Jon
The vanguard consisted of eighty riders. Around twenty of them belonged to the Stormcrows, but the rest belonged to the Second Sons. Their leader was Vhraesi or the Old Man as the others recruits liked to call him. That the Vhraesi chose Jon was a surprise. He was a passable rider, but he was never good with the lance.
"I can see something!" the cry of his companion snapped him out of his thougts. His name a Pentoshi, but his name escaped Jon."Camp ahead!"
Jon narrowed his eyes against the bright sunlight and tried to find this camp. It took him a moment, but then he saw it too. Hidden behind a cliffy landscape he spotted tents, horses and the black smoke of cookfires rising into the sky. The earth-like colour of the tents made it hard to see them in the barren landscape surrounding them.
"Lower your voice, fool!" Vhraesi snapped at the man and flashed him an angry look. "They may have put up sentries."
"Of course," the man replied and lowered his head apologetically.
"What are we going to do now, old man?" a man going by the name Red Axe remarked. He belonged to the Stormcrows and thought himself above the others. His tone towards their leader was beyond rude, but Vhraesi ignored him and came straight to the point.
"Simply…we are going to throw fire in the hornets' nest," the old man whispered to them. "I will send two men to scout the camp. I need to know where they keep their baggage carts and horses. Then we will put them on fire and lure the horde down our chosen path. Is that understood?"
His question was confirmed by quiet mutters and soon two men were chosen to fulfil the task.
The hours of waiting that followed proved worst and even after their companions had returned Jon's apprehension intensified. He tried not to show it openly, but Tito's stories and what he saw of the Dothraki unsettled him.
"Ready?" Vhraesi asked in a whispering voice and jerked his head towards the eastern side of the camp as they moved along a row pale hills swirling around the Dothraki camp. There on the outskirts of the camp Jon spotted several hundred horses and carts packed with food and other belongings.
"Ready!" Jon answered in unison with the others and tightened his grip on the reins of his horse. They moved slowly, the rising sun painting the sky in pink light. As they reached the end of the pale hills they took a deep breath and lit their torches. Their companions had found no sentries in this direction and thus it was unlikely that the Dothraki would be able to see them, yet Jon was unable to brush away his fears.
"All will be well," he heard Tito's assuring voice and felt his touch on his shoulder. "It is quite clear that they had a victory celebration. They will all be drunk. Marli said so.
Marli was one of the two men chosen to scout for sentries. He was a Sheepman like Tito, but very quiet compared to his chatty kinsman.
"Victory celebration?" Jon asked, keeping his voice intentionally low. "They butchered villages and dismembered women. What is there to celebrate about?"
"Don't try to make sense of barbarians…it is no use," his friend replied and straightened himself in his saddle.
Jon swallowed hard and followed after the others, before descending on the Dothraki camp.
Tito's prediction turned out to be true. Nobody was there to stop them as they descended on the baggage carts and herds of horses. A few men stood guard, armed with nothing more than their famous curved blades. They were barely able to raise their swords, before they were rolled over.
They did as they were commanded and set fire to the baggage carts while around twenty other men did their best to drive apart the horses.
Soon the flames were rising and the camp was coming alive. Jon heard shouts, the language foreign to his ears, but they didn't linger for long. They set aflame another row of baggage carts, before wheeling their horses around and driving them back to their chosen path.
Jon didn't dare to look back as he drove his horse forward. He feared to find a horde of horsemen rolling over him.
He kept his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, his eyes burning from the dust and smoke.
It was long past midday when they made it back to the camp.
Jon felt only relief as he spotted the blurry outlines of their camp, the armour and shields of their men shimmering in the midday heat.
They had spent two days to fortify the ridge with two wooden forts, ditches and sharp stakes, but Jon felt that all their effort paled in comparison to the might of the Dothraki horde.
Around twenty-thousand men, women and children, Tito had estimated. That means around fifteen-thousand riders.
Jon had swallowed hard when he heard this, but like the others he tried to keep up an appearance of indifference.
Together the Second Sons and the Stormcrows counted three-thousand men. It was like a drop falling on the desert ground. No wonder the payment was high.
I should have known better.
"Did you lose any riders?" Commander Mero demanded to know from Vhraesi, before he was even able to dismount from his horse. About ten of their men had split from their group earlier to look out for the Dothraki horde. Vhraesi was confident that they would follow their trails.
Their high position gave them an advantage, but they were vastly outnumbered.
"No," Vhraesi replied and dismounted in a quick motion. "All riders made it back. We can continue with our plans."
