The horn blew, loud enough for his ears to ring, loud of a roar from a dragon. The cheers sounded for death and slaughter. In time Jon moved forward, the men surrounding him followed suit. Each and every man knew death was before him and the escape was unlikely. Meeting another gladiator with an axe standing with a few inches above him. The man with a dark helm carried his body forward with a blood yell bringing down an axe with all weight swung forward. The young man leapt and brought his blade up just in time to defer the man's second blow with his axe. Jon moved with amazing quickness to bury his second, hidden blade into the man's belly. The man's eyes became hollow staring at Jon, he died with a grunt and fell sideways into the deep sand... Jon wasted no time to wait but move. Every man was another that stood before him, he couldn't think any other way. Behind him a roar filled his ears, it was common. Ducking just in time he heard the sound of a foul mace swinging just above his head. One second to late he would have it stuck him in the neck. The man rocked it again, swinging it around his head trying to crash against Jon's chest. Almost digging into his skin, the sound menacing as it swung near his body, the spikes could kill him in an instant. Moving away from the single swift attack the mace landing in the sand with a loud and importantly thud, the man hunched down without defensive, leaning back he pressed forward his right arm slashed his belly, the blade finding his flesh and stomach, blood spraying on the ground, the man yelling as he staggered. Turing the blade created a large gash and pulling it forth the man still stood brining his mace downwards, Jon stepped away, the mace landed in the dirt with a thud leaving him to slash across his chest. An open wound an inch wide, open to the elements, the man stumbling back and eventually down on the ground leaving him on the ground to die. The crowd yelled and cheered around him, the flesh slicing around him was a sound he distinguished so well. Jon fought parrying, striking others around him others followed suit. Behind him two fought the same as in front, blood ran down on the sand rapidly, as bodies began to litter the floor. Their bodies withering on the sand for the glory of Mereen.
Their was no time for contemplation of his moment or thoughts, it was only muscle memory that ran his body, only what stood before him in the moment. In that very instant between the matter of seconds of life and death. When one wrong, simple move meant he was under the sand and blood ridden.
Gladiators were fifty paces around him, he heard the unwelcome sound of men swords being sheathed in bodies. The sounds whistled over him constantly and he heard cries of pain behind him as they reached their targets. Some were yelling obscenities. Blood running into the sand. Across the arena a man stood as he drove his axe down, on the either another cut an arm clean. Nine men fell mortally wounded together, like they all knew to fall at the same moment. Their light armor was of little use at this short range with axes or other weapons. The one surviving archer fired blindly into a thicket, missing an warrior by a few inches.
All the while Jon struck one man directly in the heart and was certain that he'd killed him. The other gladiators, being well trained, did exactly what they should do. They ran directly toward the source of the enemies. Running away would simply allow another gladiator to cut them in half. The only chance they had was to get near for them to use their swords. Another man to Jon's right held his sword high and screamed loudly. Jon knew from his training that this was a common tactic to frighten an enemy. The sun blared, blood ran.
Stepping forward and slightly away from the screaming soldier he nearly cut him in half with a single powerful stroke of his sword. The sword cut through the light leather armor like it wasn't there.
He dashed through the line, taking the two men he passed between, completely by surprise. It was such a foolish thing to do that he himself didn't understand what possessed him to do it. It was a miracle that he wasn't killed on the spot. Bummed
The entire period of death, up in the stands Dany sat in her soft chair watching with disaffection as many killed the other. Hard yells floated towards her, unable to drown their voices. At times she avoided the blood of the innocence that spilled constantly. Warriors were crying out in shock and agony as they were hit rattling her mind. Eyes with a haze of dissatisfaction looked, among the chaos finding a man screaming with guts covering his stomach. Looking away her eyes found the floor. Giving herself time the man became quiet. Gazing back she kept her eyes on them then found a young man, her eyes regarded him in his light armor. His movements went with a flurry, that of unlike the others he spun and struck his enemy with his sword. Her eyes traced his body finding his broad shoulders with his movements through the battle, never once gaining the chance to be hit by his enemies. A mist it seemed that disappeared. It was clear he was the youngest among the men, sweat ran down his exposed chest. Her eyes kept with him unlike some of the others who took their time to kill the young man would only lay his sword in the men's major arteries killing them instantly. Dany leaned close to Grey-Worm without word leaned in close.
"What is his name?" she asked over the cheers indicating the young man. Grey-Worm followed her eyesight to see the young man, glimpsed in the sun.
"He is called the bastard of westores, your grace." Grey-Worm told. Westores, she knew so few from the home she never saw. A home she desperately wanted to see. Her eyes came back to him and watched, as Jon blocked another attack with his weapon thrashing it hard against the man's face leaving a large gash in his head with blood drooling from his mouth, causing him to fall. Many fell at the beginning and others in the later that followed as well. Jon moved away striking another with his fist without eyesight on another behind him. All the while the blood lust took him where he needed he completely be unable to remember about his friend. Looking back he searched for his friend, eyes gazed the arena of bodies. He felt time slow as eyes narrowed and found him. The old man was against the ground blood running from his mouth. Unlike himself without a smile, a large laceration was wide on his chest, his skinny body laid. His face laid against the sand, he lost track of him as bronze gladiator stepped over the old man striking his sword down his throat. The blood sprayed the bronze man as grinned widely enjoying this, his eyes bright and with a fire. The blood seeped from his gapping throat. The bronze man treaded over the man kicking him in the face smiling bight. Dany watched as the large gladiator kicked the dead man in the face again.
