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A/N: As always, thank you everyone who left a review, it keeps me inspired.
A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of his Khalasar drawn up outside of the small settlement that was home to Khal Zogo. Rhaego could hear little Jhezabel talking animatedly to Mylessa from atop her horse. The little girl's wounds had healed and she was remarkably forward and active despite all that she had gone through. She was also practically attached to the fire priestess and followed her about everywhere, even taking up chanting with the woman during her nightfires.
I should not have brought her here, he reflected as he sat waiting, but where else would she go? The child had spent her entire life in that village and after the slavers had decimated it her world had been robbed. Rhaego could be brutal when he needed to, be such needless cruelty wouldn't feel right. Like it or not, we are the only ones she has.
He could see a long dusty column emerge from the small encampment as riders approached. The sight of them made him anxious and he griped the cold steel of his long axe. "How many men can you count?" he asked Gerion.
The exiled Lannister shaded his eyes. "More than twenty…probably closer to fifty."
Rhaego cursed. "Fifty men, perhaps more and I can still spot others inside that encampment of theirs." His Khalasar had more men, but the two forces would be even enough in combat to make him feel uneasy.
The waiting was intolerable. "Men forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He gave a brief look at Mylessa and kicked his horse. Gerion and the others followed. When Zogo's men saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts. From their saddles hung arakhs, large and bloodstained from recent battle as well as many curved bows.
The riders all seemed well seasoned in the ways of combat and Rhaego knew that if he was not careful they would likely take down more than their fair share of his Khalasar. Their leader forked a stallion black as night with a mane and tail the colour of ash. He sat his saddle as if he had been born there, tall, broad, and graceful. His leather vest hung open and revealed a copper chest that was littered with crisscrossing scars that looked large and angry. The large moustache that hung down his face was dark and speckled with grey, as was the long braid that moved about in the wind, chiming as it did. The skin about his eyes and cheeks was lined and eroded from age and bags hung below his almond eyes.
Khal Zogo, feared amongst even the deadliest of killers, Rhaego thought as he reined up, this man could carve out my heart and eat it if he so wished. He kept his concerns hidden deep in his mind and kept his face a blank mask. "Khal Zogo," he greeted with a nod. "I am Rhaego, son of Drogo. My Khalasar has desire to cross into the great grass sea, I would rather continue onwards without conflict."
The older man gave a wiry smile. "Your father would not have cowered so easily, tell me, why should I let your men pass? Mayhaps my riders have need of some good sport?"
Rhaego swallowed a groan. Does he mean to provoke us? Mayhaps he wanted to test his strength, though many of his own men would surely die in the conflict. Not to mention just as many of my own. No matter which way Rhaego looked at it he couldn't see either side winning. "I have business east, I have no quarrel with you….let us pass."
Zogo snorted. "Do you have anything to pay tribute? I see a woman in your ranks, a girl child as well. My men could always use more attendants."
"You can't have them," he growled through clenched teeth. The familiar burning rage was boiling in his stomach again and logic began to leave him. More than anything he wanted to break the man in two.
"Well what if I was to kill you and claim them anyway?"
Rhaego took a breath and narrowed his purple eyes on the other Khal. The cogs of the Dragonspawn's mind were slow to get started but once they gained traction they worked well, an idea came upon him then. "I have heard many great stories about you Zogo, men say you are the fiercest Khal to ride the Great Grass Sea, save for my father of course."
He could see a flicker of rage cross the older man's copper face then. "I could have carved your father down to size, and I'll gladly do the same to you."
"Then prove it, face me. One on one."
Zogo laughed. "Boy. I will eat your heart." The two men were of a height, but Zogo was at least twenty years older. He pointed over to a clearing just outside his camp. "There, I'll spill your blood there with my men watching."
Rhaego gave the man a nod and wheeled his horse about to face his Khalasar. "Stand back and let me handle this," he commanded of them before turning to Gerion in a quieter tone. "If things go sideways then you are to take Lady Mylessa and the child and leave, is that understood?"
