front of the man.  “She is my kin,” he said softly. “Most of my kin were killed.  My sister was but four and the men who killed her…” Jon swallowed.  “My brother was a babe still in his cradle and they crushed his head. She is my kin and I will not let more of my kin be put in the earth if I can prevent it.”

The man studied Jon, his hands trembling.  “Khal Drogo,” he said so softly that Jon had to strain to hear him.

“Yes,” Jon said. “Khal Drogo heard a prophecy and decided to steal my aunt. I will not stop until I get her back.”

“She is lost, good master.”

“I refuse to believe that.  I have to find her.”

The man shook his head.  “The rumors say she is to be a free wife–a true Dothraki, not a womb wife.”

Jon looked over his shoulder at Arthur, but he shrugged. Apparently their expert on Dothraki had not explained important parts of their culture. It was hardly surprising given how people looked down on any culture that wasn’t ‘proper’ in their eyes.  “What does it mean that she will be a true Dothraki?”

The man swallowed, his gaze flitting about as though searching for some escape that didn’t exist. “She fights for status,” he finally said.

Jon smiled. “She is no helpless maiden to accept being treated as less. I am not surprised.” From all the stories Jon had heard of his aunt, she was a clever and strong woman.

“She will go to Vaes Dothrak and eat the heart of a horse in front of the crones.  I know no more. Go away.”  He scrambled back toward his house, raising dust around him.  

Arthur took several brass and copper coins out and tossed them on the ground. “Thank you for helping us find our missing princess.”

“She’s a khaleesi now. She’ll have bloodriders of her own. She won’t want to go back to your world.”  He stood, pressing himself to the side of his mud house.

“Then I will wish her well and offer a marriage gift,” Jon said, although he refused to believe that Dany would want to stay in this land. Bravos and Qohor had been powerful cities with strong walls, but out in this Dothraki sea of grass, all he had seen was poverty and starvation.  He walked away with Arthur, both of them getting on their horses.  They had both started riding mounts taken from the Dothraki who had died attacking them. The horses were strong and tireless, unlike many of those they brought from Pentos where they’d started.

They had left the rest of the men on the other side of a rise, and that’s where they rode now.  “Do you know where Vaes Dothrak is?” Jon asked.

“Aye,” Arthur agreed. “It’s the ruling center for the Dothraki, and we are unlikely to be able to get to the princess while she is there. But we can ride in that direction.”

“You call her a princess now.”

Arthur looked over.  “She is one.”

“You and Oswell called her Lady Daenerys before, and Lena said she introduced her as Lady Daenerys of Dragonstone when she met with people of the city. But now you call her a princess.  Why?”

Arthur was silent for a time.

“Does this have anything to do with why my father wants me to take the throne but Uncle Ned doesn’t?”

“Your Uncle Ned cares for your happiness, but he ignores that you have obligations, just as he does as Lord Stark.” Arthur made a disagreeable face, but then Jon had known from a young age that Arthur and his uncle were not friends.

“And what obligations do I have? Am I obligated to sit on an ugly chair? Am I obligated to lead an army and force people to kneel to me?”

Arthur reined in his horse.  “Your grace,” he said slowly, “look at these people.”

“I see them,” Jon said. “There is nothing I can do to save them from poverty.”

“Agreed,” Arthur said.  These people are what happens when each part of the continent cares only for itself.  These people could band together to defend themselves from the Dothraki, but the moment they come together in any numbers, the slavers attack because they see only a large number of potential slaves ready to be claimed.  The Dothraki are not a significant threat unless they can assemble an enormous horde, but they can do that because the slaver cities hire away anyone strong enough to stand against them. There are no lords protecting the lands, so the smallfolk suffer.”

“I could declare myself king of Essos, but I think I would have a rather short reign,” Jon said.

Arthur smiled at his joke. “True, your grace.  However, people of Westeros are no different.  When the Baratheon reign fails, and it will, each kingdom will begin to raid the neighbors.  The strongest will carve out their domain and then begin to feast on the smallfolk beyond their borders.  Maybe those who have year-round use for labor will start to slave again. Mayhaps some lords will establish the right of first night again. Imagine what Walder Frey would do if he had no liege lord or king to answer to.”