"The archers are ready," Daario added, garbed in full armour, his blue hair hidden under his helmet. "Sallor knows his task. I hope your men know theirs."
Mero frowned and straightened himself. It was not hard to deduce that the two of them held little love for each other, but then hardly anyone liked Mero. Even his own men disliked him. Why he hasn't been murdered until now was a mystery to him.
"Do you question my men's abilities?"
"Of course not, Commander," Daario replied mockingly.
"I hope for you that we have enough arrows," Vhraesi interrupted, a hint of frustration visible on his lined face. "We found a horde counting thirty-thousand men and about fifteen-thousand riders. Our quarrels can be settled after the battle is fought."
Mero huffed.
"Stop instructing me and prepare your men, old man. If this goes wrong we will all die."
Then he left, making his back to his shiny tent.
Vhraesi and the other sub-commanders did as they were commanded and prepared for battle. Blades were oiled, a few more stakes were put into the ground and soon each man took his assigned position.
Jon carried a shield, a spear and his sword. Only a few hundred of their men remained mounted and built their rear-guard. Most of them belonged to the Stormcrows, their heavy armour the best protection against the approaching enemy. About half of their men formed a shieldwall spreading over the ridge.
Behind the shieldwall sat men, each armed with a longbow. The rest of the archers were placed at the flanks and protected by stakes, about a third of them armed with longbows and other shorter-ranging weapons.
The longbow, made of yew, was a difficult weapon to handle, because it demanded both strength and practice. Jon had observed the training of the archers and realized that every single one of them was an experienced warrior. He found only three green boys among them, all of them buff and strong like bears.
"Jon!" Tito whispered and patted his shoulder. "Can you hear them too?"
Jon nodded his head. It sounded like rolling thunder, but even this sound was soon drowned out by the ear-bleeding cries of the Dothraki horde.
The Golden horde as Tito called them.
Jon tightened his grip on his spear and kept his shield up. He had the sudden urge to ride away as the first horses stormed up the ridge towards the raised pikes.
Jon, placed in the back rows didn't see much of them, but heard the cries of horse and men alike. Gritting his teeth he lowered his shield to throw his spear at the approaching wave of enemies. Jon was unable to see where his spear landed, but he spotted several riders impaled or catapulted from their horses.
They lifted their shields gain as the next wave approached. Again the might of the Dothraki cavalry collided with the shieldwall, pushing them backwards. Jon gasped for air, sweat running down his cheeks. Before him he saw only shields and behind him the arrows hissed down at the enemy below, the air filled with the cries of dying horses.
This is madness, he thought as this procedure continued endlessly. How did the Dothraki train their horses to run into raised pikes?
Hours passed and no end was in sight. The shieldwall stood strong, but the first rows were thinning while the heaps of the corpses grew higher and higher. It way long past evening when the hissing of the arrows ceased and the reserve was sent towards the approaching enemy. Their heavy armour protected them from the countless Dothraki arrows, but they were still outnumbered.
Jon eyed them with envy, not because he was longing for the thrill of riding through a horde of barbarians, but because he was slowly suffocating. His feet felt numb and he longed to stretch his limbs.
"Gods!" he heard Busco's gasp. "Will it ever end?"
"Shut up!" he heard another man's curse that was soon drowned out by the sound of rearing horses.
Long after Jon had stopped counting the hours, the enemy stopped its attack and left.
Jon was stunned, but also relieved.
The battle was finally over and the ridge below was covered in dead men and horses alike. The smell was even worse, maggots and flies already festering in the dead corpses. Some of the Dothraki warriors were still alive, some of them littered with numerous arrows.
Jon and the other green recruits were tasked to make sure that they don't see the next day.
Jon felt only disgust. The Dothraki were barbarians, but besting a man in battle felt much different than giving him the deathblow when he was lying on the ground and unable to move.
Yet that was what Jon signed up for.
To make it easier he recalled the butchered villages, but it didn't give him the same thrill other men liked to boast about when they took a man's life.
Tito was different. He even scoured the heaps of corpses for prominent members of the Dothraki horde. The head of a known Dothraki warrior or a kinsman of a Khal promised additional gold and many a man was prepared to wade through heaps of corpses to get it.
Jon was not such a man.
The night had fallen when Tito returned to join him and Busco, his armour covered in blood and grime. He grinned and emptied his bearskin while Jon continued to watch him with fascination.
"We won a great victory, but you look like sullen as ever, friend," he remarked and took a seat next to Jon. "Now we only need to cash in the promised coin. We didn't get the Khal leading this khalasar, but several of his kinsmen are among them."