The Lannister gave him a solemn nod. "Aye,"
He turned back to Zogo and forced a smile. "Lead the way," and so the man did, riding ahead as if he couldn't wait to begin. Once they arrived at the small clearing Zogo's men gathered around to watch, as did Rhaego's bloodriders who all stood about, gripping their arakhs, ready to attack at the moment's notice.
Rhaego dismounted his red stallion and handed over the reins to Jakerhro. When Zogo saw this he laughed like a madman. "You plan to fight me by yourself?" he asked with a chuckle, "You are a fool! I'll enjoy riding you down."
The young Khal merely gripped the shaft of his long axe and got in postion. Zogo's stallion tossed his head impatiently and pawed the dirt. With a charge the Dothraki set off, dust flying from the hooves of his black stallion. Zogo thundered towards Rhaego, his arakh raised to strike. The young Khal knew that his opponent would seek to ride him down, a fact he was counting on. He waited until the horse was almost on him and jumped to the side, using the flat of his axe to bloke against the arakh that came slashing down at him from the side.
Zogo brought the horse around Rhaego in a wide circle, then dug in with his spurs and charged again and spun his arakh sideways at the last second to catch Rhaego when he dodged. But the young Khal had guessed that was what the man would do and dropped low, away from the blade before spinning his axe around in an arc. He could hear the stallion scream as the blade bit into its legs and said a silent prayer. Zogo managed to leap from his steed before it went down and held his own blade up, ready to fight.
"I'll kill you for that mongrel!"
"Come try it," said Rhaego. Zogo did.
The other Khal was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any of the younger men that Rhaego had ever fought. In his hands the arakh became a whistling blur, a barrage of attacks that seemed to strike at Rhaego from all sides at once. He blocked the blows with the flat of his axe, the blade meeting each slash and turning them aside. On one of the deflections Zogo used the momentum to turn his blade and slashed through Rhaego's vest and near his shoulder blades. It felt as though someone had slapped him hard on the back.
At that point he felt his rage overcome him then and he answered Zogo's attack with a sidearm blow of his axe. Zogo had kept his blade up just in time to stop the long axe from cleaving his arm from its shoulder, but the strain became visible on his face as he fought to press the blade away. Through gritted teeth Rhaego almost smiled and brought his axe up before slamming it down onto the other man's blade, this time the young Khal forced his entire weight into the blow and pressed downwards. Zogo may have been strong for his age but he had no endurance that Rhaego's youth granted him and was soon on a knee with both hands trying desperately to hold up the arakh. With a surprised grunt the old Khal lost his grip and Rhaego used it to smash his blade down into the man's shoulder, almost cleaving his body in half. When he jerked his axehead free a fountain of blood came out and the corpse fell forward, up against his legs. So now you ask for mercy? Rhaego thought as he gripped the man's braid and began hacking at the neck.
Once the head was separated from the body he held it up to Zogo's Khalasar, so that all of them could look upon their Khal's defeat. In the corner of his vision he saw Zogo's bloodriders approach him, weapons raised, but Jakerhro and Gerion were already upon them, cutting them down to size. Behind him his men hooted and screamed while Zogo's Khalasar fell deathly silent as Rhaego tossed aside the head of his enemy. Gerion and a few of his bloodriders dropped Zogo's fallen Kos unceremoniously on the ground and took their place beside Rhaego as he stared at the Dothraki standing opposite him.
Finally a man knelt and uttered something, and with that came many others until the entire Khalasar fell to their knees, all of them declaring him blood of their blood. Rhaego almost smiled at the sight. With Zogo's Khalasar absorbed into his own he had almost two hundred men, still small compared to that of his father's or Khal Mago's but enough to give his enemies pause at least.
After he had seen that the new members of his horde were taken in without conflict he returned to his tent with a horn of mare's milk, however he was not alone for two minutes before Lady Mylessa burst in, a curious look on her face. "You've been wounded," she said. The slash on his back had been irritating him some, but the young Khal hadn't dwelt on the pain in the aftermath of the battle. Mylessa carefully went over and inspected the wound, gently touching at the slash and bringing her hand back with red on her fingertips. "This needs to be cleaned and sown, do you have any wine?"
