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Chapter Thirteen

“My lord,” a sharp voice woke Ned from his sleep. He groped for his sword before he could recognize Jory’s voice.

“What’s happened?” he swung his legs off the bed and reached for his laced shirt.

“We received a raven from Bear Island. A crown ship comes with all sails up.”

Ned paused as he pulled his breeches. “A crown ship?”

“Maege Mormont reports it sails the king’s banner.”

Maege. Any raven from Bear Island should have come from Jorah. Ned stood and reached for his sword before he stopped.  He saw how fate struggled to return to its old path. Daenerys had been taken by her horse lord. His sister had died. Cersei had birthed bastards, even without her brother in the Red Keep. Fate marched toward war. Ned fought at every step, but the North was not ready to stand against the crown. Not yet.

And he would not have Ice lost a second time.  He took the sword and handed it to Jory.  “I will write a missive for Robb and for him alone. You will not allow any other to see it. You will take Ice and the missive back to Winterfell as soon as I have finished writing.  Choose a dozen men to ride hard.”

“My lord!” Jory cried.

“I will hear nothing against my orders,” Ned said firmly.  “The North must be protected at all costs.”

“But you are Warden of the North. My place is at your side, protecting you, my lord.” Jory spoke with such passion that it brought back the memory of seeing Jory die for him. Ned refused to allow fate to force him on that path.

“Your place is following my orders,” Ned said coldly. “I am the Warden of the North, descended from the Kings of Winter, and that means I carry the burden of protecting the North. If I fall, that burden passes to Robb, and you will be there with Ice. I will hear nothing against that order.”

Jory sucked in a breath. “Do you fear the crown?”

Ned sighed. “I have for many years,” Ned confessed. “There are whispers of a coming war, Westerlands against Crownlands.  I have ordered Robb to take Northmen south only for a Grand Counsel.”

“We have a king,” Jory said, confusion etched on his face. “What need have we for a counsel?”

Ned pulled his breeches on and buckled his belt. For the last many months, he had carried Ice at his side at all times, painfully aware of how close to the wall they were. The Others were there. Waiting.  Having Valerian steel at his side had soothed the nightmares, but if he was in the Red Keep, he had no need of it. “I fear we will not have our king for long,” Ned said. “Powerful men want power, and Robert stands in their path.”

“People plot treason?” Jory’s hand fell to his sword as Ned pulled on his boots.  Ned had been the same in his last life–he had seen danger and run toward it with sword or royal proclamation in hand, certain he could win any battle.  He’d been a fool then, and Jory was now if he thought his sword could save Robert or stop the realm from tipping into war.

Ned sighed. “Maybe,” he said. “I know not, but I have heard whispers and I will have my heir free from the machinations of the court. Do not allow Umber and all his anger or Cat with her desire to help me or Benjen with his fear for his brother to convince Robb to stir from Winterfell. The hardest winter in living memory is upon us, and I will not have anyone move away from their preparations.”

Jory’s face had turned from confused to alarms. “My lord, I shall go with you.”

“You will not,” Ned said firmly.  “If I am called south, I will go alone. You will be of no use to me in King’s Landing where the enemies come with poisonous words instead of clean swords. You will, on the other hand, be of great service to Robb.  Make sure the grand tour continues and stonemasons repair the wall and the keeps we have scheduled, and search for dragonglass. If all else fails, have Robb negotiate with Stannis to import from Dragonstone, but do not let him grow suspicious or he will increase the fees.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jory’s fingers were curled into tight fists. 

Ned buckled his scabbard, resting his hand on the lesser sword he had brought for this purpose.  He took a deep breath. Some things should not be committed to paper.  “Jory, if there come enemies that resist other weapons, dragonglass and Valerian steel will prove effective.”

He looked at Ned with unvarnished concern. “What enemy would resist cold steel? Mammoths?”

Ned shook his head. “Just remember what I have said. If I do not return North in time, that message must reach Robb. And tell him that I had considered speaking to a mastersmith about reforging Ice into two bastard swords. They would be better for close combat.  But the only smith I know who is capable of such work is in King’s Landing and I did not want to go south. If I am called south, I will try to send him north.”

“Reforge your ancestral sword?” Jory sounded horrified.

“Northmen are too practical to value a weapon’s symbolism over its effectiveness in war. A great sword as large as Ice is a symbol to be used in executions. In close combat, two swords would better serve their wielders. Promise me you will deliver that message.” 

“Aye. I will,” Jory promised.

Ned nodded and checked all his buckles. “Good.  Now I must write a letter and you must prepare to ride hard. I want you gone before the ship docks.”

Jory nodded in a quick bow before leaving.  He had lit a candle, but Ned pulled out the lamp made with purified whale oil and lit it. He ordered most of the oil preserved for winter, but he would enjoy this little luxury while he wrote to his son. He hoped that this time he had not poisoned Robb with tales of overblown honor. He hoped his son was ready to stand on his own and make practical choices for the realm. There were few reasons for the crown to send a ship north, and none were good. Ned just wished he knew which variety of trouble had found him.

Hours later, Ned stood on the deck with Errok and a dozen of his guard and more servants, all ready to greet the great warship that glided past the hidden defenses at the mouth of Whale Song’s harbor. The flag had the black stag and crown of House Baratheon, but Ned doubted Robert would be aboard. Still, he wished Errok would return to his work. If he refused to bow–and he would–blood would spill on the docks, and Ned was unsure what would happen after that.

The crew guided the ship to the dock and Whale Song workers quickly caught the lines that would tie the ship. Too soon, the plank dropped, and people began to disembark. Guards appeared first, dressed in the black and bronze of House Royce. The Lord Hand had come.