All that might be true, but Jon was only a man, and not one raised for the throne the way Prince Joffrey had been. “If I put myself forward, there will be war.”

“There will be war either way–Lannister against Baratheon.”

“The war will be worse if I try to put forward a claim,” Jon countered.

“The war will be terrible with or without you pressing your claim. We must look to the peace that will follow to judge the worthiness of the cause.”

“And how will putting me on the throne make a better peace?” Jon honestly didn’t understand this. If Robert’s children were not legitimate, then the law supported Stannis as Robert’s heir. Or perhaps Robert could legitimize a bastard. He had enough.  He might even have more children later in life–trueborn heirs that could take the throne.

Arthur started riding toward the hill where the rest of their party waited. The thumping of horse’s hooves created a soothing rhythm and dust drifted around them in soft swirls.  “Before the seven kingdoms were conquered, they were seen as savages. Essos had better technology, better medicine, better everything. Even the Citadel was a shadow of the current institution.  Westeros dismissed those who attended as Peremore’s pets, not men of great ability seeking to advance the realm.”

“I know the history. You tutored me well.”

“If Lannister wins the war, no other kingdom will bend the knee. They could conquer the Reach and hold them through force, but the other five kingdoms will have the strength to defy them.”

The North would stand alone,” Jon agreed.

And that would be terrible,” Arthur said.  “After the Targaryens conquered the seven kingdoms, they no longer focused all their might on defending their borders. The Hightowers invested in the Citadel, turning it into a great center of learning. The Tully developed river-driven machines.  The Westerlands found new ways to mine and refine metals. The Reach doubled the productivity of their fields. Dorne built watergardens in the middle of the desert and bred the finest horses in the realm.”

“You think they wouldn’t have accomplished any of this without being unified.”

“They couldn’t have. Each kingdom has great resources, but they are too vulnerable to attacks from their neighbors to care about anything other than protecting their castles. And now that roads and bridges connect the seven kingdoms, that vulnerability is even greater.  Even the North is more at risk with a road through the Neck and long coasts that can be invaded by boat. Westeros would turn into another Essos with large sectors becoming a wasteland of poverty and brigands willing to feast on suffering. This could be the Riverlands in a hundred years.”

Jon didn’t want to hear this.  This was not his responsibility. His uncle always said that the law of conquest superseded the law of succession. “The Baratheons would likely win the war. The realm is held together now by a Baratheon.”

“Joffrey will unite no one.” Arthur spat in the dirt.  “Stannis is a man who has alienated most of his smallfolk and rejected the gods old and new in favor of a red god who calls for men to be burned alive. He allowed his wife to burn the sept and the seven.  The realm would set him on fire if he tried to take the throne and Renly knows it.”

“If the lords and smallfolk turn to Renly, then he will be king.”

Arthur shook his head. “Stannis will not abide that insult. For all his faults, Stannis is a capable leader who understands the movement of men on a battlefield and how to win a war. Renly does not. Even if Renly can put ten times the men on the field, I would expect Stannis to win the battle. Tywin Lannister will make sure brother turns against brother so he can win the war. And then we are back to the other kingdoms refusing to bend the knee to a Lannister.  Fear has made him a mighty lord, but that same fear will drive others to stand against him.”

“Can the Baratheons not work together until Lannister is defeated? Perhaps you can advise them.”

“Stannis believes in honor. He will not make an alliance with the intention of breaking it later. However, if he knows the truth of the rebellion and realizes that you exist, he may see you as the legitimate heir.  His honor will make him bend the knee if he believes you are the rightful heir.  Renly will bend the knee if he sees what I see–there is literally not another man who the whole realm could accept.”

“The realm will not accept me,” Jon said.

“They will.” Arthur sounded supremely confident. “Even Robert took the throne in part because he was the next male with Targaryen blood and because the lords know the danger of splitting into separate kingdoms. The Valyrians never cared to conquer Westeros, but there are now warlords with the might to accomplish what the Valyrians never bothered to do. If Dorne has no one to call on if Tyrosh decides to invade or the Riverlands are abandoned when a warlord out of Bravos lands, then we are lost.”

