A/N: This one's pretty short cause it's just more Drogo getting used to the Forsworn kinda stuff. Sorry about that. No notes this time either. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin, except Vanyrra. And if you ever see Vanyrra Briar-Heart running around in ESO with a guy named Old Mister Johnson, give them a wave, cause that's me and my boyfriend.
Rating: T for violence and death and vague Forsworn gore.
In the end, there was no resistance to the change in Forsworn leadership. As Vanyrra stood high atop the ledge where Madanach had made his throne, his severed head gripped tightly in her fist, Drogo could see the fear in the eyes of those below, and he knew that when she spoke, they would listen.
They had all been awakened in the dead of night by the sound of her voice, carrying through the cavern and echoing about its walls as a hundred pairs of eyes blinked away the haze of sleep.
"Madanach is dead!"
The trophy in her hand was proof enough, and no one dared to speak, silently gathering amongst the fields to stare in awe.
"And we will have no king, nor a queen!" Her ebony eyes blazed in the torchlight, and a collective shudder ran through the crowd. "We will have a Khaleesi, and at her side, a Khal. And we, the Forsworn, shall be their army!"
Drogo could feel the collective gaze shift its focus, and he met their eyes with fear. He was a caravan leader, not a king, or a general, or even a knight. He knew of battle, but not of war, and without Daenerys at his side, he feared that he knew very little at all. And yet, he would lead them, for her.
"No longer will we be Forsworn," Vanyrra continued. In a violent gesture, she hurled Madanach's head into the crowd, and her voice rose to a yell over the growing rumble as it landed at Drogo's feet. "We will be Bretons! The men and women of High Rock, once again!"
"My Khal..."
Drogo looked up from the book in his lap as Dar'Jazha entered the tent they had pitched inside the cavern for their makeshift quarters.
"A courier came with a letter for you. Dar'Jazha believes it is from our Khaleesi, yes."
Scrambling to his feet, Drogo snatched the outstretched letter and tore apart the Targaryen seal that marked its sender.
The tight, flowing script within brought an ache to his chest, and turning away, he lifted the parchment to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of her lavender perfume. This was proof at least, if nothing else, that she was still alive.
Dearest Drogo, it began.
I don't know what sort of news from Helgen you may have heard by now, but I wanted to write so you knew that I made it out alive. Viserys' summons was a trick as you suspected and he turned me over to the Imperial Legion in exchange for a crown. I was going to be executed along with Ulfric Stormcloak and his men when the dragon attacked. I wish I could say that I had been dreaming, but I saw it with my own eyes. The dragons have returned, my brother is dead, and I find myself half a world away from you.
I can't know when this will reach you, but I hope it finds you well, and that we will be together again soon. For now, I am in Whiterun under the care of the Jarl, but I will not wait long before I travel to your side again. Balgruuf says the Legion will be marching on the city any day now, to defend it from a Stormcloak attack, and I do not intend to stay for their arrival. Until we see each other again, stay safe, my love. I need you now more than ever.
Love,
Daenerys
His throat was tight as he finished the letter, and he stood in silence for a moment, running his thumb across the lettering of her name. Closing his eyes, he imagined how she must look, her belly swelling just a bit rounder each day as their child continued to grow. He would have given anything to be at her side again, and yet, he knew not where to find her.
She had written from Whiterun, a mere three days ride with a hard pace and a fast horse, but he had no doubt that she had long since departed from the city in the time it had taken for him to receive her letter.
Though every part of him wished that he could run to her side and leave his new life among the Forsworn behind, he knew that she would need their strength, and his, if she wanted to return to her home. Sighing, he folded the letter once more and tucked it beneath his bedroll before following his partner back out into the cavern.
The lives of those who lived in Druadach Redoubt had changed little after Madanach's death, and he found them milling about their home, harvesting and planting in the gardens as the forge fires burned.
"Word of Madanach's death has not spread to the others," Dar'Jazha commented from Drogo's side.
Drogo nodded. "But they need to know, at least so we can be sure of where their loyalties lie." His gaze wandered across the faces of the men and women below until it lighted on the Briarheart, perched atop a barrel of ale with a sword and whetstone in her hands. When her eyes met his, her weapon took its place back at her side and she began to make her way toward them.
"You are in need of me, Khal?"
"Yes," Drogo replied, focusing on the intricate lines of red paint that decorated her forehead and cheeks in an attempt to avoid the emptiness of her gaze. "How many other redoubts are there across Skyrim?"
