JASON MOMOA SAVES WESTEROS

Part 2 – THE ONCE AND ONCE FUTURE HAND

The Cheesemonger's eyes began to shift suspiciously; immediately causing Jon to suspect he and his beloved foster son were to be denied in a blatant attempt at self-preservation by their disgustingly obese sponsor. As a true knight he had never cared for Illyrio, nor the eunuch, and their secretive manipulations.

But then something steely appeared in the Pentosi's pudgy visage and he drew himself up straight. "Neither your khalasar great Khal nor the Golden Company alone would suffice to conquer Westeros; even with the chaos my companions are brewing to erupt before the invasion. So plans were made accordingly."

"Liar! Traitor" The unshackled white blonde haired prince blazed in anger; yanking out a long dagger to seek revenge for the perceived betrayal.

Like the bravo he had always bragged about once being, the huge man pivoted lightly on the balls of his feet to dodge the poorly aimed blow.

SMASH!

A heavily bejeweled, thick fist crushed into Viserys Targaryen's face; dropping him like an ox at slaughter. Blood spurted out of the unconscious fool's broken nose and where Illyrio's rings had slashed the flesh of his face.

The girl shrieked and dropped to the floor beside her brother.

While the Dothraki standing behind the Cheesemonger moved close to press his arakh against that fat neck in case the former bravo had any fatal ideas about picking up the fallen dagger.

"How long have you wished to do that, Magister?" the Khal laughingly asked.

"Since the first hour I met the mad fool."

"Then be glad your life shall measure longer than his should you give me what I desire."

"All my wealth for my life and the young prince's, great Khal," Illyrio stated calmly as he nodded towards Aegon; causing hope to swell in Jon's heart.

"The three dragon eggs you intended as a wedding present for the princess, where are they?" the Dothraki responded.

"You will need my help to retrieve them."

"When I require your help, you will know. Where are they?" Khal Drogo inquired now with a hint of violence that spoke volumes.

"And what of the blood price in exchange for them?" the Cheesemonger bravely stood his ground.

"There is no exchange."

"I cannot remember."

In a blink, the titan of a Dothraki stood before Illyrio Mopatis and with a single hand lifted him up by this neck as easily as a child would hold a butterfly. "He can die now, if you wish."

Quickly, the plump flesh squeezing out around the powerful hand reddened, then purpled. The fat man's breath started to wheeze and come in gasps as the grasp slowly tightened.

"Haggo, boy foot," the Khal barked in dreadful Pentosi.

The bloodrider holding the chains jerked hard and Aegon tumbled over as the other Dothraki pulled out his own arakh. Jon prepared to leap at him.

"GGstraglbsh," Illyrio choked out.

The Khal dropped him to tumble to the floor as well.

All paused for the Cheesemonger to regain his breath and hear what he would say.

"The third floor of my manse … my private apartments … a strong box built into the floor of the second clothes closet … the key is in my study … inside the statue of the Summer Islander."

The Dothraki war lord stared down at the fallen magister, judging how truthful the words might be. He grunted and turned towards the same door that Jon and Aegon had been dragged in through.

"You will need me to …"

But the Khal did not stop.

A moment after he left, a half dozen more Dothraki entered the room and began prodding the prisoners to move … or be carried.


They were led through a maze that kept them far away from any of the party guests to the palace's private stable where a pair of moderate sized wheelhouses waited.

A bloodrider carried the still inert Viserys into one and the Westerosi sellsword prodded Aegon and the princess in behind them. The two other bloodriders "escorted" Jon and Illyrio into the other. The doors were locked from the outside. And soon enough horses began pulling them out into the city's streets.

At first Jon and Illyrio exchanged a few short, quiet comments in Common. These appeared to draw little interest from their Dothraki guards; apparently, unlike their master, they did not know his native tongue. And the more the two spoke, clearly they did not care. Probably so long as they only talked softly; not trying to gain attention from any out and about on the dark streets.

"The princess was meant for Aegon," Jon partially hissed as part of releasing his pent up frustration over both their capture and the revelations of Illyrio and the eunuch's machinations.

"As I said, truthfully, the Golden Company, even with allies in the Seven Kingdoms, would likely not suffice to win Aegon the Iron Throne."

