A/N: Hey, guys. This past week was so crazy busy, so it's a good thing I wrote enough chapters to keep posting, yeah? Anyway, here you go. New chapter. I promise that we're almost done with the Forsworn Conspiracy/Escape from Cidhna Mine. I know it's literally the worst thing on the planet, and I hated that it fit my plot, but, it did, so here it is. Again. More of it. Yay! Less from the game though, I think. Yeah. So, without further ado, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin except Dar'Jazha. Specifically, some of the dialogue and about half of the plot of this chapter is Bethesda's.

Rating: T for non-descriptive violence and the mention of death.

The tunnel that Dar'Jazha found himself in was dark, even darker than the rest of the dismal mine that served as Markarth's prison. Somewhere, in the distance, a candle cast a ruddy glow over the damp walls and it guided him as he walked blindly forward to meet the King in Rags.

It seemed as though he had been walking for years by the time he reached the farthest passage and it opened before him to reveal a dimly lit chamber, with a desk against one wall. At it sat an older Breton, his white hair hanging down to his waist and his fierce, dark eyes hidden beneath a heavy brow.

He looked up when Dar'Jazha entered and set aside the quill in his hand. "Well, well. Look at you. The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad, though I suppose they always see your kind as such. Tell me, my fellow beast, what is it that you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed? In all honesty, you weren't our target. And yet, here you are, with your Redguard master still safe in the streets of Markarth—for now."

Dar'Jazha's ears flicked back at the threat to Khal Drogo and he stepped forward with a growl. "What Dar'Jazha wants is his freedom."

Madanach seemed taken aback by his guest's hostility, and he crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "Your freedom? Yes. That's what they all want. But even if you were to escape Cidhna Mine, your name would still be stained with all that blood."

"I did not kill Eltrys," he hissed, his tail thrashing wildly in the face of the accusation.

This time, the Forsworn king looked almost amused by the reaction and he shrugged his shoulders, still surprisingly broad for a man his age. "Perhaps not, but that's what the guards believe and given your surroundings, I dare say that's all that matters." He leaned forward on the worn wooden stool beneath him, lacing his fingers beneath his chin. "You're one of us now, you see? A slave. The boot of the Nord stepping on your throat. Maybe if you understood that, I could help you."

Dar'Jazha fought down his anger and ignored the older man's offer of help. "Khal Drogo and I have had dealings with your kind, yes. You are not all the savages that plague the Markarth streets, no? Why have you taken to murdering innocents within the city walls?"

Madanach considered the question for a long moment before sighing and rubbing at his chin. "I had Markarth. My men and I drove the gods damned Nords out. We had won, or so we thought." His eyes blazed fiercely. "Retribution was swift. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death. But my execution never came. Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his call, sparing my life so that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies."

He snorted in amusement and eyed Dar'Jazha carefully. "You saw what he got in the end."

Dar'Jazha's ears flattened against his skull as he recalled the way the Forsworn agents had slaughtered the Silver-Bloods before his eyes. Not even their servant, Eltrys' pregnant wife, had been spared. He had fled the scene and was going to tell Eltrys to do the same when he had been captured and accused of the murder of the very man he had hoped to save. Eltrys had always been a friend of the caravan, and a good man. He had not deserved the hand that fate had dealt him.

Chuckling darkly at the look in his fellow prisoner's eyes, Madanach shrugged unapologetically and continued. "So I did as he asked. It was humiliating at first, but I knew he would let his guard down eventually. Before too long, he came to trust that his corrupt guards had me under control."

"What about the woman in the market?" Dar'Jazha asked. "What had she done to deserve death?"

Madanach's gaze darkened and his lips pressed into a grim line. "She was an agent for the Imperial Legion. The Imperial Legion." He pounded a tightly clenched fist against the desk. "This was our land. We were here first. Then the Nords came and put chains on us; they forbid us from worshipping our gods. They did to us exactly what the Legion is now doing to them, and they can't even see it."

He didn't look finished with his tirade, so Dar'Jazha stayed silent.

Finally, he took a deep breath before speaking again, his expression weary. "Some of us refused to bow. We knew the old ways would lead us back to having a kingdom of our own. That is who we are. The Forsworn: criminals in our own lands. And we will cut a bloody hole into the Reach until we are free."

Suddenly, Dar'Jazha realized how he would be able to gain his freedom. It was so simple. "What if Dar'Jazha told you that there was a way to regain your lands? Not the Reach, but your true home: High Rock."

Madanach stared at him intently for a long time before shaking his head and snorting in unveiled amusement. His hand found the quill he had long since set aside. "Only a week spent in the mine and you've already gone mad. Get out of my sight. It seems you won't be as useful as I had hoped."

Instead of accepting defeat, Dar'Jazha stood his ground. Madanach had added several lines of writing to the worn parchment stretched out before him before the Khajiit spoke again. "Daenerys Targaryen lives. With or without you, she will claim her right to rule."

The hand holding the quill faltered, and a long pause grew between them before Madanach raised his gaze again, his features unreadable. "Targaryen? That's a name I haven't heard since I last saw the sun. Daenerys however, is a name I am unfamiliar with."