Her head cocked slightly as she considered the question and after a moment, she replied. "Two dozen, perhaps more. Many in the Reach, others not."
Two dozen. And if even a fraction of those were as large as Druadach, then there were hundreds of Forsworn, maybe even close to a thousand. The only question that remained was whether or not they would fight.
"Get me two dozen men then," Drogo commanded, finally meeting her eyes. "Ones that you trust. And send them to me."
For a moment, Vanyrra was silent, and when she spoke again, there was what might have been a smile on her lips. "Yes, Khal."
The men and women that Vanyrra had selected were quiet as Drogo paced before them, appraising their new leader in a judgmental silence. There had, however, been no dissent.
"News of Madanach's death and of your Khaleesi's cause must be brought to all of the Forsworn. Each of you will be the bearer of this news, to every corner of Skyrim, until every man, woman, and child in the Forsworn knows who it is that they are fighting for."
He stopped in his pacing and stood before them, his hands clasped together at the small of his back. His eyes were dark and his features blank. "If any show signs of disloyalty, kill them."
At that, the expressions of the warriors in front of him shifted. In their eyes he saw admiration, and growing trust.
In the end, if he was to lead them, he would have to become one of them as much as they would become his. No matter what it took.
Many of the men he had sent returned within several days, and with them came pledges of loyalty from their fellow Forsworn.
Bleakwind Bluff had agreed to join them with no resistance, and a dozen men and women returned along with the one he had sent. Red Eagle Redoubt was equally as fair with their loyalty, and the names Khal and Khaleesi spread quickly through the sprawling camp with excitement and awe.
Broken Tower Redoubt and Dragonbridge Overlook had a few Forsworn still loyal to their former king, but their brethren were quick with their blades, and the heads of the disloyal were proudly displayed on the spikes that served to warn away travelers.
The news was less favorable from the last two returning men. Bruca's Leap Redoubt had resisted the claim of new leadership and in the fights that had broken out, half of the Forsworn at each camp were slaughtered, the other half wounded, but ready to fight the Khaleesi's war. At the Sundered Towers, it was those loyal who were slain, and those who remained were determined to keep their independence, and would not fight beneath the Targaryen banner.
As he waited for the return of the other scouts, Drogo too began to prepare for war. Though he did not know where Daenerys was, he knew that when they were reunited once again, she would need him, and her army, and so he would be ready.
The Forsworn weapons were crude, crafted out of low quality steel and jagged wood, their armor of leather and fur. Drogo and Dar'Jazha inspected it carefully, with Vanyrra at their side. She sat on the ground with her legs crossed, watching them as they did their work.
"They'll need something far sturdier than this if we don't want them cut apart the moment they enter battle." Drogo said in frustration, tossing aside the breastplate in his hand and sighing heavily. "Ebony is expensive, but its weight and strength are worth its cost."
Frowning, Dar'Jazha shook his head. "The Forsworn's greatest strength in battle is their speed, yes? They are not knights, my Khal, but savages."
Drogo cast a worried glance at Vanyrra at Dar'Jazha's chosen language, but she simply nodded sagely. "The Khajiit speaks true, Khal."
After a moment, Drogo stood and drew the curved daedric blade from his hip. "Fight me." His two companions stared at him in silence, Dar'Jazha's expression one of incredulity, and Vanyrra's blank.
Finally, she stood, withdrawing her weapons, a jagged sword in one hand and a spiked war axe in the other.
"If I want to lead you in battle, I need to understand how you fight."
"Very few have fought to understand my people, Khal," the Briarheart replied, her eyes a strange, empty red in the light of the forge. "And many of those who have are now dead."
Avoiding her gaze lest his wits leave him, he struck forward with his sword, and in a flash, her axe was flush against his blade, shoving it backwards, and him with it. Narrowing his eyes, he raised his gaze and thrust forward once more. Again, she blocked it, and then slashed with her sword, cutting his cheek.
She dodged easily and effortlessly as he continued his assault, twisting and flipping out of his reach as he tried to land a blow. Quickly, he began to tire, and his frustration grew. He was a fighter of no small amount of skill, and he was being beaten into Oblivion by a woman with weapons wrought from steel and oak. With both blades raised, she let out a cry and charged toward him, pinning him against the forge, her sword at his throat.
Carefully, she drew it away, and returned the weapons to her sides, hands perched on her hips. "I was made to kill, Khal," she said quietly. "But my brothers and sisters were not. Let us keep our speed, but give us strength, and for you and our Khaleesi, we will win this war."