“If Westeros is that vulnerable, why didn’t the Valyerians conquer us as they did much of Essos?”

“Your sire wondered that often.  He had a theory.  In stories of the first men, it was known that some could enter the minds of animals. The more closely an animal was bound to humans, the more easily the person could enter their minds.”

“Wargs,” Jon said softly. He swallowed as he thought of his own dreams.  He would sometimes feel hunger, even when his own stomach was full.  Once he stood in the dark of night, looking down at Castle Lyanna and feeling such bone-deep loneliness for his pack that Jon’s chest hurt.  He had sent all his love to Ghost, stretching himself toward the strange feeling of having left his body, and for a second, he was Ghost. His tail wagged. He experienced their reunion before he slipped away and woke in his body.  He couldn’t dismiss these as random dreams. Not anymore.  He was a warg, but the stories were so terrible–stories of men who lost their humanity, who became monsters.  He was not ready to admit the truth, not even to Arthur. He would wait until they were home and talk to his father.

Arthur didn’t notice Jon's discomfort. “Yes. Wargs.  The legend says that they could enter ravens or horses or dogs more easily than wolves or eagles or mammoths. Animals that knew the touch of man would allow a warg into their mind.”

“And dragons are bound to men.”

“Exactly. Your sire believed the Valyerians feared the blood of the first men because of the type of magic they wielded.  But he also believed that only a child with magic of both Valyria and first men could fight some growing danger.”

“The song of ice and fire.” Jon hated that phrase.  His mother had thrown her life away, knowing she would die in childbirth, because she believed in the song. Arthur saw that as proof of her strength, and even Uncle Ned had buried her with the warriors of the Stark line, among stern-faced men with swords on their laps. But Jon could not ignore that she and Jon’s father had plunged the realm into war because of their song. And yet, like Arthur always told him, prophecy was a fickle thing that could not be trusted.

“Prince Rhaegar believed that the Doom was caused by magic from the Bloodstone Emperor, a man who took the throne by betraying and killing his sister.”

“The Amethyst Empress. Her death started the Long Night,” Jon finished.

“So the legend says.  Rhaegar believed that the long night or something like it would come again, that the Emperor or some malevolent part of his magic remained in the world and caused many disasters: The Long Night, The Doom of Valyria, evil faced by The Lion of the Night. “

Jon knew all this, but he didn’t believe he had to sit on the throne to face the evil, assuming that the evil appeared in his lifetime.  Prince Rhaegar had believed he would see the Long Night, and he’d been wrong. So many Targaryens who relied on prophecy and visions had failed. They had set themselves on fire. They’d blown themselves up. They’d died in righteous indignation, but that did not make them any less dead.

They rode in silence until they reached the top of the hill. Below, men were cooking over fires and training and pairs kept guard on the perimeter.  Arthur spoke, his voice low. “The realm needs you to take the throne. If Westeros breaks into separate kingdoms, fathers will not send sons to the Citadel because they need commanders who can lead armies on the field. Tully waterwheels will be burned by their enemies.  Reach fields will be put to the flames as armies try to starve each other. Smallfolks in the Westerlands and Riverlands will be raped and killed. Without fear of being hunted by a larger force, the Mountain clans of the Vale will turn the area into a battleground between the descendants of the first men and the followers of the Seven.  Progress will stop. Small folk will suffer.  Kingdoms will fall.”

“Those from Westeros will always see me as a bastard.”

“Show them you’re a Targaryen,” Arthur advised before reaching over and slapping the rear of Jon’s horse, sending him down the slope first.

Chapter Twelve

Daenerys shifted in the saddle, struggling to find a way to ease the discomfort.  “Is all well, khaleesi?” Irri asked.

“I am well.  This little stallion just insists on kicking.” She rested her hand on the swell of her stomach.  She would give birth soon, and as much as she still felt uncomfortable with the Dothraki, she yearned to hold a son with her blood. Then she would not be the only dragon in the khalasar. Sometimes she thought of Ser Oswell and Viserys and the others in their household, but they were not coming, and she had to let go of the past. If she didn’t, she would end up like her brother with his obsession to regain their ancestral throne. She was a khaleesi now.