"How do you know that again?" Busco asked and snorted in disbelief. "They looked the same to me."
"Their bells and war paint reveals their rank," Tito explained without hesitation.
"I hope you are right," Jon added and exhaled deeply. "But it will take us several weeks to return Qohor. Once we leave this position we are vulnerable for attack and what you told me about the Dothraki makes me believe that they will return to take revenge for this humiliation."
"Maybe," Tito replied hesitatingly. "But our host is smaller and quicker. Once we have crossed the Darwash we should be relatively safe."
"I see," Jon replied and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
They found little sleep that night and mounted their horses before the first rays of sunlight were apparent on the distant horizon.
Not that Jon was able to sleep. The cold and the uncertainty kept him awake.
"Back to Qohor!" he heard his companion's cries of relief. Not even the lack of rations seemed to bother them. The promise of gold seemed more alluring than a proper meal.
Ever slowly, they made their way along the narrow path leading them back to the crossing over the Darkwash.
Only two moons, Jon thought and brushed his fears away. Due to the wounded men it took them nearly three days to reach the promised crossing.
Jon felt only relief when he spotted the dark waters of the Darkwash glimmering in the sunlight.
Yet their enthusiasm was dimmed, when they realized how much the water level had risen since their last crossing weeks ago. Several men tried to lead their horses through the water, but the current carried them away and they drowned in the dark waters of the river.
They had no other choice, but to build a bridge or to cross over at another point.
"There is another crossing point a days' ride away from here," one of the sergeants' informed them and thus their host of men was forced to move further along the river.
It was a horrible mishap that angered the men who hadn't seen a proper meal in days.
Mero drove them mercilessly, but the commanders of the Stormcrows put an end to the death march after several of their horses and wounded had died in the previous night.
They made camp near a slope of the river. There they used their spears to catch fish while small scores of men were sent out to hunt.
It was in this moment that Jon appreciated Bran's love for fishing. After several hours of wading through the riverbank he had caught an impressive amount of fish and was soon roasting them over a warm cookfire.
It tasted heavenly, but it didn't help to fill his stomach.
That night sleep came easier to him. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but his sleep proved as dark and as deep as the waters of the Darkwash.
It was the sound of rolling thunder that woke him from his slumber. At first he thought it a dream, a mirage, but then he recalled the sound from his first maiden battle.
Horse hooves, he knew and instinctively grabbed for his blade. Tito and Busco were still asleep, but Jon didn't hesitate to kick them awake.
"Wake up!" he shouted. "Wake up!"
Busco grumbled, but Tito was quickly on his feet and grasped for his spear.
"Can you hear it?" he asked his friend, who opened his mouth to speak, his voice drowned out by the cry of the Dothraki riders washing over the camp.
Jon didn't waste single breath and picked up his shield, before making his way back to his horse, bound to a nearby tree. The animal reared in fear, but Jon was able to calm it down and climb on its back. By the time he was seated in his saddle the camp had descended into chaos.
Men scrambled out of their tents and were cut down before they were even able to grab their weapons. Jon himself found himself soon under attack.
It was a young warrior, his curved blade meeting his shield, bringing forth a clinking sound. Jon didn't give him a chance to retaliate and buried its blade in the enemy's horse.
The animal shrieked and Jon ended the man with a cut to his head.
After a brief moment of search, he spotted Busco trying to fend off a Dothraki rider on foot, an arrow sticking from his shoulder. The warrior was strong and able, his curved blade cutting Busco open like a pig.
The Dothraki warrior laughed, his numerous bells tingling as he moved his head in Jon's direction.
Without further hesitation he wheeled his horse around and leaned down to pull out the spear he had put into the ground, before going to sleep.
"Busco!" he shouted and lifted the spear as he continued to urged his horse towards the enemy.
The Dothraki warrior was not even able to move out of the way, before he was impaled and thrown from his horse.
He looked slightly different from other warriors. His braid reached nearly to his waist, his face painting unnatural bright. His painted vest accentuated with gold made Jon believe that he was someone very important.
Yet Jon had no time to waste on the warrior.
A volley of arrows caught him off guard and he was barely able to lift his shield to protect himself. His horse reared and he was thrown backwards on the ground
Two arrows hit his shield and one lodged itself into his armour, bringing forth a painful feeling in his right shoulder.
"Busco…," he turned around as he searched for his friend, but it was no use. His eyes were empty, a puddle of blood spreading beneath him.
When Jon turned around he saw twelve warriors, their curved blades raised and circling around him as he lay unmoving on the ground.