"Dorne would support him."

"Assuredly," the Cheesemonger agreed. "Yet we must look beyond just a match with Princess Arianne. Margaery Tyrell from the Reach is of an appropriate age. As is Sansa Stark."

"The North would never desert Robert Baratheon," Jon retorted scornfully, over the loud bumps caused by the cobblestones.

"But they might his children," the corpulent conspirator replied with a knowing, sly grin. "Besides, the match would have removed the only other with a claim to the crown near as legitimate as Aegon's"

"Viserys? How?"

"The boy is positively mad and as ill-disciplined of his impulses as his father ever way. It would only have been a matter of time before he provoked Dothraki pride into murdering him."

'Cold as Winter,' Jon thought. But from what little he had just witnessed, perhaps an accurate summary of the other prince and an effective solution.

The wheelhouse turned and began taking a slightly downward slope.

"How did Drogo know to search for you?" the Magister asked; taking his turn to vent frustration at the collapse of a decade's worth of plans.

"I don't know. Our disguise was always excellent. The Khal only laughed those few times we spoke when I asked. And, those of his savages who know a civil tongue only speak some rote of 'The Sun gives him strength and the Moon her wisdom.'"

"A pity they caught your ship tied up," Illyrio Mopatis lamented.

"We weren't," Jon protested. At the magister's quizzical look, he launched into retelling the painful tale. "We were sailing south on the Qhoyne after visiting the ruins of Ar Noy when we began seeing Dothraki; a rare occurrence, but at least once a year some khalasar usually passed through the edges of the Forest of Qohor to enter the plains of the Rhoyne. Three days later a captain of a Kha hailed us; demanding to know if we worked for you, by your name." Jon refrained from including the Kos' insult about the Pentoshi coin prince too fat to ride a horse.

"How long ago was this?"

"Almost three moons," he answered before continuing. "I denied it. But then the Kos challenged me. Saying I had blue hair and blustered about coming aboard to see my blue haired son. Again I denied him; even when he threatened me with death. So I commanded Yandry to put full sail on."

"For the next week they paced us along the bank. Even at night when we tried to slip away. Several times they fired arrows at us when the river depth narrowed to force us close to shore. Luckily we were already far enough south that there were no fords they could ambush us at. Though they tried to clog the river with logs once and even swam their horses out at dawn, but Aegon, Rolly, and I easily dispatched those who tried to leap off their mounts to grab at the gunnels."

"At last we made Dagger Lake and I thought us safe despite the growing number of Dothraki on the shore. That night we worked like demons to raise a second small mast, change the sails to a new design and pattern, slap on new paint, and alter the Shy Maid's outline as much as we could; all in order to make her appear another boat. And I dyed my hair back to red. Smart ploys for that next morning we learned from several other boats that the Dothraki were trying to bribe pirates to capture us."

"So you kept heading south," the Cheesemonger prompted.

"No. I guessed they'd think we might move towards the safety of Volantis; so I ordered Yandry to steer us north on the Rhoyne instead. The gamble appeared to pay off. We only saw the occasional Dothraki, and those paid us no heed. Then, we came upon the ruins of Ny Sar," Jon said with a heavy heart as his nose began to smell more salt in the air.

"Where you were captured," the magister concluded.

"Yes, but you must hear how," the former Hand who had thought he would be again for his foster son insisted. "It was midday. All of us except Yandry taking our easy below decks as the Shy Maid slowly drifted south with the current. The boat suddenly rocked, as if it had ground hard against an underwater ruin of the dead city. We rushed up on deck expecting to have to pole the ship off …"


'SevenHells,' Griff thought to himself. For there standing dripping wet on the deck near nude stood the tallest, most muscled Dothraki he had ever lain eyes upon.

"Boarder!" bellowed Duck, who had been ahead of him coming up the stairs; and, charged straight at the barbarian while pulling out the long sword he still happened to have strapped to his belt.

The lengthy Dothraki stood calmly and did not bother to parry the incoming decapitating blow for he carried no weapon upon him. With the swiftness of the wind, the tall warrior somehow dropped low enough for the blade to pass over his bell braided hair.