She would ride with the khalasar, but at least now she had her own servants and bloodriders. Aggo, Jhogo, Rakhara, Irri and Jhiqui were all hers much more than Drogo’s. She wasn’t powerless.

“Have you chosen a name for the babe, khaleesi?” Jhiqui asked.

“Jahears,” Dany said.  “After my grandfather.”

“Was he a powerful khal?” Irri asked.

“No,” Dany said. “No, he was not supposed to be the king–the khal. But when needed to take power, he did and he led well.  He ended the Blackfyre rebellion. But what I really admire is that he refused to be told what to do and who to marry when his father was king. He found a way to create the life he wanted and to marry the woman he desired,” Dany said. She was sure that the Dothraki heard her and assumed she meant that she had married the man she wanted.

She hadn’t, although she did respect that Drogo was far better than most of the Dothraki.  He had allowed her to hide in their tent while he mounted her until Hidiqi had explained that important events were supposed to take place under the sky. The first time she had led him out into the night to couple under the stars, he had touched her with reverence.

On days like that, she could see the goodness in his heart.  He would whisper promises in the night and his hands ghosted over her flesh, always respectful and careful. But then he would ride out with his ko and he would watch as his men killed and raped. He was a great man who had been poisoned by his culture, which taught him that anyone who didn’t have strength didn’t deserve protection. 

He didn’t see the lamb people, as he called them, as even people. They were no more than livestock to be rounded up and sold to the slave cities–not that the Dothraki would admit to selling anything. No, they gave the slaves away, and Drogo had been gifting slaves to Meereen in hopes to gain ships enough for his khalasar.

“It is a good name, if strange,” Jhiqui said.  “He will appear soon and the khal will feast you as the greatest of the khaleesi.”

Dany’s smile was strained.  She hoped the feast would be out here in the grass sea because the slaver cities horrified her.  Riding through Meereen made her ill as she watched children locked into irons and slaves beaten like beasts. Worse, some of those who suffered did so because Khal Drogo had stolen them from their homes.  The lamb people should have fled, but the only escape was north, and the Dothraki treated them as vermin to be exterminated.  That might be kinder than the life they suffered in the slave cities.

But Dany suspected their child’s feast would take place in the great pyramids of the cursed city.  Her child kicked again, and Dany arched her back and hissed in pain.

“Khaleesi!” Irri called. She was at Dany’s side, immediately, holding her arm so Dany didn’t fall from her horse.

Dany waved her away. She was not so weak that she would fall.  “They are normal pains,” she said.  She would be happy when the khalasar stopped again. She wanted off her silver horse.

Horse’s hooves thundered, and Drogo charged toward them.  “Moon of my life,” Drogo said as he pulled his horse to a halt at her side.

She smiled. “My sun and stars,” she said, “I am fine. You should be at the front of your khalasar.”

“The stallion who mounts the world will be born soon.  I will stop the khalasar when time for your battle comes.”

Dany smiled and rested a hand on Drogo’s arm. “The time for battle is not yet,” she promised him. The handmaiden who had checked her the previous night said the babe had not yet turned for birth.  He simply enjoyed kicking his mother.

He took after his Uncle Viserys. 

“We will camp soon. I will take riders out.”

Dany swallowed.  She had argued so hard that they should stop hurting people–raping, enslaving, killing. However, these men didn’t understand her objections. Hidiqi explained that the Great Stallion in the sky they worshipped had no understanding of such objections. The stallion ran until he found a mare and mounted her, and this was normal. The horse killed and did not mourn. They claimed it was the same for men. Dany’s bloodriders had decided to forgo rape in favor of having sons with Dothraki women, but those were three men who had chosen to ride at her side in this life and the next. Even they did not understand her moral objection to rape–they simple honored their bond with her.

“By the time our son has his first kill, we will have a united khalasar behind us,” Drogo promised.

“The other khals…”

“Will fall before my blade,” Drogo promised her. “Just as the moon shines over the grass sea, so shall you shine over all Dothraki.”  He whirled his horse around and rode toward the front of the khalasar again.  

