I'm new to learning the Dothraki language and won't be writing sentences. I just like individual words. Generally, a translation isn't far away if I use one of their words :) I own nothing but some of the characters.

Dothraki Games

It was too hot. The midday sun was high in the sky, shining so brightly and strongly that there was a haze in the air, a shimmer coming off anything unlucky enough not to be in the shade. Of course, in the Dothraki Sea, that meant pretty much everything as far as the eye could see. Vorsak felt the familiar itch of a rash coming along the inside of his thighs and cursed every god he could think of. Everyone else was fine with the temperatures. He, on the other hand, felt like he was a mare in heat. Suffocating in this humid environment, sweat pouring down his face and into his blue eyes, his throat parched. Vorsak pulled another one of the dulled loqam arrows from his quiver and took aim at the canteen perched 20 feet on top of the tent pole. It would have been an easy shot if not for a few small details: he was riding around the pole on a horse, controlling it with his legs, and shooting his Kohol at a gallop. That, and the fact that four others were trying to do exactly the same thing faster than him, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust they all rode through again and again.

The competition among the eleven year-olds was fierce: Kreyo, the son of the khal himself, bore mentioning first. He was strong in a fight and a fast rider, but not the best archer. To him, nothing seemed to matter but doing his father proud, he even avoided games. Then there was Thokk, already one of the candidates for being a future dothrakhqoyi, since Kreyo would obviously need some bloodriders if he made khal himself. That is, unless Thokk killed him before then at a wedding or something. He was tall, the best rider in their group and a born killer. His favourite job after raids carried out by the blooded warriors on the Lhazareen was pulling arrows from victims, especially those who were still alive. Vorsak had seen him toy with a dying woman, forcing the arrow in deeper and causing much unneeded pain. Bossak on the other hand was one of the quiet ones. He tended to avoid conflict and quietly got on with whatever task he had been assigned. Vorsak liked him because he was the one person he was sure had never wronged him. Then, there was Fogo. Fogo was the cunning one, light on his horse and easily the best marksman of the group, he tended to win these games of osfir eveth.

The rules of the game were simple: the tent pole was raised with the large canteen filled with water sitting on top. The children would ride around in circles, firing blunted arrows at it to make it fall off. Whoever got it down got to drink first and to his fill, and then chose the order of those who drank after him. This would be their ration until dusk, and every drop counted. Someone who drank all of it might be comfortable, but would have the disdain of the four other participants to deal with. That risk diminished as the canteen got passed along, until usually the fifth person would only get very little. Not leaving anything for the last drinker would be dishonourable, so would never happen. If everyone shot their twenty arrows and missed, the water would go to the slaves. Simple, easy. Vorsak hated the water roundabout, and always had since he was four years old and introduced to the game for the first time. As well as being a game of skill, it was also obviously a popularity contest. Depending on who won the former, he lost the latter frequently, usually drinking last.

It was still way too hot. Vorsak pulled the string back on his kohol once more and let go the instant he felt his aim was true. The soft twang of the bow was followed by a whistling sound as the arrow went wide, landing harmlessly in the grass. Little children screeched as they raced to find it, lost in their own job and eager for the reward; usually some non-alcoholic lamekh. Horse-milk was a highly sought-after snack among children, it made one feel full. This was not something he had felt very often since his last birthday, as children aged eleven were no longer really children. Apart from war and marriage, Dothraki boys and girls of his age now had to fulfil the same tasks as adults. The time not spent warring and mating was instead spent preparing for them in later life. At night, parents took over the teaching of individual tasks. That way, a tanner would teach his son how to work leather, a horse master would show his son how to breed and train horses and a mother showed her daughter how to make sure the tent was prepared every day, or how to tell the slaves what needed doing.