Jon knew his destination. The sword in his hand became tight as his eyes felt to deepen with his objective. The fight was longer and gruesome than any Jon fought before, but there was only one man he went for. For minutes he clashed his way to him, until they were near, he felt blood boil his eyes a fiery rage. The large warrior lagged drowning the men around him with his trident. A few paces from him Jon watched as he brought his weapon up and with a smile brought his body back than with his right hand lunged forward and threw the trident.
Next thing he knew Jon felt something strike him in the head but was somehow still standing. Still standing he lost sense but fought on. The arena a blur of faces as they two met in a battle of clangs and adrenaline. Rolling on the sand as the enemy held a long sword aimed to behead him. Every turn the enemy weapon found his.
The large man twisted and lost his footing leaving Jon to slash at his leg. Unable to keep himself up he dropped on his knees, no one at his feet. He looked up at Jon, blood running down his lip. Jon looked down on him, his eyes blinking probably believing death was before him. Harsh chanting echoed beneath the wide bronze brim of the Secutor's helmet Jon wore. He looked through the grating of his visor, his face as much a prisoner of the helm as he was to the lusts of the crowd. Nothing in this arena made sense anymore, he lost it, a burden for months now. His vision swam with fluttering tunics and pumping fists. He felt more unlike himself here, and heard the roar of thousands of throats. Steam rose from his sweat and blood-begrimed chest. The sweat was his; the blood was not.
The weight of the broken shafted three-tined trident dangled from where a single tine pierced his upper visor, inches from his left eye. He knew now how close he had come to being the one on his back in the sand at the mercy of the crowd. He shifted his foot on the chest of the man.
As he waited for the queen decree, he saluted the crowd with his short, broad sword. Blood from his vanquished foe, dripped from the disk- shaped pommel of his weapon. He looked down upon the writhing form of the large man. Jon gazed the arena and found his friend his only friend dead. In his mind Jon pleaded with the crowd for no mercy. He had fought well, but he knew his last slash had bitten deep into the back of the man's thigh. The Large gladiator could never wield the trident and net again, and had no use, and thus no mercy, for a hamstrung Retarius.
For a moment the shouting died to a hiss, as the queen seemed to ponder the wishes of the crowd. A beautiful woman, the queen sat, shifting with a flourish and almost losing her laurel wreath in the process. The explosion of noise deafened Jon as the crowd reacted to the queen's verdict. Death. Jon was glad that the sweat-slick giant raised his chin without a struggle, gladder still that he kept his eyes closed. Those eyes would have haunted him for the rest of his days. Thus, in the same manner they slaughter the oxen on festive days, everyone wanted him to do it, him most of all, Jon slaughtered a man. Blood seeped from a torn throat for the glory of Mereen. Then rising and offering the queen and the crowd the expected salute.
Jon dropped his sword and gazed of his fallen foe. "We have a champion!" The voice rang among all of the arena. The crowd roared as Dany clapped. She smiled as she watched the young man. She admired the way he fought in the pit. Jon bowed to the crowd not basking in the clapping he was receiving, then he met the queen's eyes as they were on him. He felt his face burn under her eyesight. Leaning forward he bowed for her.
Dany turned to the Grey-Worm. "I think I will meet him." Dany told. He simply nodded.
Jon crossed the bloody sand on quivering legs and returned to his cell. He told himself his muscles wobbled from the exertion of the fight. Back among the cell he stood. A slave-boy peeled off his sweat-soaked armor, first lifting the heavy bronze helmet from his head, the trident left jutting obscenely from the visor as it was put aside. The armorers employed by his master and trainer, would see that the helm was repaired and burnished to shine like new for the next bout he fought. The slave, set the task of caring for his needs, scrambled around him, undoing the laces his armor and loosening the leather. The boy peeled the steel-banded sleeve off his right arm and shoulder. Came away with it where it had been cinched across his ribs. Jon impatiently kicked off the metal greave covering his left shin, then told the boy to leave as he dropped the thick leather belt and untied his rough woolen loincloth. The boy staggered under the weight of the armor as he hurried to collect it and exit the chamber.
Alone Jon rose slowly, picking up the bowl of water and the sigil left by the boy. He frowned as he pondered this, his last performance of the day. All of the gladiators were required to rub this on them after battle. He would slather his body in the water, then scrape the mixed oil, sweat and blood off with the strigil. Whilst cleaning himself the doors open. But before he himself could do this his master entered the room breaking his consternation.
"Gladiator, I have bought the products of your bout today… You did well and it seems you are to be rewarded. You are headed to meet the queen, she wishes to have you brought to her in person." He said this causing Jon to look confused. "I can't have you dirty for today, can't have you dirty indeed."