Yet their eyes were not fixed on Jon, but on the impaled warrior.
Jon waited for the death blow, but the men ignored him and continued to whisper to each other in their foreign language.
Instead of continuing to fight, one of the men unhorsed and pulled the dead warrior on his horse.
Then they wheeled their horses around and left Jon, lying there, the smell of blood lingering in his nose. He still felt the arrow sticking in his shoulder and blood was running into his face. Carefully, he touched the back of his head and winced in pain.
He must have hit his head when he fell from the horse. Ever slowly, he tried to pull himself on his feet, the world around him starting to spin in circles.
A sudden feeling of sickness overcame him and he fell back on his knees, before emptying his stomach on the ground.
He tried to pull himself up one more time, before he collapsed and was swallowed by the darkness.
…
Dany
The sun had sunken beyond Ragman's Port when Dany returned to her humble home. She sold all oysters and even the fish.
Feeling the weariness in her bones she longed for nothing more than a bath. Eight moons along she felt more like a burden than a help, though neither Mella nor the girls complained about it. No, they even helped her with her daily chores.
As dutiful as ever young Shala awaited her with a bucket of water.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked like always. Sometimes it was Mara or even Hadi who helped her, but most of the time it Shala. Dany harboured the suspicion that the girl liked coming here because of Ghost. Every free minute she was trying to play with him and make him repeat the tricks Jon showed to her before his departure.
"Oh, please," Shala replied happily and brushed her fingers through Ghost's fur. The wolf ignored her and rolled to the side. The lack of exercise made him lazy. Sometimes she took him for a walk, but the stares of the people made her uncomfortable.
When Jon returns you will have to give up your laziness, she thought and poured the steaming water in a cup.
"Is that enough?" she asked the girl, but Shala's attention was fixed on the heap of papers stacked on the table. Most of the documents concerned slave transports, all written in the finest High Valyrian. Dany didn't know how Mella got these documents, but were a great help to her. Most of her work consisted in forging documents, but even this task proved harder than expected. Depending on the city the slave masters use different phrases in their correspondence. To get the wording right was incredibly difficult.
"Nothing exciting," she lied and brushed the letters aside.
"Here your cup of tea," she added and held it out to the girl.
The girl thanked her and started to sip on her coup, her eyes wandering to Jon's box harbouring the dragon eggs. Sometimes, Dany picked them out of the box and placed them in the cookfire. It was a silly notion, but she sometimes dreamed that they would hatch like in her brother's stories.
"Can I see?" Shala asked hopefully.
"Yes, but only briefly," Dany replied at last and opened the box. "It belongs to Jon…I have no right to it."
The girl's eyes widened, a strange expression washing over her face. Maybe it was only her imagination, but it was not the first time this happened. Whenver Dany brought up Jon, Mella and the girls grew strangely silent as if they knew more they wanted to say.
She wanted to bring it up, but she always told herself that it won't matter when Jon returns.
Six moons had come and gone, but Jon has yet to return. That the campaign could take longer than expected was something she expected, but Shala's behaviour unsettled her.
Now or never, she thought and sat down next to Shala, who was still admiring Jon's eggs.
"Are these jewels?" the girl asked innocently.
"No, these are eggs," she replied and touched the black egg. As always, it was warm and pulsing like a small flame.
In that specific moment the child kicked her and left her gasping for air.
"Are you well?" the girl asked and touched her shoulder. "Shall I call for mother?"
Dany chuckled and patted the girl's shoulder.
"I am well," she assured her and decided to make use of the moment to inquire about her strange behaviour.
"Say, Shala," she said and forced a smile over her lips. "Did you hear something about Jon that I should know about?
The girl paled.
"Father he heard…mother told me not to tell you," the girl stuttered fearfully.
Her tone frightened Dany more than she wanted to admit.
"Shala," she said and swallowed hard. "What did your father hear?"
"The men Jon is fighting with…the Second Sons…they were defeated by…by these Do…Dothraki…at least that is what my father heard from the sailors," she continued to stutter and gave Dany a fearful look.
Dany felt a hint of sickness washing over her, but she tried to keep a calm composure in front of the girl.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and put her cup away. Her hand was trembling, but at least she kept her tears in control as she shifted her attention back on the girl.
"Shala," she addressed the girl as politely as possible. "I am tired. Please don't tell your mother about our talk."
"I will do as you say," the Shala replied quietly and slipped out of the room.
The moment the door had closed behind her the tears came rolling down her cheeks.
It is my fault.
I should have told him to stay.
My fault, she thought and sank to her knees before the hearth. The box was still open, the eggs shimmering like tree precious gemstones. My fault.
