Gosh, it's been a while.
I don't want to barrel you with excuses. This has took way too bloody long for me to write. The fact that this story kept gaining support and follows/faves whilst I wasn't active was very heartwarming, thank you to each and every one of you.
I can only say that now I'm free for 3 months, I can get back on track and hopefully this won't happen again. I know I said that I'd release CH7 at the same time, but frankly that would take longer and well, you've waited long enough.
Enjoy.
JON
Ghost was ever his shadow. Silent. Crimson eyes shining.
In the yard, the serving girl had told him, before she called him lord. Each one of Illyrio's servants called him lord, no matter how many times he told them otherwise. I am lord of nothing, he thought. It seemed to make no matter. They did not serve him; so neither did they listen to him in all things. They served the magister, and Jon guessed that he had ordered them to call him so.
Duncan was indeed in the yard, as the girl promised.
His hair was dyed anew, blue as his cloak and tied back with a pale dragonbone brooch. Jon had never thought to ask why he dyed it so, though it had intrigued him. Duncan was not a man from Tyrosh or Pentos, nor in truth Essos at all. His accent gave him away.
More often than not you would he find the man scratching at his chin. A habit, Jon thought. Where his beard had once been - thick and blue and bristly - now only a shadow of a stubble lingered on his cheeks. The absence of the hair gave a way to the narrowness of his face, the set of his jaw.
He had shaven it the day they returned from the docks, a fortnight past, and not since had Jon seen the mark of it again.
The sun glared down upon them, bright and full and shining. He could feel his silk tunic clinging to his chest as he crossed the yard. He missed the wind and the light rain that had brushed over the city for mere a night. He had forgotten what it was to feel cold.
Though despite the sweat on his brow, he felt strangely resolute. He came upon Duncan as the pointy-hatted guards began to heave open the gates, the iron groaning.
"Illyrio has summoned you?" Jon asked as he came beside him.
The iron gate slowed to a quiet. The eunuchs grabbed their spears and returned to their places set place. They are themselves made of iron, he thought. He was sure they stood their day and night, never to once rest. The gate swept a brush of pale dust into his eyes, he rubbed them clear.
"No." Duncan replied sternly. Jon tried to measure his face, a bastard noticed things, but he could see nothing on him today. He was about to turn before Ghost suddenly twisted on his legs and set his gaze upon the open gate. A silent snarl left his jaws. Jon heard the sound of horses, hooves stamping on stone. Riders, was his first thought, he remembered hiding beside a stream as riders passed. He gripped the hilt of his dagger.
Although these were not a company of riders, but the two grim sellswords Marys and Aerar. The two of them were mounted atop destriers with a train of riderless horses following behind. Coursers that were brown and black and sable, amber and blood bay. Jon smiled, it seemed a thousand years since he had ridden Ranger at Winterfell.
"Where did you find these?" He asked as they streamed into the manse, but the stamp of hooves drowned out his words. He spotted Illyrio Mopatis heaving down the steps behind them, with Viserys running at his heels.
"The Dothraki," Duncan said carefully. He stared Jon in the eyes. His gaze lingered until Jon titled his head. The Dothraki were lost on him. "You don't know? Very well. You shall found out soon, I am sure."
The two sellswords led the horses into the yard. All the more dust crept towards his eyes, until he covered them with an arm. Once the last horse had crossed – a bay courser with a long black mane – the eunuchs laid their long spears aside and began to heave the gate shut. Duncan grabbed a pair of reins.
When Jon turned Viserys was upon him. He wore trimmed black velvet emblazoned with the three headed dragon of his House. He wore it proudly, like the very dragon was alive and snarling upon his chest. His tall boots were polished to gleam, and his silver hair brushed lightly against his shoulders.
"Impressive breeds," The magister announced, his thick arms outspread. His thin red robes hung loosely from his body, in parts sodden with sweat.
Marys approached them with a wide grin about his face. He grinned often, that man. His teeth were straight and oddly clean. "The Khal has taken residence in his manse," he said before shrugging. "They are yet to fill it with grass and horses."
He met them with a grin. He's jesting, Jon thought. Not one of them returned it.
Marys cleared his throat, his thick brows knotting. Then gestured to the horses. "He gifts us these horses in his thanks!"
They were all able mounts from the look of it, strong and well-bred. Much like the ones Hullen had bred within the castle walls of Winterfell. If Jon knew anything about the Dothraki, it was that they knew horses better than anyone else could.
"Why did the Dothraki owe us these?" Jon said, facing Duncan's solemn silence. He knows, Jon thought, whatever it is. Jon Snow was no stranger to the Dothraki, of the horselords and their savage ways raiding settlements in the east. But what brought them here? Why the gift of horses?