"She is a direct descendant of Queen Elysana, and the daughter of King Aerys."

Madanach's expression remained unchanged. "The last of the Targaryens were killed when the corsairs drove us from our land and the Legion swept in to claim the throne."

Dar'Jazha shook his head. "Not all. The Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys escaped to Skyrim unharmed."

A faint hint of curiosity had appeared in the Breton's dark eyes, but his suspicion remained. "I have agents all across the Reach. Why is this the first I am hearing of these supposed Targaryens."

The mental image of Viserys sulking petulantly on his throne in Riften brought a slight smirk to Dar'Jazha's lips and he shrugged. "Viserys has been ruling in the south, as Jarl of Riften. He made a rather unimpressive leader, despite his name, and in the decades since the fall of High Rock, the Targaryen name has lost its power, yes."

Madanach considered his answer in silence for a long while before setting down the quill and crossing his arms. "But the princess? Daenerys?"

Dar'Jazha smiled widely, confident that the Forsworn king had finally been swayed to their side. "She is still young, yes, but she will make a great queen in time. And she has the prestige of Khal Drogo's caravan to support her claim to the throne, should she wish to take it. They were married just this past moon."

"Why would you risk imprisonment in Cidhna Mine to bring me this news? You speak as if she were well prepared to claim High Rock tomorrow were she to wish it."

Dar'Jazha shook his head. "There is one thing yet that she needs, yes..."

When the Khajiit paused, Madanach began to laugh. He was wiping tears from his eyes when he finally replied. "An army, I suppose? And a man to lead the savages she hopes to use to gain her throne, is that it?"

A bit put off by the Breton's sudden mirth, Dar'Jazha nodded slowly, his tail curling absently around one of his paws.

Still chuckling, Madanach nodded and leaned back on his stool, his expression still etched with amusement. "I suppose I can see a shred of appeal in this supplication of yours. It would be nice to be able to breathe fresh air again." Leaning forward once more, he pointed a gnarled finger in Dar'Jazha's direction. "But, I do not trust you, Khajiit. Your kind are well known for their trickery and deception. Come to me in three days' time, and I will have a task for you. Prove your loyalty to the Forsworn and then, you shall get your army."

During his life in Khal Drogo's caravan, Dar'Jazha had killed his fair share of men. The caravan's name did little to dissuade bandits hoping for loot or wayward soldiers looking for a woman to steal and have their way with. And if it meant keeping his family and Khal Drogo safe, he would kill a thousand more like them.

However, never in his three decades of life had he killed a man without cause.

"Have you met Grisvar the Unlucky?" Madanach had asked in a conspiratorial whisper when Dar'Jazha returned to him, his grin feral as the Khajiit leaned in to hear his words. "He's rightly named, and he's also a thief and a snitch. He's outlived his minor usefulness. Take care of him, and then we can leave Cidhna Mine for good."

If the man was rightfully confined in the prison that housed him, perhaps he wasn't innocent at all, but neither did Dar'Jazha believe he deserved to die without warning. He believed that every man had the right to look his killer in the eyes and defend himself to his dying breath. The shiv in his paw was a coward's weapon.

The burly thief was in the farthest cavern, his back to the rest of the mine as he rhythmically struck the silver vein that ran the length of the wall. Dar'Jazha wondered why he still bothered. He had been there long enough to realize that no amount of silver would gain him his freedom.

Killing this man will bring the Khaleesi back to her home, yes, Dar'Jazha told himself as he moved silently toward his target. She will be safe in High Rock with an army at her back. Here, she is at the mercy of Lannister and Stormcloak, nothing more than a pawn in their game of war.

Grisvar's final words proved to be nothing more than a strangled gasp as the shiv slipped easily beneath his flesh, the thin blade sharp and deadly. Dar'Jazha removed it just as swiftly and caught the man as he fell, leaning him against the cavern wall and meeting his shocked expression with one of regret, though for the moment, adrenaline overshadowed his guilt.

"For the Khaleesi," he murmured, closing the dead man's eyes before leaving him behind. A hushed silence met his return to the main chamber as his fellow prisoners took in the sight of the blood staining his paws.

Madanach was waiting beside the fire in the central chamber, his arms crossed over his chest and a satisfied expression on his face. He nodded at Dar'Jazha when the Khajiit met his gaze, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Dar'Jazha nodded back.

"So," he spoke into the silence. "You've finally become one of us."

Dar'Jazha stayed silent, still tightly clenching the bloody shiv in his paw.

It was Uraccen who broke the silence again. "What is this about, Madanach? You wouldn't have had old Grisvar killed unless you weren't planning on needing him."

The King in Rags ignored the question and raised his hands as if preaching to a congregation. "My brothers," he began, his voice loud in the stillness of the mine. "We have been here long enough. It is time to leave this wretched prison and continue our fight against the Nords. Through this gate, just beside my quarters, is a tunnel, a tunnel that leads right through the old Dwemer ruins of Markarth, straight into the heart of the city."

A brief swell of conversation met his words and Madanach grinned widely, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Well, what do you say, my brothers?" His gaze fell to Dar'Jazha and his grin widened even farther. "Are you ready to retake our home?"