A/N: Prompt word: Dispose.
02x02, 'The Night Lands'
Jorah drives the point of the arakh into the ground, his arms tingling at the impact. He's attempting to dig a hole.
A hole for Rakharo's head, so they can comfort themselves with the lie that it won't be savaged by desert predators.
Irri is inconsolable. Daenerys keeps her close, wrapping thin arms around her frail form, murmuring empty platitudes in her ear, her own violet eyes filled with grief.
They have so little wood left for themselves. The funeral pyre they built for Rakharo is a pitiful thing, hardly worthy of the name. Nor did Daenerys think that it would be a good idea to spend the entire evening with nostrils singed with the smell of burning flesh. They agreed it between the two of them: Jorah would take Rakharo's head beyond the perimeter of their small camp, whilst Daenerys burned his tiny braid in the hopes that it would buy him passage to the Night Lands.
So Jorah works alone. The arakh is hardly the ideal tool for such a task, but they have nothing else. He works tirelessly, strike after strike, sending clods of dried earth flying with each swing. He's morbidly grateful for the work. At night the temperatures drop, and this is keeping him warm.
But he feels a powerful sorrow too. He'd liked Rakharo. The young Dothrakan had had plenty of conversations with him around the fire pits. He would have made a fine bloodrider if his life hadn't been cut so tragically short. Jorah doesn't want to dwell on what might have been done to him.
When the hole is deep enough, he takes the sack and places it in the ground. He tries to be gentle, not wishing to scorn his dignity any further. When that is accomplished, he kicks dirt back over the hole.
"He was a good man." Daenerys' voice is small behind him. Jorah turns towards her. She looks so vulnerable, her hair straw-like, covered in dirt and dust.
"He was," he agrees. "How is Irri?"
"Still in shock," she says. "I've left her with Doreah."
"And how are you?"
She lets out a brittle laugh. "I don't know. I'm not certain of anything anymore."
"Kovarro and Aggo are still out there. One of them will come back with good news," he says, with more certainty than he feels.
"We can pray to the gods," says Daenerys. She looks down upon that sorry pile of dirt, tears welling in her eyes. "Ride well, blood of my blood."
They stand in silent pain for a moment, before Daenerys' small hand creeps into his. Startled, Jorah glances down at her. She remains looking at the ground, but she says, "Thank you, Jorah."
"Of course," he says, inferring her meaning. "We couldn't leave him to the carrions."
She lets out a strangled sob, the veneer of the khaleesi crumbling. All he can do is squeeze her hand.