A/N: As always, thank you Ramzes for the lovely reviews
They rode out on the sixth day. Rhaego sat in the saddle stiff in every muscle, tension clamping down on his whole body.
"You look tired," Gerion said from beside him.
"I'm only tired of being told I look tired." He snapped back.
It wasn't long after Jhaqo died that the remnants of his Khalasar flocked to Rhaego. It was the Dothraki way and something he had hoped for since he was young, but the reality, the enormity of his newfound responsibility as leader of over nine thousand people was staggering for the young Khal.
Matters were madert45 the worse by Mylessa's presence. Ever since that day the red woman had buzzed around him like an annoying fly, questioning him of Jhaqo's death. I could have killed him myself, he thought bitterly. With a swing of my axe I could have taken his head, with my own strength and my own power. Yet the woman had not left his side, constantly going on about how he was a warrior of light. Eventually Rhaego had commanded her further behind him and his bloodriders, sorceress or not she wouldn't dare defy him in front of nine thousand warriors.
"You know what I am thinking?" said Relequo as he lazily chewed on a piece of grass that was a few shades brighter green than his hair. "I am thinking that you might make me a very rich man."
"Just keep your men in line and loyal," growled Rhaego, "then you'll keep getting what you're owed."
The sellsword scratched at his green beard ponderously for a moment before speaking next. "What's our destination?"
Rhaego brooded on that for a time then turned to his bloodriders. "We head east."
Around the fire at camp on that first evening they made a subdued encampment. Of course fighting and drinking were abundant in the large Khalasar, but it seemed as if the men had a fearful sense of awe for their new Khal and tried to do their best not to displease him. Rhaego stared at the flames of his campfire and imagined with sickening clarity how Jhaqo's throat had burnt from within.
"I miss Aggo." Jakerhro surprised them all.
"He rides with his ancestors now," said Aggo thoughtfully as he inspected the stars. "I'm sure he watches us from the Nightlands."
Jakerhro smiled at them. "Do you remember that time we got him blind drunk outside of Pentos?" a slow wheeze broke out from his chest and soon his whole body shook with laughter. "He was so drunk; the fool sat in his saddle backwards for a full day before someone righted him!"
They all shared a laugh at that, and Rhaego felt some of the tension leave his mind.
For a week they moved through the great grass sea as was usual until they reached the Lhazareen city of Hesh. It was too big to be called a village and yet not quite the size of some of the other places they had travelled. Rhaego had them ride slow so that the people might see them coming and not think they were in immediate danger and when they came to the city's limits they were greeted by a messenger from the city rulers, offering gold to get them to turn their path. Rhaego took their gold and a good supply of food and wine and moved his people on.
Despite the size of his horde there was still a steady stream of merchants and travellers moving in and out of the town, most of them kept their distance yet still pushed on undeterred. Another three days came and went with little activity as Rhaego led his Khalasar southwards from the land of the Lhazareen and into the old kingdoms of Ghiscar and its heirs in Slaver's Bay. On the fourth day they came upon a band of merchants travelling with a wagon full of chained slaves, he judged that there was four fighting men amongst the slavers and allowed a few of his riders to test their steel against them. When they saw the first of Rhaego's scouts approaching they tried to flee, which only excited his riders more. The chase lasted little over an hour and the wagon was taken, after brief but brutal fights. They had little in goods, Rhaego learned, making for Meereen to sell their slaves and add to the already considerable army. "Why do they need so many troops?" asked Rhaego.
"The dragon slut has taken Astapor," the slave master told him. "She and her beasts freed the Unsullied and killed the wise masters."
"And Meereen seeks to attack her?" he demanded. "Why would they do such a thing?"
The slaver master laughed aloud. "The whore has freed the slaves, and stopped the trade of Unsullied. All of Ghiscar suffers from this, and the greedy harlot has turned her eyes on Yunkai next. Who is to say she will not attack Meereen after? The Meerense will see her beaten though, and they will make a gift of her cunt for every beggar in the city."
He should not have said that. Rhaego took him around the side of his head with both hands and brought his thumbs down into the man's eyes, his big leathery palms squeezing into the man's skull and face as blood spurted out to greet him. The slaver let out a shriek of agony and waved his hands about, trying fruitlessly to claw at Rhaego's large arms. It was no good and after a time the man fell limp in the dirt.
Rhaego put the rest of slavers to the sword and had his men unchain those tied to the wagon. "You are free now. Go back to your homes if you wish or join me and mine, either way I care not." Some of the half-starved men ran as far in the other direction as they could, many more stayed.