Her ragged sobs must have alarmed Ghost, for he was suddenly there, licking her face as if he wanted to comfort her.
"Stupid wolf!" she told him and buried her face in his thick fur. "I told him not to be brave!"
Ghost seemed to share her sadness and whimper softly, before settling down on the dusty carpet beside her.
"No, I am stupid," she muttered to herself and enclosed the wolf's head. "It should have told him…then he wouldn't have left."
She wanted comfort, someone to tell her that everything would be alright.
Yet Ghost didn't answer, his ruby eyes watching her ever silently as he continued to lick her face.
…
She didn't know how it had happened, but she woke on the floor, Ghost curled around her.
It was a loud cry that woke her, the voice familiar to her ears.
Rubbing her eyes, she rose to her feet and dragged herself to the window. Carefully, she opened the panes, an even sharper cry pierced through the night that left her shuddering.
Mella!
The girls!
With a beating heart, she rushed back to her bed and retrieved the blade she kept hidden there under the blankets.
By the time she was moving back to the door, Ghost had risen from his place near the hearth.
"Ghost," she whispered and jerked her head towards the door, her feet weak like pudding. "Come along!"
The wolf hesitated as if he was confused by her command.
"Ghost!" she repeated more loudly. "Please! Come with me!"
Finally, the white wolf started to follow after her as she made her way outside and up the steps leading up to Mella's home.
Her heart was threatening to jump out of her chest as found the door wide open. She hesitated for a moment, but a painful whimper and a loud bang snapped her out of her frozen state.
She tightened her grip on her dagger and stepped inside the anteroom, Ghost following after her like a shadow.
It was in the middle of the night, but even the darkness was unable to conceal her grizzly finding. Mella lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes empty and dead. Her skull must have been bashed by something hard, so much Dany deduced from the bloody wound showing on her head.
"Let me go!" she heard Mara's desperate voice rattled down the stairs leading to the upper sleeping compartments.
Leaning against the wall, she pulled herself up the stairs, Ghost leading the way as if he was aware of the danger ahead.
There, sprawled on the steps she found Shala, unmoving and her limps arranged in a strange position. Someone must have pushed her down the steps, Dany realized at once.
"Please!" she heard Mara's cry coming from the room at the end of the corridor. "Please!"
Gasping for air she followed the voices rattling down the stairs. Reaching the top she found a corridor, broken furniture and the clear signs of a fight visible to her.
Dany didn't hesitate to move down the corridor, though her feet felt weak and wobbly. Ghost's presence gave her the assurance she needed.
Inside she found Mara and two men. They one was copper-skinned and the other one pale-skinned like Dany. The pale one was cowering on the ground, his head sporting a nasty wound. The copper one was trying to press a struggling Mella to the ground.
Their velvet cloaks sparked her memory: the brutes who insulted Mella.
And now they came to kill her.
And Shala.
Hatred beyond reason filled her to the brim and she plunged her dagger in the man's back. The man shrieked in pain, but her bloody deed was not enough to vanquish him. He noticed her presence and turned around to push her away. The dagger slipped out of her hands and she stumbled backwards, hitting the ground.
She gritted her teeth against the pain in her back and found Ghost burying his teeth in the other man. His painful screams echoed through the room as the other man moved towards her.
Dany closed her eyes, fresh pain surging down her back. It felt as if thousands of needles were piercing through her skin.
Yet nothing happened. She only heard a shout and a loud thud. When she opened her eyes again she found Mara on top of the man, kicking and hitting him as he continued to groan.
Blood splattered Mara's dress and the man's cloak, but she didn't stop. Over and over again she hit him as Dany pulled herself back to her feet.
"Stop it!" she shouted at the girl and pulled on her shoulder. "He is dead and gone!"
"I don't care!" the girl snapped back at her, her red hair falling like flames around her flushed face. "He killed my mother!"
"I know," Dany replied through greeted teeth, another surge of pain wrecking her body. "But we can't waste time."
Instantly, Mara stopped, her breathing laboured as she stared back at Dany.
Ghost trailed back to Dany's side, licking her fingers as she trembled in pain.
"Are you in great pain?" the Mara asked fearfully and moved to her side, brushing her shoulders. "I am sorry…I was just…What shall we do?"
"We can't leave your mother and sister lying down there…your father won't return for long…contact your mother's friends…we need to go somewhere else…they could come back…," she stuttered and braced herself on the other girl's arm.
She hoped that this would ease the sharp pain, but then she felt something wet soiling her dress.
Her water broke.
…