While not as bad of a portent as if Robert had appeared, it was still dire. When Yohn appeared with his balding head crowned by white hair, Ned bowed. Most of those on the docks bowed even lower, a few going to their knees. 

“Welcome to Whale Song. I would have prepared a feast had I known you were coming.”  Ned kept his smile in place, even when he saw Jorah Mormont and his Lannister wife in her lace and petticoats.

“Ned! It is good to see you, although I should be cross for recommending me for this office.”

Ned’s smile was more genuine now. “I apologize, Lord Hand, but the North has been neglected for too long and I could not spare the time to do the task well. I trusted you to keep the kingdom and coffers well in hand.”

“Keep the king in hand, you mean,” Yohn said.  For a Vale man, he was plainspoken. When Ned did not respond, he continued, “I’m sure you’re curious about the reason for my visit.”

“Immensely,” Ned said.  With a hand, he invited Yohn to walk with him down the dock.  “Lord Royce, may I introduce Errok Nightrunner who speaks for the Free Folk of Whale Song.”

“Free Folk?” Yohn frowned, either at the unfamiliar title or the lack of any bow or courtesies from Errok.  As Hand, Yohn was the second most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms, and while he could forgive a lack of kneeling, Errok had made no effort to even lower his head.

“I believe you would call my people wildlings,” Errok said. Ned controlled an urge to groan.

“Wildlings? South of the wall?” Yohn’s alarm was clear.

“Some wildings, those with professions and families, have come south to work Whale Song and Tailend,” Ned said. “The North lacks strong men and women more than any other resource.”

Yohn glanced over toward Jorah. Either he hadn’t known where people came from or he had not shared the truth with the crown. The former would make him stupid, but the latter made no sense. If he had brought the crown here, why would he not share any damning detail he could?

“Jorah. I had not thought to see you back.” Ned kept his voice calm despite having an overwhelming urge to beat his disloyal bannerman. Jorah could give loyalty to no one other than a woman, and even then, the man confused loyalty and lust. Ned had little respect for him.

“Lord Stark,” Jorah said, bowing his head. Liony raised her chin and looked anywhere but at Ned.

“Why would he not come? Is this not the closest Northern city to Bear Island?” Yohn looked from one to the other with a calculating gaze. He was a clever man, more than Ned ever had been. He could smell political machinations better than most.

“Ser Jorah has the same problem I had as a young man–a Southron wife who has little respect for the Old Gods. She was told that only those who held true to the faith of the First Men should visit the Godswood, and Jorah took himself and his wife away to protest the disrespect that showed his Lannister bride.”

Yohn’s eyebrows rose. “How interesting.”

Jorah glanced toward his wife. Ned had not required that hint to know that Liony had been the architect of whatever plot was underfoot.  Jorah was loyal and would give his life for whatever woman he chose as the holder of his heart, but he was not a man to plot. And Robert would not stir or send good men to seek Ned unless he had been forced by politics or circumstances. Ned believed he still had enough of Robert’s affection to say that.

Errok snorted. “All you Southerners speak too much and watch too little.  Why are you here and what do you want to see?”

Yohn blinked in surprise and then turned to Ned. “You have found people even more plainspeaking than your Northmen.”

Errok spoke before Ned could. “None of them are of the true north. Unless the snow melts in summer, they don’t know how to feed themselves. I am here only because I hope to stop you from saying anything stupid to my people or my people from being particularly stupid around you. Choose where you would walk so I do not waste more time.”

Yohn’s guards shifted uncomfortably, and Yohn again looked to Ned.

“They are not my bannermen,” Ned explained. “They share a portion of the whale harvest to help us prepare for winter and send more to the wall, which has suffered a century of neglect, but they do not answer to me.”

“Yet they live on your land.”

“We have mutual interests,” Errok said, “and when our interests no longer align, we will take our families back to the true North.”

Ned sighed. It was just as likely that Errok’s people would overstay their welcome even after the long night ended and Ned’s grandchildren or great-grandchildren would fight to either evict the Free Folk or force them to kneel, but for now they both did what they needed to do if they hoped to save their families. “As the Warden of the North, I chose to allow them to move here. The decision is within the scope of my office.”

“True,” Yohn said. “I suppose it is not much different than trying to reason with an Umber.”

“It is not,” Ned agreed. “Errok, I can show the Lord Hand around the city while you return to your people.”

Errok stared at Ned for an uncomfortably long time.  “Aye, but if you require assistance, you need only call.”  Either Jory had spoken to the man or he had his own spying on Ned. Either was possible, although he believed the second more likely. Jory might have protested leaving Ned, but he was a leal man. Ned had told him to spare no effort to reach Winterfell, and he would do nothing less.

Errok walked away, and Yohn watched with an amused expression. “I had expected my first introduction to wildlings to be more… wild.”

“They are people, no different than you or I.”

“Yet they have not sworn to you, and you do not require it of them.”

“They take nothing that was not free for the taking. I offer no support, send no supplies, and get a portion of their hunt for my minimal efforts.”

“Minimal efforts?” Yohn made a production out of looking at the towers that stood on the sides of the gates. Most of the enormous stone pile had been turned into carved rock and added to the towers. Each held stairs for defenders to climb, arrow slots, overhangs for boiling oil and a host of other defensive structures. All but the final touches were done, and they were impressive structures.

“The Free Folk did most of this work. I have stonemasons teaching some of them, but they also have masons among their number. A man of great talent is carving the stone of the combined chancery and market. He has a talent equal to anyone found in King’s Landing.

“How unexpected.” Yohn kept his expression neutral, studying the city as they walked the cobbled road down the center of the valley. Ned wondered if he was as in awe of Whale Song as Ned. He had never considered it possible to build a city that did not stink. Even White Harbor had its dark alleys and off scents. And it was loud. But here the city was spread over the valley instead of having all the houses crowded together for safety. These people did not fear death or cold and they refused to hide from either. That and their need to never waste an ounce of any resource made the city cleaner than any in all of Westeros.