The red woman came to him that night, wearing a dress so thin that it could hardly be considered clothing, the swell of her breasts and the smooth curve of her thighs stirring life within his loins. "I have been too long without your touch…"
Even her words were making him hard, yet every time he closed his eyes he saw the face of the man she had talked him into burning and the feelings were driven away. "You will have to suffer it for a while longer, I shall sleep alone tonight."
"Why?" there was a challenge in her tone.
Because you frighten me, he had wanted to say. Because every time I look at you I wonder if it is me or the god you love. In the end he said none of these things and simply shrugged. "I need time alone."
Her sapphire eyes locked on to his, like magic he could not bring himself to look away. "I did what I did to help you," she insisted, "R'hllor will save you my prince."
"Stop talking like that!" he roared, his hands clenched into mighty fists. "You're not at a damned nightfire; you're here, with me. Is blind fanaticism all you are?"
Mylessa seemed genuinely confused by his words. "Serving the Lord of Light and serving you are one in the same. You are his chosen."
"Don't talk to me like that," he growled. "If you've come to recite a prayer then you can leave, I'm sure there's some poor soul out there who'd make a grand sacrifice."
When Mylessa looked up at him he could see tears in the corners of her eyes. "I did it for you!" and without another word she hurried from his tent. He had half a mind to go after her but quickly squashed such thoughts and slept alone that night.
The priestess did not speak to him for the rest of the week, or the weeks after that. She merely floated about the Khalasar like some shade, lighting her fires and praying come nightfall. Every so often he would lock eyes with her for a moment but nothing would be said and they would both go about their ways.
They came upon yet another band of Ghiscari, thirty men with hair greased and teased into wings and horns and other garish shapes leading close to a hundred chained slaves. This time the men were moving away from Slaver's Bay, saying that the Silver Queen had taken Meereen for her own and had outlawed slavery across the land. The men begged leave to continue their journey to Volantis to sell their last slaves, and even offered Rhaego the choicest of the women. "They have been well trained," said one of the slavers. "They are the best lovers this side of Lys!"
But Rhaego was unmoved and took their heads there and then. Afterwards he had the rest of the slavers' heads placed on pikes along the side of the road as a warning and had his men strike the chains of the hundred slaves. "That path before splits into two roads," he told them. "You may turn and leave, live your lives in whatever way you choose…..or you can come with me and bathe in the blood of those who enslaved you."
That night Rhaego's Khalasar grew by a hundred.
GERION
It was a lovely warm day, and the tourney grounds were filled to capacity with colourful revellers. Gerion Lannister strode manfully toward some meeting of great importance, people bowing and scraping respectfully away to give him room. He ignored most, favoured the more important ones with his brilliant smile. The lucky few beamed back at him, delighted to be noticed.
"I see that you are just as much of a joke as your father," whined lord Reyne, reaching for his sword, but Gerion was far too quick for him. His blade flashed with lightning speed, catching the sneering idiot through the neck. Blood splattered across Cousin Joanna's face. She clapped her hands in delight, looking at Gerion with shining eyes.
Reyne seemed surprised to be killed. "Indeed," said Gerion with a smile. The lord of Castamere pitched over onto his face, blood pouring from his punctured throat. The crowd roared their appreciation and Gerion indulged them with a deep, graceful bow. The cheering was redoubled.
"Oh, Gerion, you shouldn't," murmured Joanna as he licked the blood from her cheek.
"Shouldn't what?" he growled, tipping her back in his arms and kissing her fiercely. The crowd were in frenzy. She gasped as he broke away, looking up at him adoringly with those wildfire green eyes of hers, lips slightly parted.
"Get up Andal," she said with a comely smile.
"What?" the crowd had fallen silent, damn them, and he felt a sharp poke in his ribs.
Joanna touched him tenderly on the cheek. "Get up Andal!" she shouted.
There was a sharp nudge to his side. Gerion's eyes flicked open.
Where am I? He spotted the tall Dothraki standing over him, frowning down at his resting form. The heat of Slaver's Bay was overwhelming. Oh yes, he realised. Another beautiful morning in hell…
"Andal, get up! The Khal wants to see you."
His neck muscles cracked with stiffness as he sat up from his meagre bed of blankets. Dust blew into his eyes from the open flap of the tent. Ah, there's nothing like a sharp jolt of pain to get the mind working. "Alright," he croaked, "give me a minute damn you!"
The big horselord shrugged and walked off. Gerion pinched his eyes together and rose from his bed, stretching his aching muscles, almost pleased to hear them crack. It didn't take him long to find his breeches and a suitable tunic before attaching Brightroar to his side and walking outside into the glare of the Essos sun.
Dreaming of Joanna again, the thought brought a stupid grin to his face. Why do I do this to myself? She was never mine, we never kissed, we never touched and she's dead besides. He couldn't help but laugh aloud at the last thought, an ugly, bitter thing. His grimace must have still been on his face for Rhaego frowned when he walked into his tent.
