Disclaimer: A Game of thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin.

The North

-A Game of Thrones VI-

Pentos, Across the Narrow Sea

The air smelled wrong. For almost all her life a vast myriad amount of smells has assaulted her senses in places many would either think her unworthy of or simply not belonging to. She has been forced to adapt to new and strange surroundings, travelling by foot wagon and horse wherever labor was rewarded or where service was needed. She eventually grew to dislike the smell and taste of men. The arrogance that permeated the air around them that nothing was denied to them and that all women served them. The fine clothed women were just as intolerable. They believed that none matched their beauty whatever its form and men would kill each other just to be in their presence. For one reason or another she was passed from one house to the next never experiencing the true joys of childhood and shared like fine wine amongst many in her flowered years.

Much of that time seems like a nightmare or dream that was lived by some other girl. When she first arrived and was presented to them she was treated like the simple dirt that covers the ground. When the stallions sought to mount her, she stood firm like an unyielding mountain of stone. Instead they tried beating and breaking the strength from her, but she would not yield. Finally, a blood rider of the Khal strode forth in challenge. Despite his age he was as skilled as any of the younger warriors; both in combat and the ways of riding. Unlike the others of the horde he saw within her a strength other did not yet see. A strength she did not yet fully possess.

When they fought it was said to be a mighty battle between the Great Stallion himself against the Mother of the Mountain. The passing of time meant nothing to them, only that moment of battle where the warriors blood called. As the end drew near he tried numerous times to mount her in dominance only for her to throw him off in defiance. On the last attempt, with both fighters battered bruised and bleeding, it was she that mounted him. Before the horde, Khal, gods and ancestor spirits they claimed each other as kindred soulmates. An orgy of blood sweat, and mounts followed in their wake. With that she had earned her place within the horde, learning the all that was required and needed to be a Dothraki rider.

However, because of her foreign blood she was never true blooded rider. Her mate soon joined the Great Stallion in the endless skies. His legacy now reflected in her. Since then she is one of many riders in the Dothraki horde of Khal Drogo, son of Barbaro. She has not found one who could match herself or best her in any way. The Khal as is his want has taken her, but what others do not know that they do is that he does so only because she allows it. For a time, the Dothraki life was fulfilling but whispers were fast becoming spread like wildfire throughout the Great Grass Sea of the stone-mare with the frozen heart; an outrider never to be accepted. Khal Drogo would not allow anything harmful to be said or done to her, but she did not belong to him; nor anywhere it seems. So instead she chose to leave the horde that became her home and family.

The day she was to leave the Khal called upon her to ride with him and his three brothers to a stone city by the sea. The Khal did not show it for he is fearless, but it was important enough to have him call on her; no greater honor could be bestowed. And so, she rode spurring her horse ever faster, the wind blowing fiercely into her braided hair. A feral grin and banshee shriek the only forewarning of her coming. She knew not what awaited them at the end yet knew it was not quite what she saw all the same.

Palace of Illyrio Mopatis

The air smelled wrong. For almost all her life a vast myriad amount of smells has assaulted her senses in places many would either think her unworthy of or simply not belonging to. She has been forced to adapt to new and strange surroundings. For one reason or another she was passed from one house to the next never experiencing the true joys of childhood. Much of that time seems like a nightmare or dream that was lived by some other girl. A girl forced to beg in the streets for food scraps or handouts of clothing. Eventually this girl and her eldest brother were found by a wealthy merchant of Pentos.

He claimed to be taking them in out of kindness and loyalty. She did not know loyalty at first, it's meaning, like everything else, washing over her like a mildly strong yet gentle breeze from the sea. Many things for most of her life were decided for her. When to speak, what to wear, where to go, who to speak to and how to act. In between when she made mishaps her brother would become disappointed. A fact that he would terrifyingly reveal in private as 'waking the dragon'.

Yet there were moments, few moments that she had to herself where she could close her eyes and imagine herself soaring amidst the clouds. Looking down upon the lands and seas below with wonder and excitement knowing that nothing and no one could prevent her from being free. But such is not to be.

"Where is he?" The almost pitched whine of her brother gave voice to the mystery of their circumstance. She cared not why anyone wanted to meet her or her brother. She had no doubt that whatever the reason of lateness it was probably well justified.

"The Dothraki are not well known for their punctuality." The response from the merchant was well mannered, measured, and carefully phrased to avoid the tantrum like anger of her brother. She could not fault him his caution. Yet there were times she wondered if he provoked to elicit a reaction. They conversed briefly, and, in that time, she tried to remember what exactly she was required to perform or say.