Ned led them to the white government building.  The second story was now complete, and the rooms were as expansive and illogical as the first floor, but at least the half built third floor had smaller spaces and more logically placed fireplaces. Ned would need to send for a maester soon.  When Ned had first planned Whale Song, he had hoped to make Bran lord, but he did not want his sons this close to the wall. Not even the son he couldn’t claim in this life. Jon, like the others, was a warg, and Ned feared that meant he had some hint of greensight.

True, in his last life, Jon had never lost himself while north of the wall, but that might have been because he was so stubborn. Ned would not put him at risk. But if Jon took Castle Lyanna and Brandon took Moat Caitlin, Benjen could claim Whale Song. 

“Beautiful,” Yohn said when he saw the massive carved whale rising out of a storm-swollen sea. “The artist would be paid more in King’s Landing.”

“He would, considering I don’t pay him at all,” Ned agreed. He walked into the government building.  One side was set up for meetings or court and the other had smaller offices.

Yohn lost his equanimity. “You do not pay him?”

“Free Folk barter and they do not own more than they can carry or pack on their animals.  When they have reached that limit, they will do tasks for the community. He chose where and what subject to carve.”

“And you have no say… in your own lands?”

At one point, Ned might have bridled at the disrespect, but his time in the black cells had taught him that a lord was nothing more than a man. In his first life, he had held honor above all, and he had still traded it in an effort to save his daughters. He had few illusions left, even before the gods intervened in his death. “I do not seek to control Free Folk. They are more unruly than Umbers, and I try to avoid giving them orders, either.”

Yohn stopped his guards at the door.  “Hold here and keep others out.”

“Yes, my lord,” the oldest said.  Ned was grateful that Jorah and his Lannister wife were left outside.

“There is a good view from the top,” Ned offered.

“An excellent suggestion.”

Ned climbed the stairs, explaining all the ways the first two floors were illogical for people concerned with surviving winter and how the building was a well-constructed insult to the stupidity of people who valued pomp and status. That led to more reasons why the free folk thought all of Westeros were lackwits.

“They call us what?” Yohn asked as they reached the third floor.

“We do kneel, so the term is not without any basis,” Ned said with some humor.

“And you invite these men into your borders?”

“The brothers on the wall have starved in recent decades.  There are so few that they cannot keep the wildlings out, so it is best that I set the terms for their welcome. I can have workers who are free to set up their communities in one valley or I can have raiders climbing the wall from one sea to the other.”

“Is it so bad?”

“Aye,” Ned said. “But these people are also good folks. Look what they have built.”  Ned stepped out, the winds catching his hair as he looked down the length of the valley.  The clustered houses in their different colored mudding looked like jewels half-buried in the bank of a river. Everywhere were berry bushes and small gardens and children running along paths. It was a well-run city, without needing a city watch or cells. Of course, Ned knew how many men had been executed by their own tribesmen for breaking the peace, and more had returned north of the wall when the obligation to abstain from horrors such as cannibalism became too much, but for the most part, the city thrived.

“Liony Lannister wrote her former lord, asking for a reward for reporting a Warden who had betrayed his oaths,” Yohn said.

Ned ran a hand over his face. “Surely Robert knows I would not be an oathbreaker.”

“Robert has too many Lannisters at court,” Yohn said bluntly, “and Jorah Mormont does nothing to rein in his wife. He did not even speak for you when he sailed to King’s Landing with that poisonous cunt he married.”’

“Jorah has always been more loyal to the women he loves than the lords he has served,” Ned said, knowing that was a harsh condemnation that would follow Jorah to his last days. Yohn had the ear of many lords, and he had never feared speaking his mind when he held no respect for someone.

“I noticed.”

“What are the specific charges?”

Yohn shook his head. “I know not. The small council insisted that someone must take you word that you are urgently needed in King’s Landing. They feared you would ignore a raven.”

“If it had the king’s seal, I would not,” Ned said. “However, I am touring my lands and many smaller keeps require reinforcing. I cannot stop the work of being a Warden to answer spurious charges from a discontented wife.”

“Discontented wives are the bane of this kingdom,” Yohn said darkly.  That was rather ominous. Ned did hope Bronze Yohn would not lose his head the way Ned had. It had been a terrible time that he would not wish on another man of honor. But he also trusted Yohn to understand the politics of the situation better than Ned had.

“I promise you,” Yohn said, “that you can bring as many guards and weapons as you would like. I will leave my own people here if there is not room enough on the ship. I hate that I have been sent to fetch you, and I will offer you every liberty and honor I am free to offer.”

“I appreciate that,” Ned said, “but my people are needed here.  What I require is two days to review the plans with my workers and ensure they know what is needed. I need to write letters and send riders since there is no ravenry here yet, and I must brief my guards for how to handle any difficulties they may encounter. If I do not travel with them, some of my more difficult bannermen, such as Bolton, may question their right to inspect. I need to alter the schedule so they visit the Dreadfort last, hopefully after I have returned.”

“I can give you that time.  I shall walk this new city of yours so I can report on what I see.”

“You have no hints on what Liony Mormont might have told the council?”

“None,” Yohn said.  “King Robert, Queen Cersei, Lord Tywin, and Varys were in chambers with the Mormonts. I only know that Cersei gleefully told the others that if the accusations were not true, Jorah would have spoken for his lord, yet he remained silent on the matter of your defense.”

“Tywin is in King’s Landing?” Ned demanded, ignoring the disloyalty of Jorah Mormont. After all, he had expected that. He had not thought Tywin would enter the game so early.