Irri sighed like a girl pining after a knight at a tournament.  However, Dany feared that he was too confident.  Her brother Rhaegar had ridden into battle so sure of himself that he had left three kingsguard behind, and the Baratheon bastard had crushed his chest. Sometimes Dany dreamed of it–terrible dreams where stags impaled her brother, throwing his body up into the air and then towers rose from the ground, blue roses pushing between the stones until the tower fell. Sometimes dragons came after that, and sometimes wolves, but they would scatter when a huge black shadow would cross the sky. A dragon black as coal would come out of the sky.  Then Dany would wake.

A horn sounded the end of the march, and Dany sagged in the saddle. Her back ached, and she yearned for one of Irri’s backrubs, but she had to show strength until she was safely inside her tent.  Irri helped her off while Jhiqui turned toward the supply wagons.

“I will warm water for you,” Irri said, pulling out a single ground cover before hurrying out.

Dany lay on the single rough blanket on the ground.  Irri and Jhiqui would put out more luxurious furs later, but Dany had stopped needing such luxuries. Just being off her horse was pleasure enough.

The pressure on her back made her roll to the side in search of a comfortable position.  Right now she would do anything to start the battle, as the Dothraki called it.  Birthpains could not be worse than the slow torture of pregnancy.

The camp noises around her soothed her into a twilight where she hovered on the edge of sleep.  She rubbed her hand over her belly and thought about what sort of man Jahaers would be.  She didn’t want him to be Dothraki. She never wanted to think of her sweet son pinning a woman down. No. She would raise him to understand that being physically stronger didn’t make a person better.

Lena always told her that.  Dany’s mother had been smarter and kinder, but her father had respected neither, and after Duskendale, her father’s cruelty had grown unforgivable. Sometimes when the cruelty of the Dothraki bothered Dany too much, she reminded herself that her own father had burned a man to death for trying to protect his son. People in Westeros wore more clothing and learned reading and writing–neither of which were of any use to Dothraki–but they were not significantly different.

If anything, her position with the Dothraki was better than it would be in most of Westeros. If Khal Drago died, she would be protected by any Dothraki who knew she was a khaleesi. She would be escorted back to Vaes Dothrak and as a free khaleesi, not a womb wife, she would rule on the counsel of crones.

She would be as revered as statues of The Mother set in their niches in septs. Nothing in Westeros would give her as much status or respect. Men might join the Black Brothers at the Wall or the Maesters or the gold cloaks or kingsguard, but the only status a woman was allowed was as wife or in the Silent Sisters where a woman had literally no voice or authority. She certainly wouldn’t have hordes of warriors obligated to listen to her word.

Jhiqui pushed open the flap. “Khaleesi. Come.  Another khalasar approaches.”

“What?” Dany struggled to rise, feeling like a fish dropped on shore.  Jhiqui had to pull her to her feet. “Who is it?”

“Khal Ogo.”

“Do we know him?” Dany asked as they hurried out of the tent.  The khalasar was on edge–women darting from place to place and the men keeping a hand on their blades.  In the distance, slaves cried. Dany shivered. Normally the sounds of camp hid the crying of babes that Drogo planned to gift to the slavers in return for ships. At this point, Dany hoped her child was a girl.  The world did not deserve to get mounted by a Dothraki chosen one, and she did not want to see her son become such a monster. But naming him Jahaers could not turn him into her grandfather who had focused more on protecting people than subjugating them.

“His son, Khalakka Fogo was in the procession in Vaes Dothrak when your son was proclaimed the promised stallion who mounts the world.  I know his khalasar travels this part of the sea, but nothing else.”

“Will this be a peaceful meeting?” Dany whispered.

Jhiqui gave her an incredulous look. Aggo hurried over, his hand on his arakh.  “Khaleesi, will you watch your khal or wait in your tent?”

Dany straightened. “I will watch my khal,” she said firmly. “Why do the two kalasars meet?” she asked him. As a bloodrider, he was charged to only tell her the truth.  

“Khal Ogo says we hunt on his grounds. He says his son Fogo is as likely to be the stallion that mounts the world as your child.”

Dany refrained from wincing.  Drogo would challenge him for those words, assuming Ogo hadn’t already challenged him.

“Your khal is mighty, khaleesi,” Aggo said.

