**Author's Note: I don't speak Dothraki. I have no idea if my translations are correct. Good news is, you probably don't either.**
All Cal felt was hot. The sand was hot. The sun was hot. The burns on her skin from the sun were hot. Even the wind whipping across her face was hot. She looked at her companion beside her. He didn't look like he was faring much better. His skin was red and cracked with blisters, and he appeared to be struggling to keep his eyes open against the wind and sand.
They had been wandering the desert many called only "The Red Waste" for weeks since her banishment from Qarth. By now they were out of water, food, and all the rest of their supplies. Cal knew if they didn't reach the grasslands of the Dothraki Sea soon, they would surely perish.
If we make it there, the Dothraki savages will probably kill us anyway, Cal thought.
The irony of her situation was funny to her now. She had been banished from Qarth, a paradise of a city, for drowning a man in a large fountain of water. Now, she would gladly have taken his place, as water was all she could think about.
She didn't regret it though. Richard Duke had been an intolerant, impatient and cruel man. She had seen him dragging his poor maid by her hair through the courtyard. The young girl's back was bloody and her face was bruised. Cal simply couldn't let such brutal behavior go unpunished. She saw her crime as a baptism of sorts, a final cleansing of sins before the man's death.
Sir Michael Spankston has been a loyal friend and advisor to her father back when her father had still been alive. He had been loyal to Cal and her family her whole life, and his loyalty hadn't ended when Cal was banished.
Cal looked over at him again. Only a fool would follow another fool into the Red Waste.
Just then, she saw what appeared to be grass on the horizon, but it was so blurry and distorted by the heat waves she couldn't be sure.
"Probably another mirage," she heaved, but the words didn't come out. Her mouth was painfully dry now, and her entire body ached. The dehydration was beginning to make her delirious, and she was so weak she could barely manage crawling on her hands and knees.
Regardless, she kept going. The grass seemed to be getting closer and closer. Had they made it after all?
Cal moved her arm forward again on the hot sand. It gave out beneath her. She tried to pull herself back up, but it was no use. All of her strength was gone. She felt Sir Michael tugging on her arm, but before long his body collapsed too. Then, slowly the whole world went black.
Cal opened her eyes. She closed them. She opened them again. Was she...alive? She tried to sit up, but her sore, exhausted muscles protested too hard. Cal took a deep breath and looked around her.
The hut she was in was small and modest but clean. It was made of what appeared to be wooden sticks and animal hide. The air smelled like smoke and horse manure. This was a Dothraki camp. She was sure of it.
They hadn't killed her yet, which was a good sign. Unfortunately, she couldn't say the same about Sir Spankston. He was nowhere in sight.
Cal glanced down at her body. It had been cleaned of blood and dirt, and her blistered skin was now covered in some sort of mud. It felt cooling though, and Cal appreciated the relief.
She inhaled deeply again before trying to sit up once more. Almost immediately a pair of strong hands pressed her back down.
"No," a voice commanded firmly. Cal looked up. The woman was definitely dressed in Dothraki garb, but she didn't look Dothraki to Cal. Instead of the the dark Dothraki features Cal expected, the woman was blonde and had piercing blue eyes. She was tanned, probably from working and riding in the sun all day.
"You speak the Common tongue?" Cal asked. Her voice was still raspy, and her throat still stung from the arid desert air.
"Yes," the blonde Dothraki woman replied. She firmly pressed a bladder of water to Cal's mouth, forcing her to drink.
"Thank you," Cal gasped when the woman finally relented.
The woman began to gently rub the mud off of Cal with cool water.
"Do you have a name," asked Cal.
The woman looked at her wearily, as if she was assessing Cal's trustworthiness before responding.
"Ashley," she said. "Ashley Frederick."
It was definitely not a Dothraki name. The woman must have been from Westeros, the continent west of the Narrow Sea.
Ashley obviously sensed Cal's curiosity. She quickly finished rinsing off the mud and looked back down at the girl.
"Stay here," she commanded.
As soon as the woman had left the tent, Cal stood up. Her muscles screamed in agony, but she was surprised to see the mud concoction had left her skin significantly less blistered. She looked around as she stretched.
On the crude clay table beside her was a large broken shard of mirror glass.
Cal picked it up. Her face had been washed, and her stormy grey-blue eyes shined back at her. She ran her fingers through her tangled and matted auburn hair. Her fingers got caught every few seconds on a knot, and after struggling and failing to truly make any progress on the mess, she gave up.
Ashley had told her to stay put. Cal looked around the room again. She stared at the opening of the tent before deciding to push open the flaps and walk out into the sun shining beyond.
Outside of the tent men and women moved busily. A large group of horse-mounted warriors galloped past her. Cal jumped out of the way just in time. She heard children's laughter. Sure enough, just beyond a couple of women fanning the flame of a small fire pit, was a group of four or five young Dothraki. In the center of them all, holding a leather ball over his head, was Sir Michael.
Cal made her way over to the group, climbing over a pile of woven baskets and sidestepping piles of manure.
"Glad to see your alive," she shouted. Sir Michael looked up. Upon seeing Cal, a huge smile lit up his face.
"The feeling is mutual," he called back.
He tossed the ball to the child standing next to him before making his way over to his friend. "Nice of them to take us in," Cal remarked.
She watched as his expression quickly changed. He looked away from her and rubbed the back of his neck. Cal furrowed her brow. He only ever did that when he was trying to avoid giving her bad news.
"Perhaps we should introduce you to the Khal," he said. —-
Cal and Spankston stood in front of a large set of stone stairs. At the top, sat a very large, very striking looking Dothraki man.
This must be the Khal, Cal pondered.
He was intense in appearance, but far from unattractive. He had high, sculpted cheekbones and gorgeous caramel skin. His long black hair fell all the way down to his lower back and was tied in an elaborate ponytail. His dark eyes were currently staring into Cal's in such a way that she was sure he could see straight into her soul.
"Khal vezhven," Ashley began. "Azha anhaan asshilat..." She looked expectantly at Cal and Sir Michael.
Cal looked back, clearly perplexed.
"Your names," Ashley whispered.
More blank stares.
"Announce your names," Ashley whispered again, this time with more urgency.
Sir Michael spoke up first.
"Khal Qhono," he began. "It is a great honor to be here in your khalasar. My name is Sir Michael Spankston, and this is my friend and companion Calico Crocuta."
The khal's eyes had yet to leave Cal's. "Me jin davra chiorikem."
His voice was deep, and the sound of it made goosebumps appear up Cal's arms and down her spine. Without looking away from his eyes, she whispered to Ashley.
"What did he say?"
"He said you will make a fine wife."