“For a fortnight before the Mormonts arrived.”

“Why?” Ned asked. “Tywin has never forgiven me or Robert for the death of his monster, Clegane. And Robert resents the Lannister influence on his court.”

Yohn raised his eyebrows. “You are well-informed for someone who avoids King’s Landing.”

Ned stared at the city he had helped build and struggled for the right words.  “I was there when King’s Landing fell. I saw Jaime Lannister mad with grief over what his father’s men did–so mad he lunged at Tywin, sword in hand.  I saw Tywin’s fury when Robert ruled that Clegane would face justice. Those are the sorts of resentments that do not fade over time.”

“Yet Tywin is in King’s Landing again. Bring guards, Lord Stark. The city is not safe.”

“And no guards will keep me safe. I must show Robert that I am true to my oaths and trust his justice to get me home again,” Ned said. Fate might seek his head again, but this time he would not lead anyone else to their deaths–no Jory or Septa Mordane or Veyon Pool dying in his name. No guards who were barely grown men bleeding out on the streets. No maids with their tarred heads on pikes right next to his.  Ned had become adept at fighting fate, and he would again. However, if history insisted on repeating itself, this time he would walk to his death alone and not drag more innocents with him to the gallows.

“I hope this is a decision you can live with,” Yohn said.

“As do I,” Ned confessed. He had already died once, but he found he was no less terrified facing it for a second time.

Chapter Fourteen 

Arthur lowered the Myrrish glass. “Her khal has fallen from his horse. If he doesn’t die of that wound, his own lieutenants will murder him.”

Jon grimaced. “How can anyone live in a culture where people are not given the chance to recover?” John asked. As far as he was concerned, tending the wounded was the primary difference between humans and animals, and yet these Dothraki would rather emulate animals.

“This will be our opportunity,” Arthur said. “Whoever gains control of the khalasar will take most of the horde with them, leaving your aunt with her bloodriders who will be charged with escorting her to Vaes Dothrak. That's when we will attack.”

Jon had never been so grateful for another man's injury. His only regret was they either he or Arthur had never been given the chance to gut the monster who had taken Daenerys. It had been nearly a year of following this khalasar from north to south, from near Ibbnese territory to all the way down to the slaver cities. And the whole time, they could not get near Daenerys.They had been forced to watch from a distance, to abandon their supply wagons and hide their presence, to stalk from high ground as she grew large with child. 

Jon was near homicidal even thinking about the indignities his aunt had suffered. Lena had said something before they had parted ways, something about how Targaryen women seemed fated to suffer. As unhappy as it made John, he had to admit she was right. His grandmother had been repeatedly raped by her own husband. His mother had been dishonored by his father and impregnated all to serve prophecy. And now Daenerys suffered in a Dothraki camp.

“How long do you think it will take for the khalasar to break apart?” Jon asked.

“Our contacts were either inconsistent in their answers or they claim there is no set amount of time that the khalasar mourn before the lieutenants fight for control.” Arthur’s disgust made it clear that he was equally appalled by Dothraki culture. These people claimed to follow a horse god, but they were neither as useful or as benign as a horse. Jon did not know of any animal that acted with the cruelty of the Dothraki. That was a uniquely human trait.

“I need to tell the men to be ready to move at a moment's notice,” Arthur said. “It's possible the horde will split into many pieces. It will be hard to avoid the notice of too many separate khalasars.”

“Should we retreat for now? We could ambush her bloodriders as they passed us on the way to the city,” Jon suggested.

Arthur shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. Their culture says that khaleesi are to be respected and protected, but that does not mean that each individual will have the same beliefs. It's entirely possible that once the horde breaks into pieces, one of the men might decide that she is beautiful enough to take. That risk increases when we consider the prophecy. Another man might think to have their own son be the stallion that mounted the world.”

Jon grimaced. His aunt had suffered enough. She didn't deserve to have men treating her like a tool of prophecy. It was hard enough when Jon thought about his own mother, but at least she had chosen to give her life. He could even understand why. The Stark words were ‘Winter is Coming,’ and the family existed to make sure that the world of men would survive another winter. All the North were dedicated to the same. Umber and Bolton and Karstark had accepted wildlings into their keeps because they believed it necessary to have more fighting men if they wished to survive another winter. Whale Song existed because his uncle believed that it would help the North survive another winter. The Starks sent second and third sons to be commanders at the wall because they believed it would help the North survive another winter. 

He was not surprised that his mother, upon seeing what she believed to be evidence of a prophecy, would choose to sacrifice everything to ensure that the north survived a long night. But Dany had not chosen this. She had been taken against her will, and Jon would never forgive the Dothraki who had done it. 

So many men of the North thought the wildlings were savages because men and women would steal each other as part of their courtship, but no man would steal an unwilling woman. Tormand and the others would tell stories, laughing at the painful death by poison that men would suffer if they dared. If the woman did not end the man, her kin would slaughter him and all his children. But these Dothraki took slaves and raped women, which was unforgivable.

“By the gods,” Arthur muttered, “two of Drogo’s lieutenants are fighting.”

“Has he even died yet?” Jon asked.

“They've had no funeral pyre, so I assume not. They have no respect for fallen leaders. They have not even sent him with the proper rituals and they must act like dogs biting each other to steal the meat.”

Jon’s own Targaryen father had been heaped together with all the loyalists and camp followers who had died at the Trident and their bodies had all been burned. Rhaegar would never be laid to rest with his family. It seemed unfair that a man like Khal Drogo would get an honorable pyre when Rhaegar had been burned like trash and his ashes lost. Maybe if the khalasar descended into chaos, Khal Drogo’s body would be left to rot in the sun. 