The gathering was small and grand at the same time. The entrance to the garden palace was decorated with silk streamers, the servants and household slaves positioned off to the side or behind. The garbs they wore looked simple yet expensive to reflect the way the 'master' treated those that attend him and his. She knew not how to feel seeing another in bondage, but it somehow felt; dirty. She was a little girl when she first saw a bound servant. Since then she has grown somewhat immune to their situation; combined with her brother constantly spewing things like, 'dragons need not concern themselves with lesser base creatures.' And with that it was dismissed, for while she let her mind wander horse riders had arrived. Their fearsome presence frightened her more than the garbs of cloth leather and varying levels of fabric. They were a nomadic warrior race of people.

Compared to them in appearance she was dressed in pure white silk accentuating all her budding curves. Her skin was bathed in water laced with lavender and honey, which allowed her to give a somewhat glowing sensation. Her brother standing opposite wore dark black and silver cloths. If not for the matching pure white hair and dark lilac colored eyes they could be described as opposites in personality, mannerisms, and dress. As the merchant strode forth speaking the harsh language of the Dothraki tongue her brother quietly held her wrist, forcing her to stay in place.

"Look there my sweet sister," his whispered voice soft and low, but no less hard, "there is the great Khal Drogo himself." She beheld the warrior leader with open eyes. His sundried olive skin appeared as if it was muscled perfection. Every move he made was skilled motion, she was a flurry of mixed emotions staring into the dark handsome features of his eyes. The horse he rode upon seemed to be apart of him as was it in the way they moved endlessly while his eyes never moved from hers. Even without the horse he had to be the tallest man in the world. As he continued to move his braided hair whipped this way and that as if there was a constant breeze blowing it behind him. "They say that when a Dothraki is defeated the shame is so great they remove the braid."

If what he said was true, then Khal Drogo had never been defeated. His braid went all the way down his back to his belt. But a curious thought crossed her mind, who was the long-braided warrior who rode with them?

I

She could not believe at first what was happening and why. She had heard rumors that the Khal was taking a mate but did not expect someone so; foreign. The girl was enchantingly beautiful, that was not to be questioned, but her body was small; frail and not possibly capable of enduring Dothraki life. A loud breath of contempt passed from her lips at the young girl who was beckoned forth by the fat bearded merchant. While there for all to hear the Khal grunted in her direction his displeasure. The white-haired young man smirked at this exchange. She would teach him soon enough his lessons.

Without word she dismounted from her horse for a closer look. When she was close enough to touch and smell the girl she knew at once how her Khal was fallen for her; even if he did not say. She slowly ran her rough leathered fingertips across the girl's body, feeling every curve and line thinking of ways to 'teach' her properly. The girl at one point drew an intake of breath shivering at the touch of her breasts. The smirk was gone from the boy replaced instead with worry. The fat merchant made to interrupt in protest but was stopped by the great Khal. She leaned close to whisper in her ear only to smell honeyed milk and flowers. She was sorely tempted now to take the girl herself.

II

She could not believe at first what was happening and why. Sensations she had never experienced assaulted her senses; and from a woman of all things. The woman was skilled at this, that much soon became certain. Yet her scars that were scattered throughout her body told a story of hardships and many battles. Her skin was as sundried as the others but had a lighter shade as if she was not native to the lands she roamed. She stood barely at chest height to this female warrior, staring up into deep ebony shade orbs that seem to captivate her attention. The female warrior's braided hair, a deep raven black, was sun bleached with streaks of red as if her hair when riding was ablaze with fire. The muscles of her exposed arms and stomach were finely tuned, almost begging to be touched; out of curiosity of course. Her fingers twitched at the thought believing it was her intent to do so. The tall female warrior seemed to give a predator like smirk down at her as if knowing what it was she sought to do in kind. But just as quickly it was there it was gone replaced by a cold mask of stone. The warrior turned to Khal Drogo and without uttering a word slowly nodded her head.

The Khal nodded his head in turn and in the same moment galloped away with his three male companions. Her brother ran forward to where the horse riders originally were stopping to watch them vanish in the distance. A growing look of confused fury began to show upon his features.

"What just happened?" He asked a little excitedly his gaze going from herself to the vanished Khal.

"It is over, the ceremony has ended your grace." The merchant responded evenly. His posture barely changing from a neutral position since it ended. Her brother stood still in silence but not for long.

"Did he like her?" He asked simply.

"Believe me little boy," the voice that spoke was harsh and rough yet there was a softness to the quality almost like a gentle sea breeze, "if my Khal did not like your sister," she strode forward to nearly tower over him with her presence leaning close for him to hear, "I would not be here."

She did not know what compelled her to do so, but a very small smile briefly passed.

Author's Note: A brief filler-like chapter. Personally, debating whether to include or make a separate adventure story all together. Either way I am now on a roll the next chapter to be posted soon depending on life circumstances. As always comments/polite criticisms are appreciated.

Sincerely, Marinebrat25