"There should be a cask over there," he gestured vaguely to the corner of his tent.
A moment later she returned with the wine and went about pouring it into in a silver basin, once that was done she dropped a handful of some powdery substance into the liquid which caused it to bubble up and boil. "An accelerate substance from Asshai, it will heat the wine," she explained. Once the small basin was well and truly steaming Mylessa scooped up a small amount with an empty horn and stood. "Lean forwards, this is going to hurt."
Rhaego did not care; the only constant of life was the certainty of pain. He welcomed it and barely grunted as his red priestess went about pouring the scolding liquid into his bloodied wound. After she was happy that his wound was cleaned she dipped needle and thread into the boiling wine before sitting behind him and slowly stitching up his angry scar.
As Mylessa went about her work an awkward silence fell upon the tent. They had barely spoken since that night in the tent and when they did it was often short and dutiful. We were both being foolish, he tried to tell himself, such a thing was merely a moment of weakness. Though he could not deny how right it felt kissing her like that. It was different from the other women he had known, there was little in the way of romance in the Dothraki culture, only pure desire and the fulfilment of that desire. Do you desire her as bedwarmer or as something else? He was afraid of the answer.
Finally he forced himself to speak. "About the other night, I was being forward….if I upset you, I apologise."
Her head bowed, and her voice was much quieter than before when she replied, "There's nothing to apologise for, I just…it's not often that I let people get close…."
Rhaego turned to face her properly then, and set his purple eyes on her blue. "I won't get close like that again, unless you wish it."
Mylessa's eyes seemed to search his and he realized that she must be wondering the same thing as he was; will there be a second time, or a third? The fire priestess opened her mouth to speak when the flap of Rhaego's tent was opened.
"My lady, some of the Bloodriders asked for you." Jhezabel looked out of breath as she stood at the entrance of the tent and her little brown eyes widened when she saw Rhaego. "Forgive me Khal, I shall come back."
"No, Lady Mylessa is done here," he said as he quickly rose to his feet, "I can bandage myself up."
Mylessa looked at Rhaego for a moment, giving the smallest of smiles before leaving with her little assistant. It was only once he was alone that Rhaego allowed himself to smile back.
The sight of the journeymen almost made gape in shock. Almost.
They had been travelling for over a week now and seen little and less, but on that particular morning Rhaego's riders came back with news of a horde travelling down one of the Valyrian demon roads. At first he assumed they meant another Khalasar but when they said it was full of men travelling on foot he knew something odd was going on. He could scarcely believe it himself until he finally laid eyes on the mass of refugees hurrying down the old and cursed roads. Wayns were lined up along the roadside, loaded with casks of cider, barrels of apples, bales of hay, and some fruits Rhaego had never seen before. Almost every wagon had its guards; some were sellswords in mail and boiled leather while more often than not it was only a peasant farmers and their sons clutching at homemade spears with fire hardened points. Flocks of goats and sheep trailed along as well, tied to some of the wagons. What intrigued Rhaego the most was the large amount of red priests that moved amongst them.
"We ought to speak with them my prince," Mylessa had said when she spotted them. "Something of grave importance must be driving these men from Volantis and onto the old roads. My brothers would not be joining them in such numbers for a small matter."
And so he had relented, taking the priestess, Gerion and a dozen bloodriders down to speak with the flock. He ordered Gerion to announce to them in High Valyrian that he meant them no harm, though several men-at-arms still formed up to block him from getting close to the weak and infirm, his people's reputation proceeding him. One of the Red priests spotted Mylessa with them and wandered over, ignoring protests from several guards.
"Valar Morghulis," he said.
"Valar Dohaeris," answered Mylessa before giving the man an enigmatic smile. "Might I ask what you and the other members of our order are doing traveling down here with an army of peasants?"
The red priest gave her a joyous expression and raised his hands into the sky. "R'hllor smiles on us all, he has chosen his saviour and champion and given the world back its fire!"
Rhaego had no time for the man's ravings and growled down at him, "Speak sense, what champion?"
The priest's grin did not falter. "Why, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Khaleesi of Great Grass sea and Mother to the first three dragons the world has known in centuries."