"Your Grace," Illyrio turned to Viserys. Hands held together before him. "Inform the princess, I beg. Have the servants ready her gown."
Viserys Targaryen smirked in his own wild way. He swept his pale eyes over Jon Snow, lilac flashing with amusement, like he'd the throne itself. He nodded his head to Illyrio and turned away, rushing up the thick square steps.
Not a day had passed where Viserys did not gaze upon him with hatred. His uncle offered only frowns and remarks. None of which Jon made to heed. He knew a craven when he saw one.
"Dragon's do not cower before dogs," he had heard him say to Illyrio Mopatis. Yet when Jon saw Viserys, he did not see a dragon.
There were even times when he wanted to set Ghost on him, to watch him quiver. Jon had not missed the fear struck upon his face when Ghost had approached him… but there was no honour in that. Only the boy he was once would think such things.
Viserys Targaryen often talked of revenge, betrayal and Jon's mother, and his father. If the she-wolf had not tainted Prince Rhaegar at Harrenhal, there would have been no rebellion, and the Mad King would still sit the throne. Does he know of his father's madness? Jon had thought. He knew the saying as well as any other boy in the Seven Kingdoms. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.
But what did that mean for him?
There were times in Winterfell when he dreamt of finding his mother, with a Stark name and Ice in hand and the glory of the north behind him. So often that he could almost see her face, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.
Only now he knew his mother was dead. And he was a thousand leagues away from the rest of them. He saw them only in his dreams.
Each night when he slept in silk, he woke clad in swirling black armour, plate that was sealed against his skin. The sky was dark with blood and terror. The mud at his feet littered with red gore. He was fighting the Battle of the Trident. Beside the father he had never known. Terror reigned around them; screams and cries, death and blood and broken banners. He slashed heads and arms and legs, man and horse and beast, with a sword alive with light. For every man that he fell, their visor soon shattered and reveal those he loved. Robb and Ned and Arya, Bran and Sansa and even little Rickon. Their eyes haunting him, watching. But his sword would not leave his hand, no more than the dreams would, no matter how much he tried. Until all he could do was scream.
Then he would wake. His skin cold and clammy, shivering in the darkness of his chambers. Ghost would always leap up beside him, and he would go back to sleep with his face pressed into the warm white fur. He had told no one.
Does Arya still think me a brother? He wondered as he watched the horses take their place. Was she ever my sister? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard's motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy.
And what of Robb? Does he still think me his brother? They had never left each other's sides. They had trained together every morning since they were old enough to know how. But Robb would one day have Winterfell, that was the shadow that always loomed over them, when Jon would have nothing. He was the son of the enemy.
Duncan had once told him that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, and that was the truth.
He feared what was to become of him. Yet he still remembered what Eddard had told him. There was no shame in fear, and what matters is how we face it.
Whilst Viserys promised death to Baratheon and Lannister and Stark, when he took back the realm they had stolen from him. Jon knew it was not Stark who killed Rhaegar's children, nor his wife, it was not Stark who sacked the city and killed The Mad King, nor was it Stark who had assaulted Dragonstone and forced them into exile. Stark had lied to his own wife; his children and his king and his vassals, and all of it to protect him, a Targaryen.
But Jon knew he could never go back. He may dream of them, but this was his life now.
Duncan turned to face him. The sun lit his eyes more purple than blue. "Tonight Daenerys will be presented to the Khal," he said in a strict tone. He threw a saddle over the horses back. His hands sure and experienced. "There will be a feast, and there Viserys will offer his marriage proposal."
He had not yet exchanged words with the princess, only glances. Though as queer as that seemed, he did not know what to say to her. She often looked sad, solemn, as if she wished to be elsewhere. Like a single word would break her. "A marriage proposal to a khal?" He asked.
"Yes. Khal Drogo. He is said to have a hundred thousand men in his khalasar," Duncan said simply. "A lie, most like. Yet it is still an army for Viserys. One he has the money buy."
And he only need sell his own sister, Jon thought bitterly.
His thoughts returned to Daenerys. Her silver hair, pale as her skin, and those deep violet eyes. She always kept them on her toes, those eyes, she was, she was… young. Duncan had named her nigh on four-and-ten.
"This proposal means only a betrothal?" Jon said. "The marriage will not be for years yet?" He tried to imagine selling Sansa to a barbarian, to the wildings beyond the wall. He could never. Shame ran through him at the thought, even after what he had already done to them. Though he doubted Sansa would take notice his absence.
"Your way is not the way of it here, Jon. Daenerys is a woman-flowered. Should Drogo find her suitable, the marriage will take place within the moon."