"Did I disturb your beauty sleep?" he growled in that deep, rumbling voice of his.
"Dreams are what I have," he replied with a shrug before sitting himself down across from the big man, helping himself to a horn of ale. "What do you need?"
"Advice," he said moodily. If there was one thing Gerion could say about his new friend it was that he had quite the sullen temper. "Once we get to Meereen I don't know what to expect," he admitted reluctantly. "I don't trust these people, these slavers."
Gerion sipped thoughtfully on his ale. "Well, you'd be a fool to think otherwise. They cut the genitals from children and turn them into unfeeling weapons of war; you'd be best served treating them with caution." And a sharp knife at your side….
Meereen was one of the largest cities Gerion had ever laid eyes on. It was mostly built from bricks of many differing colour as was the Ghiscari way, and its walls were high and well-fortified, studded with bastions and anchored by great defensive towers at every angle. Behind them, huge against the sky was a monstrously huge structure, the Great Pyramid of Meereen. It dwarfs even the Rock, he thought absently as he rode through its front gates, noticing the large bronze harpy sitting high.
They had some difficulty gaining entrance, but when word spread that the Dragon Queen's own Dothraki son had arrived with a horde at his back the Meerense were quick to open up. As soon as they entered they were greeted by dozens and dozens of Unsullied, all whom looked ready to attack at a moment's notice. The eunuch's were stationed throughout the city, watching over all with stony silence and determined eyes.
An awful smell reached them as they arrived at the plaza, the smell of shit and blood. Gerion felt his gorge rise when he saw the origin of the odour; dozens of men crucified in a perimeter, all of them pointing to the next. While most were dead, a few moaned and begged as they rode past and the Lannister felt a shudder of revulsion come over him. What is this woman? He had known Aerys Targaryen when he was young, back when the Mad King was no more than a young prince, a friend of Tywin. That boy died and a monster rose in his place. Is Daenerys her father's daughter?
The entrance to the audience chamber was guarded by several Unsullied and a bald simpering perfumed lord. He looked at the Dothraki, the Sellswords, and Gerion, with a look of deep contempt. "You cannot bring all of these people into her Magnificent's presence."
Rhaego strode up to the man, his heavy steps making a loud thud as he approached and lifted the man up by robe and held him up face to face. "Try to stop us."
The perfumed seneschal swallowed nervously before giving a nod to the doormen. "A-as you wish."
Queen Daenerys audience chamber was an echoing high-ceilinged room with walls of purple marble. It was a chilly place for all its grandeur. The hall was filled. Unsullied stood with their backs to the pillars, holding shields and spears, the spikes of their caps curving up like some horn. To one side stood a gathering of men and women dressed in the tokar of Ghiscari nobility. Those standing on the opposite side the hall were dressed in less austere clothing. The freed slaves. Slaver and slave, they all turned to look at Rhaego's entourage with fear and surprise.
As the companions slowly made their way up the hall, Gerion noticed that there was no throne adorning the far end, only a simple bronze bench. Sitting atop was a luminous figure. If Gerion did not know better he would have thought the woman a young maiden, dainty looking as she was, but with every step he grew more and more enlightened. Queen Daenerys was thirty years old yet her face and body seemed untouched by time, if anything maturity had made her more beautiful. Her silver hair curled about down her shoulders, her purple eyes carrying strength. She looks like Rhaella, only more beautiful, more assured he realised. This one looks the ruler.
Beside him, Rhaego had stiffened uncomfortably and fell to a knee; Gerion was compelled to do the same. Without looking up the Khal began to speak, in the thick, rich sounds of High Valyrian. "I have returned to you my queen,"
Daenerys surprised them all when she moved from her bench and padding over to them, reaching down with a slender pale hand and taking Rhaego's copper one. She gestured for him to rise and reluctantly he did. Gerion thought the size difference almost laughably absurd. Rhaego stood tall and copper, a mountain of corded muscle and scars while Daenerys looked little more than a child next to him.
The queen's hands reached up and touched the Khal's face, as if trying to feel the thoughts hiding behind it. "My shining star," she whispered, "You have returned…"
"I…apologise," he said weakly, "but my travels have taken me a great distance away…I should have come sooner, I should-"
"- All that matters is that you are here now," insisted the queen. "I have missed you so much."
A shriek cut through the air then, so loud and so powerful that Gerion felt his heart stop and restart again and almost collapsed. It reminded him of his childhood dreams of fantasy, of his adult nightmares of the days he spent lost in Valyria. "What in the name of the gods was that?" he said, not realising he had spoken the thought aloud.
Daenerys turned her gaze to him with the briefest of smirks. "That, Ser, is the cry of my children."