Thankfully, Duck remembered his training and kept his balance; quickly reversing the stroke to back the blade across a thick shoulder or bulging upper arm of the intruder. The foe simply spun away with unbelievable speed.

Jon remembered himself and grasped the skill of the barbarian. "My blade! Haldon! Septa! My sword and my shield!" he roared as his eyes searched for something on deck to use as a weapon.

Twice more Duck missed. 'This Dothraki is faster than Rhaeger. Faster than Arthur,' he acknowledged while picking up a ship's pole. The corner of his eye found Yandry having joined him; a second pole held in the strong hands of the dusky skinned orphan of the Greenblood.

"Fall back, Duck," he commanded.

But the young knight was in mid strike. The blow overextending his reach by barely an inch. And one of the giant Dothraki's massive hands leapt forward to grab Duck about the elbow. And with a cracking wrench, half the sword arm tore away in an explosion of crimson and sinewy gore.

Unworried because of the lack of sharp steel, the barbarian simply grabbed the pole on Jon's first strike. The foe powerfully, easily, yanked the lance length implement back towards himself and in an instant pulled Jon completely off balance. A fraction of a second later the other end of the pole slammed into the pit of the exiled knight's stomach, knocking the breath out of him and stars into his head.

As if from outside his body, Griff watched Yandry fly into the river. And a now armed and roaring for murder Aegon was just as easily disarmed with a shattered sword hand and next knocked unconscious with a head butt to his helm.

The Dothraki Titan appeared none the worse for wear as he first picked up the true king under one arm and a still helpless Jon under the other.

As Ysilla screamed and Septa Lemore moaned out prayers to the Seven, the giant then leapt what seemed twenty feet into the air, over the gunnels, and down to the river; where they landed on the largest damned horned turtle Jon had seen in a decade on the Rhoyne.


"The beast paddled to shore as if it were a horse and Khal Drogo its rider. A score of Dothraki met us, screeched same savage chant praising his victory, and bound us onto real horses. We have been prisoners ever since. Not treated well, but not poorly either," said Jon, ending the discouraging story.

Digesting his tale kept the Cheesemonger quiet until the Hand of the True King could no longer maintain his silence. He needed answers and suspected the magister would at least know more than he; that after all was his place on the gameboard of the last ten years. "What is the Khal's game? Why are we not already dead?"

"As we seem to be almost at the harbor, I dare say someone in Westeros knew about Aegon and has offered Drogo a vast bribe to bring all the surviving Targaryens to him." Illyrio offered.

That made sense to Jon, so he gave an agreeing grunt.

"I am quite disturbed and embarrassed to discover that an unschooled barbarian could arrange this against me in mine own city whilst I slept comfortably believing I would get the better of him." A long sigh. "We can pray that it is the Martells who want us; having lost patience waiting their revenge. Then, we might live. If not, I fear wherever we are delivered it will not end well for any of us."

"Curious that the Khal desired dragon eggs too," Jon pointed out. He wondered if the Dothraki truly would have killed Aegon over them.

"Yes. Which suggests he is not as clever or does not know as much as he believes; for those eggs are exceptionally old, veritable stones. So old not even Aerys or his grandfather Aegon, who were both dragon mad, would have bothered with them. They are only pretty baubles now."

"What can one expect from a barbarian?" Jon suggested.

"Death? At the hands of my palace guards."

Jon gave a gallows laugh at that. "And a mistake that will allow us a chance to escape." He knew better. All his prior attempts had been readily stopped. He had the bruises from the beatings to prove it.

"Or a bribable crew."

The wheelhouse rolled to a stop. A door unlocked and opened.

"Out," one of their bronze skinned gaoler's snarled.

As the Cheesemonger waddled his immense bulk out first, Jon overheard him murmur, "Clever, the Cloud Chaser belongs to Formite Petrone; a rival, but too minor to be worth keeping close track of.

The other wheelhouse had arrived first and its passengers were already waiting at the plank to the two masted ship. Aegon looked displeased, the princess scared, and the older prince awake and barely in control of his rage.

They were barely aboard when the Northern sellsword told the captain to depart with all speed.

"Ser Jorah," Jon hazarded. "Is Khal Drogo not coming with us?"

"He said he would join us at sea."