Another arrow flew, this time it seemed to scrape the canteen but the blasted thing stood firm on top of the pole. Vorsak's horse seemed to be getting tired and he gave her a swift kick with both feet. If Master Drollo saw the horse slow, the boy knew he was in trouble. Luckily, having sat in a saddle almost his entire life, he had noticed the change in the beast's movement before any observer could. Thokk was not so lucky, his mare also having run tired, and the master's whip was cracked and wrapped expertly around the boy's arm, unhorsing him. He crashed into the dirt and the gathered mothers and girls cackled with laughter. After freeing his hand violently, he caught up with his mare and, roaring with anger and frustration, punched her on the nose. A loud gasp escaped the women's lips, quickly followed by insults and cries of outrage. Hitting a horse like that was absolutely forbidden among the Dothraki, the animals were their partners, their servants and even their friends. Thokk knew he was in trouble and tried to run but again, the whip was too quick for him. This time however, it hit his leg and did not wrap itself around it. Instead, it cracked and left a red gash on his calf muscle. As any child would, he screamed.

Careful not to let his horse slow down, Vorsak smirked. At least he wouldn't be drinking last today. He aimed at the canteen again, less concerned than he was before, and with a thunk, his arrow hit the pole, but not the container. Looking at his three remaining competitors, the blue-eyed boy saw they too were now on their last arrows. His arms ached from the constant drawing of the bow, nineteen arrows had missed their target. Thokk had been carried away by his ashamed mother, who knew that now he wouldn't be able to ride for a while and would therefore be among the slaves and babies in the carts. A true blight on Thokk's family's honour, the naughty boy could be sure of some severe punishment coming from his father in particular. Ralthokk was not known for his gentle manner. It was known that he had once killed four men at one wedding, men who had wanted to mate with his sister. Then, he had taken her for himself that night despite her wishes. There was no taboo against incest among the Dothraki, however the child had been deformed at birth and been left in the grass that very same night. His sister had never recovered from the pain and eventually been taken by merciful gods.

A sudden strong gust of wind came, throwing Kreyo's final arrow off-course, much to his dismay. Vorsak breathed a sigh of relief at the fresh air. The sweat on his forehead cooled his head now, drying as it did and momentarily not running into his eyes. This is it, now or never. Once the wind stopped, the boy let go of the arrow and bowstring, making sure to keep his recurved bow on-target. As his arrow began its flight path, Vorsak noticed Bossak's last arrow fly past the canteen, and Fogo's was somehow wildly off, nowhere near the target. Against all odds, the final arrow hit true, knocking the water off the pole and, with a soft thump, it landed on the grass below. Noticing his change of stance, Vorsak's mare slowed to a trot. Vorsak guided her to the canteen, hopping off to pick it up.

Master Drollo was not impressed. After all, it had been the boys' last arrow that brought the water down, and Thokk had disgraced them all with his foul behaviour. However, they had succeeded and the rules dictated that the children had a right to the water. His job done, he left to report Ralthokk of his son's misdeed after telling the boys to share the water between the four of them. The three other boys turned to Vorsak expectantly.

"Well, Ninthqoyi, are you going to drink?" asked Kreyo. "We don't have all day. My father wants to show me some things about being a khal today."

Blood sausage. Not a nice nickname, but Vorsak supposed it made sense. Of course, his mother called him Vorsa Jahak, Firebraid, because she said when he had been born his hair had already looked like flames. Vorsak was not convinced and simply called his hair bright orange, although he was glad his mother hadn't named him after the juicy orange fruit, sathomakh. Even at his young age, he knew he was lucky to be alive. Others would probably have left him like the baby Ralthokk had with his sister. Then again, how could he not know? Disgusted Dothraki reminded him every single day. His mother had told him that his father was a man from far away, way beyond the Dothraki Sea and even the Free Cities, across the Poison Sea. Vorsak shuddered at the thought of the place, although he had never been there himself. He had heard horrible things about it. Just one cup from the Poison Sea could kill a large man, and the water became mountains, smashing all who dared attempt to cross on their flimsy floating tents. How, then, his father had crossed, he had no idea. Perhaps on a dragon. Vorsak opened the canteen and sniffed the contents. It was indeed water. He took a nice, long swig, taking care not to spill any of the precious liquid. After swallowing three mouthfuls, he stopped.