“Bad luck can tip the scales in battle,” Dany countered.

Aggo grinned at her. “The Great Stallion favors the khal. He will be the greatest khal until your son unites all the tribes.” He had such faith, but Dany’s stomach twisted as she walked toward the front of the khalasar.  “After Khal Ogo falls, his khalakka will challenge. He will fall to your khal or one of the ko if Khal Drogo denies him the privilege of giving him a khal’s death. Ogo’s bloodriders will attack to avenge the blood of their blood and Khal Drogo’s bloodriders will dispatch them. After that, most of the ko will bend the knee to your husband. Others may fight for either status or revenge. You must stay close to me while the blood runs hot.” 

Dany nodded. She had no interest in getting caught in a fight.  Jhogo and Rakhara were already near the khal, and Aggo escorted her to their side. Drogo smiled at her before turning his attention to Ogo.

“My moon will give birth to the stallion. You and your khalakka will yield or die,” he said confidently.

“I will drive you from the fields where my khalasar hunts.” Ogo drew his blade. The fight was brutal and fast.  Dany tried to stand tall and calm, but she retreated behind Aggo as their wide swipes of the blade cut through tents and bystanders alike.  Drogo slipped on the grass, and Dany sucked in a horrified breath as Ogo’s blade came down. The shallow cut took a chunk of his chest, including his left nipple.  Ogo raised his blade and screamed in triumph, and Drogo drove his own blade into Ogo’s exposed stomach.

Ogo’s khalasar gave an undulating cry as their khal stumbled back, his hands going to his stomach.  The blood horrified Dany. but she watched as Khal Ogo sank to his knees. Drogo stood and with one swing removed Ogo’s head.  It thumped to the ground, and then Ogo's bloodriders surged forward.

Drogo’s own bloodriders rushed to find an enemy to sink a blade into. The scene appeared to be chaos, but it was as Aggo had described it.  After several minutes, all Ogo’s bloodriders were dead, free to follow their khal to the shadowlands.  Ogo’s heir and a half dozen of his ko were dispatched, and the fight was over.

Khal Drogo’s khalasar had just grown by thousands.

Dany hurried to Khal Drogo’s side, fear stealing her breath. If he died when she was pregnant and helpless, what would happen to her? They were far from Vaes Dothrak and she had only three bloodriders.  “You are wounded,” she said, staring at the wound with horror.  His left nipple was gone and the bloody flesh dangled like a piece of a gutted fish.

“It is a mere scratch, moon of my life,” Drogo said. 

“It is not.”

He caught Dany’s face in his large hands.  “This is no more than the bite of a fly. This cut is only a new scar. When our son is born, I will boast of this fight so he will carry tales of his father’s greatness with him .”

Dany swallowed.  She knew from her lessons with Lena that more men fell to the corruption that set into a wound than from any loss of blood. If she had some of the blood powder from the North in Westeros, she could dress this wound, but she didn’t know what to do to help.

“I will search the khalasar for one skilled with healing,” she said.

Aggo hissed in disapproval, and even Khal Drogo’s expression hardened.  Dany felt a fear she had not since early in their relationship.  But she was a free khaleesi. She had status equal to her husband, and she should not fear him as her mother feared her father.

“I need no man’s help.”

“I am no man, although I am a free Dothraki. I offer my arm freely.”

Drogo laughed. “You are not the blood of my blood. You are a khaleesi who will rule with the crones after I am gone. Do not offer your arm, moon of my life.”  He walked away, and Dany looked to Aggo in confusion.

“To offer an injured khal your arm… he could accept that as a request to be his bloodrider,” Aggo said, “but you must be the mother to the stallion who mounts the world and a crone to rule at Vaes Dothrak, even after your great khal has joined the ranks of the Great Stallion’s khalasar. Your khal is strong. All will be well,” Aggo promised, but Dany didn’t feel as confident. She remembered a dream she had.  A great bird sank his beak into Drogo’s chest and plucked out his heart before being hit with an arrow that felled it.  Drogo and the bird both sank to the ground. Small dragons had risen from the pool of blood, only to burn alive and give birth to larger dragons. Then the great black dragon with green eyes soared in the sky overhead.