Eventually Arthur blew out a breath. “One of them has prevailed,” he said. “He is riding amongst the warriors.”

“Trying to convince all of them to follow him,” Jon guessed. “Does it seem to be working?”

“I think Daenerys’ guard might be challenging for the khalasar,” Arthur said.

Jon frowned. “What would that mean?” He was desperate for a Myrrish glass of his own, but Arthur could evaluate what he could see much more effectively. He had the experience to understand what he saw.

Arthur lowered the glass. “If they are blood of her blood, then if one of them wins a challenge, that might give her control of the khalasar.”

“But widows go to Vaes Dothrak,” Jon said. 

Arthur lifted the glass to his eye again. “Are we absolutely certain they have to?”

Jon didn’t have an answer. They stood in silence for a time before Arthur said, “Daenerys’ guard has won the challenge, but that seems to have made the rest of the Dothraki angry.  Ride back to the men and have them pack. We may have to move fast.”

Jon turned and ran down the hill until he reached his horse. A year of following the horde and he had learned to ride as well as any Dothraki. He lept into the saddle of a great roan beast bred by the Dothraki. It could run for days without stopping, but Jon kept it to a quick trot as he closed in on the small camp. They didn’t even dare light a fire and they lived on hard tack soaked in water and jerky that made their teeth ache from how much they had to chew.

Cley was on sentry, and he stepped out of the shadow of a scraggly tree as Jon rode up.  “Pack and be ready to move,” Jon said. 

“Khal Drogo?” Cley asked.

“He’s not even dead and his lieutenants are killing each other.  Daenerys’ guard has already fought one battle and Arthur wants us ready to move, so saddle the horses.”

“I’ll get the others,” Cley said. Over the previous year, they had all learned to eat and even sleep in the saddle. “If we can reach Princess Daenerys, where will we take her?”

“Tolos,” Jon said. The men knew to gather at the small boats they had hidden along the shore to the west if they were separated, but up until now, Jon and Arthur had kept their final destination a secret. However, Jon had seen enough of battle and blood to know that he and Arthur might both fall. He had seen great swordsmen laid low by gopher holes and an incomparable archer killed by a fragment of an arakh that was flung into the air when it shattered under Ser Arthur’s sword. No matter how much they trained, they lost men, and Jon needed to make sure that his aunt would be safe if he and Arthur were lost. 

“Tell all the men. Make sure they can remember to seek out Ser Oswell who has secured a manor on the street of palms in Tolos. If we are separated, get Princess Daenerys to Ser Oswell at all costs.”

Cley frowned. “Your grace, we cannot leave you.”

“I will have Ser Arthur. You know he won’t leave my side.” 

That silenced Cley. “Yes, your grace.” He turned and headed into camp, rousing the others as he passed them. Malzo stopped to study Jon before he picked up his bow.  Of the sixty men they’d started with, Malzo and Cley were two of the thirteen who remained. The others had disappeared in the night or they had fallen prey to illness or they’d been lost in skirmish after skirmish with the small groups that would break off from the main khalasar.  Even relying on archers as they did, a year of encounters had chipped away at their group. 

Jon turned his horse back toward the hill, again getting off and leaving the beast far enough downhill that it would be hidden by the crest.  He returned to Arthur’s side.

“Rest while you can,” Arthur said, his attention on the glass through which he watched the camp.

“I can take a watch.”

“You should rest.”

“I can’t,” Jon said.

“Then close your eyes and rest your limbs.” Arthur was distracted, and Jon wanted to argue. However, he knew it would make him sound petulant. He settled next to Arthur and breathed deeply, letting his awareness of the land slip away as he sought a mind that had grown as familiar to him as his own.  The scent of warm moss was the first hint that he had found Ghost.  Jon opened his eyes to the blue and yellow of Ghost’s vision. Ghost lay under a tree, watching as Benjen and Jaime rode horses along the outer wall of Castle Lyanna.

Jon’s heart ached when he saw his father. No matter who had sired him, Benjen Stark would always be who he thought of as his father. He didn’t sleep  as much as he drifted, his awareness hovering between Essos and the North. 

The sun was a thin line of light on the horizon and an orange glow lit the camp before Jon started to pull himself back to his body. “Funeral pyre?” Jon whispered, blinking to focus his mind.

“Khal Drogo’s,” Arthur agreed. “He has joined his horse god in the sky. Two large groups left during the night, but both moved toward Meereen.”

Away from their group.  “How many are left?”

“Too many. Daenerys is still down there. At least a hundred Dothraki seemed to be camped around her tent.”

Jon lifted himself enough to look over the crest of the hill. All he could see without a glass was the blurred shadows cast by a hundred torches and campfires and the burial fire that dominated the center of the camp. They’d both thought that all but a few Dothraki would leave, so they had no plan for dealing with a hundred horse riders.

“I’m impressed by her ability to inspire loyalty,” Jon said. 

Arthur scoffed. “I would admire it if she were queen and inspiring loyalty in the great houses. I find her ability to inspire the Dothraki inconvenient and annoying. We wait until more have left and then I will ride into camp to try to speak with her.”

“No,” Jon said.

Arthur lowered the Myrrish glass.  “The Dothraki won’t slaughter me as I ride into camp.”

“No, they’ll wait until you’re in it and challenge you, one after another, until you die.”

“Do you have so little faith in me, your grace?” Despite his soft tone, there was danger in Arthur’s voice.

“You could beat any ten Dothraki in the horde, but there are far more than ten down there,” Jon countered.  

“Which is why we wait for more to leave.  Any that are loyal to her will disengage once I introduce myself to her.”

“You can’t go alone.”