"Calm yourself, Khalzolat, for you are not next. Bossak, you may take the gourde." Said Vorsak, reaching to give the other boy the bottle.

"Khalzalat?" shrieked Kreyo, his voice getting unusually high. "You dare call me the little khal? My father will have you punished for you insolence."

Vorsak knew an empty threat when he heard one, and snorted. As if the khal would defend his son from petty insults. If Kreyo could not defend himself from a few verbal attacks then so be it, especially since the khal was a fair leader and would listen to each side of a story before making a decision. Bossak took his swig of water, and gave it back to Vorsak. He was keeping the water in his cheeks, only swallowing small amounts at a time to make the thirst go away. He swore it made him less thirsty in the long run. What it certainly did for quite some time, was keep him quiet, as he couldn't talk with his mouth so full.

"Fogo," said the winner with a smile, "it is your turn. Please drink."

The canteen disappeared out of Vorsak's hands before he could blink. Fogo had obviously been thirsty, the little brown boy taking quick, small sips.

"Thank you for that, Deirakhi," he said, smiling, "I was sure you were going to get it, I knew we could count on you. I was just sure."

Fogo winked and, having had his fill for now, he gave the canteen back to Vorsak. Lightboy was another nickname given to him, one he didn't mind as much since it was simply the truth. Though he was tanned, he was nowhere near as dark as most of the others. In truth, he was more distracted by the wink. With Fogo, everything meant something. Thinking back, that last arrow had been surprisingly wide, as if Fogo hadn't even tried to get it on target. But why? The lad had risked everything because he trusted Vorsak? That was clearly a mistake. Noone trusted the red-haired boy in the entire khalasar.

At last, it was Kreyo's turn. He angrily snatched the canteen out of Vorsak's hands, opened it and took two long, big gulps, easily taking half of the remaining water for himself. Bossak, normally calm and reserved, seemed to twitch at the sight, but he said nothing.

"Finally," said Kreyo, obviously refreshed. "How am I to become khal, if no one gives me their extra water?"

With those words he left to find his father, having given the water back to Vorsak without even looking at him, as if he were a slave. It didn't matter, he was used to that kind of treatment. The three boys watched Kreyo trudge toward the great fire. The khalasar had made camp here three days ago and the fire was the centre of the camp. Fifteen thousand men, women, children and slaves were stuck here until the khal's brother arrived with his own, slightly smaller khalasar. The two hordes were meeting to make the journey to Vaes Dothrak together, showing their united strength to any who would dare stand against them.

"I do believe one usually earns the extra water," said Fogo, getting up to leave and attend his chores as well. "Someone ought to tell him that before he becomes khal or we'll have the spoiled brat leading the khalasar from a wagon he'll be so coddled."

Bossak nodded in agreement. He was quiet, but something seemed to have snapped today as he watched Kreyo drink. It was hardly the first time this had happened, but he was a principled young boy who hated seeing injustice and dishonourable acts. If Vorsak hadn't known better he would have said Bossak was angry. Unheard of. He was an extremely strong boy, his father was a smith and was already showing him how to make a good "arakh", but he had never shown anger before. It was important not to mistake Bossak's father for a slave who made everyday weapons for Dothraki warriors. No, he was a weapons master smith, capable of forging harder, lighter and sharper weapons than any slave could possibly hope to achieve. Thinking of the arakh got Vorsak dreaming. All the boys wished for such a blade deeply, but only the blooded were allowed to wield them. For now, they had to be content with their daggers, bows and whips, and were expected to be masters of those before their blooding.

Soon, Vorsak was alone with the water. Each boy was allowed to come to him once more to take a drink, but the order was the same as before. That meant if Kreyo wanted to drink, he had to wait for Bossak and Fogo to come and drink before him whenever they felt like it. Knowing Fogo, he would wait for Kreyo to get thirsty. They would then negotiate a price, which meant that in effect he would receive something for drinking. This was typical of Fogo: always twisting things to his advantage.