"The queen wishes to see me?" Jon asked bewildered. The master quickly slapped him against the face, leaving a red print that stung.
"Silence! You do not speak." He spoke malicious in tone. Pressing his hands to his shirt his straightened himself.
"Yes." Unsure of how to address a lady of her station, he reverted to type: slave to master.
"Good, you will present yourself to her willing and will be washed clean. My slaves are to be oiled and stridulated." The master stated.
In the deep cells Jon stood, legs apart, arms raised parallel to his shoulders, as the slaves put aside the crude olive oil he had been about to use. Now in the hands of others, the decanted rich honey-colored oil into two small bowls. Jon had never known shame as being naked before his master, a man who is willing to expose his blood and viscera upon the sand has no qualms displaying something as impersonal as his genitals. As his master eyes washed over him he felt his face tear to anger. His master went around him, circling him as if he was a dog checking his body over. He had known what it felt to do this for some time, still every second was madding as he had to remain motionless.
"Good. You will only speak when spoken to. You will not grace her with any folly language." Jon nodded when needed, keeping his face up and impassive. "You are to keep your back straight, and do not slur your words." The master rounded about him again taking his time to stare. The men finished cleaning the slave. "Done? Give him some spice and fresh clothes. You cannot be filth." His opened stare assessed his body, as he would search the physique of an opponent just before a strike, coolly judging strength and weakness. Whilst he stood thoughts of far ran hard. Had Jon been with his brother instead of a slave he would still not have been here but under the dirt. The life of a gladiator had marred his mind further.
They ascended the city in the rich district. It was a senseless maze of soaring towers and, all hewn and raised. Rather to say, it had a sense and an disorder, but its sense was beyond human sense, it's seeming beyond disorder. Under the light of day, the glint of the moon off of the blade edges of building, subdued by the shadows of the seeming disorganized and uneven buildings, making the whole city look like a fever dream. Under the moon, it seemed almost to disappear, save for the occasional twinkling outlines of odd angles and trapezoidal backgrounds outlining brutish, misshapen bumps of deeper darkness. The city's dwellers, shark-toothed, with no pretenses of humanity, yet beautiful thronged streets under the glint even as they'd moved under the moon; they could all see like cats in the dark, and few lanterns burned.
This city was unlike that of the north with buildings touching the sky and meeting the clouds. Voices he had not heard before mixed with a smell that ensnared his senses. Mixed together he felt this city was alive but he was it's slave. To be used as it wished and nothing would change it now.
Then the pyramid came into view he guessed it consumed all else around it tall as it towered over the tallest and mightiest of those around it. Reaching the entrance Jon saw the unsullied standing on either side of the door. Before entering they blocked the path with their spears. The two came to a hefty halt meeting two unsullied guards in their armor, a spear in hand, emotionless.
"Your queen wishes my appearance." The master demanded as he straightened himself.
"Not you. Only Him." The master looked back and forth at his slave the resolution to much to take.
"He is my slave." The master stated and this did not deter the unsullied.
"Only him." The Unsullied stated without hesitation.
His master grunted leaning close to Jon's ear for no one else to hear. "Do not make a fool of me. Do as she wishes." Jon nodded as the unsullied moved from the door and lead him away from the man, hearing him grunt loudly. Without a moment to gaze the large throne room, brought to the side of the room where stairs seemed to be an endless throng. A dozen steps into the pyramid in the shade of a broad oak hall. Walls of all colors and shapes lay in before him. The nuisance noise that had been buzzing around them in the glade and alleys seemed to disappear altogether, perhaps held back. The unsullied led him further up the great pyramid the torches every few meters in the allure of the pyramid as the stone filled his eyes. He went through the pyramid, guards on either side of him for minutes as they never moved an inch or said a word to him. Yet they moved, it went on forever as the steps continued.
Until they stopped resting before a large door as two unsullied opened a door without question. They passed through the doors into the beautiful and tranquil room. The curtain held back, let in the sunlight as the room smelled with a certain aroma Jon couldn't place. To the opposite side of the room rested a small table with gold trim, diverse kinds of wines sat as far from the arbor, and a few oak chairs rested among the wall. Inside he found gold trim around the walls around the pillows and furniture. All the while the unsullied stood still beside him. They rarely spoke.
"Wait in here." The unsullied said emotionless. With nothing more to say they left him alone. With nothing he stood alone. Unknown what to do Jon did not dare to touch the wine as the unsullied stood close. After several minutes of boredom staring at the floor, a pair of doors opposite him opened and inside the queen came. Up close her skin was unblemished, hair was beautiful flowed to her shoulders in waves, locks her beauty was far greater than any rumor. Her unblemished skin glowed bright and her bright violet eyes sucked in his sight. Her white silk gown hugged her far greater curves, her stomach exposed to him. The woman shook her head, fluttering open her eyes at him. She looked at him, herself again, her expression unreadable. He thought briefly about her beauty. Considered his word choice. Any word may be a damper.
Excuse me for my language. But FUCK that episode was awesome. Had to say it… Sorry. More Dany on a dragon please.