“I can and I will, your grace.  I don’t trust the other men to keep you safe, so you do not need to worry about my safety. I will return to you.” Arthur pinned Jon with a harsh look before he returned to watching the camp through the glass. Morning mad the sky on the other side of the horde turn grey and pink, illuminating the tents below. A figure stood in front of the dying funeral fire. Even from this distance, Jon could see her white hair and large belly.

That was Daenerys. His aunt. His blood. She turned away from the pyre and walked toward the camp, disappearing into the mass of tents.  On the far side of the khalasar, a few hundred Dothraki leaped onto horses, and several started herding slaves like they were cattle.  Jon held his breath until the horses turned to the northeast. If any of these pieces of Drogo’s khalasar turned west and found their hidden boats, they would have to take the road to Tolos and safety.

Arthur sucked in a quick breath.  “Get the men,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Horses. Now. Your grace, you will stay behind with Cley. Watch from here.” He pressed the Myrrish glass into Jon’s hands. “Run. We have no time to waste,” Arthur said, his voice low and desperate, and that was enough to send Jon scrambling down the hill toward their men.

They were all still in the saddle, most slumped forward when Jon ran to them.  “Arthur wants all the horses on the hill!” Jon called.  Cley came riding over, the bridle of Jon’s roan in his hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“He didn’t say, but the khalasar is moving.”

“Then we should move the other direction,” one of the men said, but he followed the others as they rode hard up the hill where Arthur stood. He was not staying below the line of the hill, so the whole khalasar would be able to see him. That went against everything Arthur had drilled into Jon for the last year. The best defense was to avoid being seen at all. That’s what Arthur had always taught.  And the second best defense was to kill every enemy who spotted you so they could not bring more men back.  But now he stood on the crest of the hill with the morning sun shining on him.

“We ride. Cley, get his grace to safety if we fall.” Arthur leaped on his own horse and then led their small group down the hill, straight at the khalasar.  Jon moved to the crest of the hill and brought the Myrrish glass to his eye.  He saw Daenerys standing behind two of her guards with blades drawn, and a crowd of Dothraki had surrounded them.

Chapter Fifteen

“You must respect the khaleesi of your former khal,” Aggo snarled. He and Jhogo stood in front of Daenerys while Rakhara stood to her side with the other Dothraki who had chosen to stand with her on the other side.

“I say she is not khaleesi.  I say she is witch,” Qotho spat back. “She brings bad luck to the khal. Bad luck to the khalasar.”

“She is khaleesi and you are a failed ko of a fallen khal. Only children follow you,” Aggo said. Daenerys saw Hidiqi sliding along the shadows of a nearby tent, getting away from the growing conflict. She wasn’t surprised. She had long ago decided that Hidiqi was one of those women that Lena had warned her of–the sort that played their own games behind the backs of the men.  She had likely wanted to be Khal Drogo’s second wife, but now that he was dead and associating with Daenerys would bring her no benefit, she was leaving.

Daenerys was more surprised that Irri and Jhiqui were at her back, staying close despite the fact that Qotho and his riders outnumbered them. Qotho wanted his revenge, and a hundred Dothraki warriors, a handful of servants and three blood riders would not deny him.  Fear crawled through Dany’s guts, turning her blood to ice. Ice killed creatures of fire.

“Give me the witch.” Qotho didn’t address Aggo or her other two blood riders–he spoke to the warriors who had gathered around her tent. These warriors had listened to Aggo when he spoke of her child still being the stallion that would mount the world and how it would still bring honor to the memory of Khal Drogo, but these men had not sworn themselves to her. Many probably resented Daenerys’ attempts to curtail the slaving and raping. Only their desire to be remembered as part of history kept them at her side, and that was a weak lure when Qotho stood in front with his three or four hundred riders. 

“You should follow Khal Drogo to the shadow lands,” Rakhara said. Where Aggo was hot fury, Rakhara was cold hatred.

“I renounced my oaths before Khal Drogo. I told him he had fallen from the gods and I believed he would never be allowed to ride in the great khalasar,” Qotho snapped.

Daenerys sucked in a startled breath. Qotho was supposed to be blood of Drogo’s blood, but he had broken his vows. Dany wanted to laugh at the thought that this was the Dothraki Jaime Lannister, a man turned oath-breaker because he could not forgive a king’s insanity. Only Drogo had never burned a man alive, forcing his child to watch. Drogo had never ordered the extermination of an entire family, down to the babes. No, Drogo had only raped and killed and tried so hard to change for Daenerys when he truly did not understand her moral objections.

And Qotho felt that justified repudiating his oaths. A king who would not rape without questioning his right to do so was not a king worth following. A giggle threatened to escape.

“Join a true khalasar,” Qotho argued to the hundred warriors.

Rakhara stepped forward, pulling out his arakh. His back flexed as he slashed it through the air. “I will kill any who question the blood of my blood.  She has finished her trials. She has killed with her blade and brought meat to the women. She has eaten the heart of the horse.  Qotho speaks as a coward who finds power only by pretending his neighbors have no strength.”

Qotho stiffened and Aggo pulled his own arakh.  Dany wanted to flee, but she was so large with child she wouldn’t be able to run, even if she could. But she could not.  Her bloodriders would die if she showed cowardice, so she let her hand fall to the handle of the long dagger Drogo had presented her on the day she had brought home a deer to feed the women on the tribe. Hidiqi, the traitorous coward, had been all smiles that day.

“Strangers ride on us!” a Dothraki called, but Qotho kept his attention on Rakhara. The two men were balanced on the edge of battle to the death, and neither seemed willing to shift.  Hoofbeats of several horses pounded closer, and the fragmented khalasar parted, unwilling to start a new battle until the power had settled.