Unlike the other boys, Vorsak had no father to go to learn a trade. Initially, this had upset him, but his mother had somehow convinced Master Drollo to train him after a long, private chat in their tent. Vorsak wondered what she had said to convince him, but he always seemed happy around her and the red-haired boy was learning a lot from him. Drollo was the khalasar's most respected trainer of warriors, a legend who by rights probably should have had a horde of his own. People sang of Drollo's prowess in combat, and it was only due to his age that he had stopped being on the frontline during raids. It was said that he had battled the champion of Meereen and decapitated him, then stolen his horse. Once, Drollo had ridden down a line of unsullied and removed all of their heads. They also said that he had saved the current khal when his bloodriders could not, taking an arrow for him in the knee.

In any case, Vorsak knew where to go. He would not go to the khal, where Drollo was almost certainly still describing what had happened to Thokk to Ralthokk. That was of no consequence, because Vorsak was going to set up the training field Drollo was going to use to train the blooded warriors. Acting as Master Drollo's assistant was fascinating. He could watch the charging and manoeuvre practice, the way strategies were executed. To the untrained eye, Dothraki hordes simply charged their enemy, hoping to instil fear in their enemies. Whilst there was an element of truth to that, the chaos of the charging line was followed by a carefully ordered ranks of riders with different roles. The spearmen, the arakh-wielding riders and archers all had specific instructions on their targets, on how to move and the order in which they should kill their enemies. As one of the khal's most trusted Kos, Master Drollo knew a great deal about fighting and strategy, and he passed his knowledge to an eager Vorsak. Something about strategizing before battle felt right to him, and he had already helped plan one small raid.

None of this could compare, however, to what happened after the warriors left training and went to eat their food in the middle of the afternoon. With everyone else busy, Drollo would take Vorsak away from the rest of the group and teach him to wield the weapon left behind by his father. They only trained with wood for now, but it was weighted the same as a real one. Vorsak had trouble holding it with one hand, but Drollo would never let him use both.

"Your father taught me how to use sword many years ago," Drollo had told the boy when they were preparing for their first session, "and if I were better at it I would have found occasion to use it more often. He could disarm almost any dothraki with an arakh wielding this sword. It is a powerful weapon and, when walking, superior to ours. However, when riding, our weapon is better. One day, you may find yourself fighting armoured foes on foot. That day, you will be glad to have learned how to use this."

This had been the only time Drollo had mentioned his father, never again had it come up since, nor had Vorsak dared to ask for more details. This was the only connection to his father that he liked, and he wasn't going to lose it for opening his mouth when he shouldn't have.

It was very tough training, as Drollo never seemed to hold back much when he hit the lad. There was one particularly vicious whack that had hit a rib on his right side and it still ached weeks later. Vorsak never complained though, he needed this. In the four months since he was training, not once had he slipped through Drollo's defences, he was simply too slow. Nevertheless, he knew he was getting better because now Drollo sometimes broke a sweat by the end of training.

After weapons training, it was time for Vorsak to go back to his mother's tent. As usual, she was admonishing the slaves for something they had done. She was extremely fond of mistreating them verbally, but would only very rarely abuse them physically. Even the words made Vorsak feel uneasy. He liked some of the slaves, especially the girl, Yonki, even if he knew he shouldn't. Disdain for slaves was natural for the Dothraki, the defeated had no need of or right to respect. They existed only to serve.

"Then again," he said aloud, to no one in particular when he was sure he was alone, "I'm not exactly a natural Dothraki."

As he said those words, he looked at the cloth hanging in his tent. It showed a big tree that seemed to be smiling right at him. He wished he knew what it was.

Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review if you did. I've got a rough plan on what I want to do with this story, but I'd appreciate any kind of feedback.