“Khaleesi,” the man said, urging his horse closer until it and those that followed this man stood between Qotho’s khalasar and Dany.  “I came when I heard of your marriage, to honor you, but now that I have found you, I came to offer my support.” He leapt from his horse.  He had dark brown hair, streaked with gray and receding on top, but what truly demanded her attention were his eyes.  They were deep blue, almost violet, and wary.  This was a man who expected violence, and yet he had ridden to her side instead of seeking safety.

The men who followed him looked equally wary and all had hands on weapons.

Qotho stepped back, moving his gaze from Rakhara to the stranger. Another Dothraki would have struck at that moment, but Rakhara held his blade, maybe to see if this new man would be a greater danger.

The stranger kept his gaze on Qotho as he spoke to Dany.  “I am Ser Arthur Dayne, and I have come with presents for your wedding. I have searched the grass sea for over a year to find you.”

“Ser Arthur?” A knot that had lived in Dany’s soul for the last year loosened.  Ser Arthur–kingsguard to her nephew and the true king.  He had ridden all this time to find her–to save her.  She wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him fight these battles.  She wanted to be a little girl whose worst mistake would result only in the inconvenience of having to move manors.  She wanted to pretend she was not ruined, heavy with the child of a dead man.  She wanted so much.

But she nodded formally.  “Welcome Ser Arthur. I have lost my husband, but his son will grow to greatness that surpasses even his father.” She rested her left hand on her belly, her right still on her knife.  She would raise this child to be great and honorable. He would defend the weak and enforce rules that protected all men and women. And if the Dothraki would not change, the only way he would unite them would be to put them under the grass of their great sea. They could ride with their horse god in the shadowlands and not torment the living any more.

“The bitch has killed out khal. He came here to serve her prophecy,” Qotho snarled.  A moment of confusion crossed Arthur’s face, likely because he didn’t understand the words, but he drew his sword. The tone had been challenge enough for him.

His sword gleamed white under the early morning sun.  Sword of Morning. Dany put a hand on Aggo’s arm when he tried to step forward, likely worrying for her safety.

“My sword belongs to the princess,” Arthur said, his voice low.  His cool temperament was far more like Rakhara than Aggo. “I have come to either honor her if she will stay with her khalasar or escort her to Tolos where her family waits to welcome her… all her family.”

Dany sucked in a quick breath. Her nephew had come. Why? He was safe in the North, hidden from the usurper who had killed her brother. Why would he risk himself by coming for her, an action that could not be explained if he were truly the bastard-born son of a minor lord.

“I am mourning my husband. I will stay here until his ashes have been scattered by the wind,” Dany said, hoping that would prevent a fight. With the Sword of Morning here, her bloodriders would do far more damage than Qotho could imagine, but she still didn’t trust the hundred riders who stood at her side to fight for her.  Hidiqi had taught her Dothraki ways, and she had adapted as much as she could. She had done all the ceremonies of status. She had eaten the heart of a horse. She had proved her skill with a blade. Ser Gerold Hightower would have been proud. Her heart still ached when she thought of him putting his body between her and an entire horde. He had been the most honorable of men. But in the end, she was not Dothraki and she did not forgive them their cruelties. These men knew that.

“You have no right to mourn the great khal,” Qotho said.

“You have no right to dishonor the khaleesi of Khal Drogo,” Dany retorted with a snarl. Arthur moved closer, and Rakhara took a step forward.

Dany knew that Arthur was reputed to be the most dangerous swordsman in the known world, and he had been seeking her for a year, so he likely knew the weakness of the arakh. She made a quick decision.

“Irri, translate,” she ordered.  Her handmaiden inched forward, her expression resolute but her hands shaking.

“Ser Arthur, I would ask a gift for my son who is to be born within the month.  I ask for the life of Qotho who would see me and my son dead because he is too weak to respect the strength of others.” She lifted her chin, and Irri translated, her voice clear and firm. She had no more than said the last word before Qotho threw himself forward with a war cry.

But Arthur had heard her request first, so he was ready with his sword. The ring of metal clashing filled the air, and warriors retreated quickly, leaving a space for them to fight. Dany found herself ensconced in a huddle of her women and blood riders, and she noticed that the Dothraki who had stood with her remained near her tent.

Qotho’s riders started screaming their support, but their screams quieted when they watched Arthur drive Qotho back, his sword flashing in the sun.  The riders milled on the other side of the fight, and someone must have targeted one of Arthur’s men because a fight broke out near the horses.  Men shouted and a horse screamed.  The riders standing on Dany’s side threw themselves into that battle, and slaves scattered as the camp became a melee that spread out. Soon men were fighting on the ashes of Drogo, kicking his remains to the wind.

Arthur had Qotho on his knees when a dozen riders surged forward.  Trying to save a leader in single combat was the antithesis of Dothraki culture, yet Qotho’s men did it.  Arthur spun around, suddenly facing a mob, all armed with arakhs.

Dany flinched as the twang of a well-strung bow came from behind her.  Aggo stood with a new arrow already at his bow, and another of Qotho’s men fell.  Jhogo raised his own bow, and Rakhara shifted to stand in front of both of them, protecting them from any counterattack. Daenerys crouched to make sure she did not interfere with their aim, and Irri and Jhiqui crouched on either side of her.

Arthur was bloodied now, and limping badly, but he dispatched the last of the dishonorable warriors before turning back to Qotho.

Qotho’s expression was full of malice.  He might have crossed swords with Arthur, but he was not wounded, not bloodied.  His dozen fighters had done significant damage before Arthur had killed them.

Dany thought of Ser Gerold, fighting so honorably. He had been hamstrung, yet he clung to tables that had been tipped over with one hand and swung a sword with the other.  His leg was nearly cut off, yet he had fought.

And he had lost. The horde had proved that numbers could succeed where honor and skill failed.

Arthur took a stance, and Qotho crouched in front of him like a lion ready to pounce on prey.  Before Dany could make a conscious decision, her body moved. She lunged forward, past Rakhara’s legs.

Ser Gerold’s voice haunted her. “If you must, my lady, strike a man’s most vulnerable spots.  Eyes. Ears. Between a man’s legs or through his back.”

“But that is dishonorable.” She had been so young. So naive.

“Lady Daenerys, if a man who is not sworn to your service draws a blade in your presence, he has no honor. Do not ever risk your life for a concept like honor. Strike hard and without mercy.”

She fisted her dagger and drove it up between Qotho’s body as Ser Gerold had made her practice over and over.  The dummy they’d used for training had dripped straw and the servant women had needed to patch the crotch and head several times.  Only this time, her knife did not find tacking and straw. The knife Drogo had gifted her sank deep into meat before hitting something hard. Hot blood poured over her hand, and Qotho screamed.  It was a high sound. Desperate.

Then Arthur swung his sword and Qotho’s head thumped to the ground and his body fell over.  Dany was still kneeling in the dirt, blood covering her from dagger to elbow. A cry went up among the riders.  Usually if two ko fought, the khalasar would yield to the winning lieutenant. This time, riders fled. They leaped on horses and gathered slaves before abandoning the camp.  Arthur stood in the middle of the carnage. Dozens and dozens of Dothraki lay on the ground, dead or dying.  A few men in armor had joined them in death.

Arthur limped over and offered Dany his hand.  “Princess,” he said.  

She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet even though he was injured. She knew the kingsguard never allowed injuries to stop them from duty, whether that was killing or showing courtesies.  Besides, her belly was so large that standing was difficult.

“I am no princess,” she said.  Ser Gerold had oft criticized poor Viserys when he got lost in his fantasies and insisted he was the prince or even the true king.

“I disagree,” Arthur said.  “Baratheon’s heirs are blond-born bastards and he has proved himself incapable of ruling. The time for Targaryens to make their move approaches, princess.  Your nephew will be king and you and Viserys will hold Dragonstone. Not this year or next, but the time approaches.

Dany blinked. She had been raised her whole life to believe her family’s reign had ended. Prince Doran whispered about taking revenge, but they did not have the army, and even if Viserys would happily declare war from his balcony in Essos, no one who met him would accept him as king.

“But my nephew does not have the Targaryen name. Am I to marry him and be queen?” Dany did not think that any man would want her knowing who had used her. Besides, she was no womb wife whose only value lay in her ability to have children.

Arthur chuckled while Dany’s Dothraki walked the camp, dispatching the fallen and taking what they wanted from the bodies. “Jon performed so well at the tourney celebrating the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion that King Robert legitimized him to carry the name of his natural father.”

“But…” Dany could not think for a moment.  “He’s a legitimized Targaryen?”

“He is,” Arthur said. “If you want to be queen, speak to him, but I would recommend that his grace remain available to the likes of Arianna Martell and Margaery Tyrell. Ambitious men will commit armies for the chance to move a daughter to the throne.” 

Arthur unbuckled the armor on his left leg, and Jhiqui hurried to him.  Arthur flinched back, but Dany reassured him, “She is the most faithful of helpers. Even when I understood nothing, she stood strong for me, and she will help you now.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, but he accepted her help.  He called out for his surviving men, ordering them to go and find Jon.

“He’s here?” Dany asked, shocked.

Arthur smiled at her while Irri eased him into a chair so she could tend his wounds. “He has been with me the whole time. I tried to order him to stay in Westeros and he said you were his aunt and he would defend his blood. This whole time we have searched and followed, he has suffered and fought alongside the men.

Early in her marriage–her captivity among the Dothraki–she had lain on her furs and dreamed that someone would come for her. Sometimes she dreamed that Ser Gerold had survived, if only because the man had always seemed unconquerable when she was growing up. Often she dreamed of Ser Oswell riding in at night, holding out her hand and swinging her onto a tall horse before they both fled into the dark.

She had the rare dream of Viserys. She knew he loved her deeply, even if he was lost in his own mind.  Still, on good days, he would tell her about their mother.  He would play, put mother’s crown on his head drape a scarf around his shoulder before mimicking the women of court he had watched circle their queen mother. But even on his good days, she knew he would never risk himself for her. In his delusions, she was a prince, but he was a prince. He had told her the story of Rhaenyra, making it clear that a princess should always yield to a prince. He would gleefully describe how she had been eaten slowly by having parts of her body ripped off.

But Jon… Jon Targaryen… had ridden halfway around the world and had risked death to save her. She could not catch her breath.

Two men rode into camp on sturdy Dothraki horses. Both of them had the dark look of Northmen. The younger had a long face and curls.  Arthur stood even though Jhiqui was still trying to clean his wounds.

“Your grace,” Arthur said when the boy dismounted, “may I present Princess Daenerys, Lady of Dragonstone and sister to your father, Prince Rhaegar.”

His smile was so full of relief that it stole Dany’s words. She could only stare at him as he walked to her and took both his hands in hers, Qotho’s blood now staining both of them.  “Aunt,” he whispered. “I am so sorry we could not reach you earlier, and I thank the gods old and new that you are safe.”

Dany forced a smile onto her face, but tears gathered in her eyes.

“And who is this?” Jon asked, stepping back to look at her belly. There was no condemnation on his face. No disgust.  If anything he looked excited at the idea she would have a child by a Dothraki.

“Jahaers,” Dany whispered.

Jon smiled.  “For your grandfather? It’s a good name.”

Dany didn’t know why, but she started sobbing. There was no reason for it, no danger or grief, but the tears would not stop, and when Jon caught her in his arms, the tears only fell faster.