And I thought your place was to protect her, Jon thought. A sellsword took no oaths, Jon thought resentfully. He had not taken Duncan for a sellsword at first. The man spoke and read and wrote like he was highborn, fought like a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but the more Jon watched the more he spotted the rough edges.
Jon Snow, a bastard, pitied Daenerys Targaryen. He felt the need to do what was right. "And I suppose she has no say in this offer?" He said as they watched the horses being lead to the stables.
Duncan sighed. His eyes lowered for a moment, before he said. "Do half the highborn girls in the Seven Kingdoms ever want their marriages? Ask yourself that, Jon. Did Ned Stark wed the Tully out of love? Did Robert Baratheon wed the Lannister out of his own choice?"
"No," Jon said sternly. "It's not the same, not like home."
Duncan slowly shook his head and said. "It isn't. But you are not in Westeros anymore, Jon Snow."
Duncan turned his back on him, slapped the brown ample leather of the saddle, tugged the reins and pulled his courser towards the stables. Leaving Jon alone, with dust in his hair and eyes.
It was still wrong, he knew, but what could he do? Steal her away from this marriage? She knew him no more than she knew this Khal Drogo, she would never leave her brother.
Ghost licked at his hand. Jon looked down and smiled. The horses had gone, their whickering's lost to the sounds of the city beyond the walls and the wind shaking the leaves above him. Ghost would only unsettle them if he came near. Even the servants of the manse were not yet comfortable with the presence of a direwolf.
He ruffled Ghost's ears and led him across the courtyard. The dust had been swept away by the wind, the sweat cooled on his brow, and the Unsullied guards back into their usual positions. Unmoving. With narrow eyes and straight faces. He found Illyrio Mopatis stood at the base of the stairs, shouting orders to a servant.
He noticed Jon approach and waved the servant away. "You never told me the princess was to be wed." Jon said, before the magister could speak.
Illyrio shrugged the matter away. "You never asked." He eyed Ghost cautiously, then looked to Jon. "You are shocked? The wedding is not yet; our Drogo must see her first. And like her. The Dothraki make demands and we obey. We have even given the Khal his very own manse, set beside the waters of the bay."
The Dothraki lived upon their sea, Jon knew. In their houses made of grass and mud. But the magisters were ever courteous to guests of their city.
And ready with daggers to pierce them should things turn awry.
The magister began to cross the yard, hands pressed by his side. Jon slowly followed. "The Free Cities are always generous with the horselords," Illyrio told him. "It is not that we fear these barbarians. The Lord of Light would hold our city walls against a million Dothraki, or so the red priests promise…"
Jon had little care for what they promised.
Illyrio stopped and grinned. His teeth were still as rotten as the first time he ever saw them. "Yet why take chances, when their friendship comes so cheap?"
Jon shrugged his shoulders. "I should like to attend the feast, then."
He expected resistance. The fat magister shook his head. "No, no, you will stay. His Grace will not want you. I can have food and wine readied in your chambers, and a bedwarmer perhaps? The blond-haired wench? Yes. You stay."
There were times when Jon wondered who the magister truly served. Does he think I can be bought away? "No." Jon said sternly. Perhaps it was Ghost who offered him the courage to say so.
The magisters gaze sharpened. His very black eyes seemed to sweat. He watched him for a moment and said. "The Dothraki are not ones of courtesy. I cannot so easily ensure your safety in their company."
Illyrio met his eyes and went on, smiling sheepishly. "If you are to attend the feast, it will be so with protection."
"I don't need the-"
Illyrio shook his head. "You forget yourself, Jon. Know I will not hesitate to have my guards confine you to your chambers, if I must. Have Duncan's two sellswords. But you go with a guard; or not at all."
For a moment, he felt like a boy again. Ghost padded forward. It would do him no good to argue, he knew, not truly. He placed a foot before the direwolf, stopping him. "Then I will go with a guard." He said hesitantly. As the words fell from his mouth, they sounded like they were not his. A bastard never had guards, no more than he had a claim.
Illyrio himself knows them as barbarians, he thought strangely, yet he arranged this marriage. A princess, she was, of House Targaryen, blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror, yet Jon had never once heard of this Drogo.
If she weds the horselord, he thought as the magister turned away, she will leave Pentos.
Jon watched the magister ascended the steps, surprisingly elegant despite all the roles of fat that shook as he walked. Heat danced along his brow. He wiped away the sweat with a hand and turned the corner of the courtyard, towards the stables.
Marys Ormos stood beside the wooden posts of the stable, stroking the long brown neck of a horse. He was dressed in thin ivy silks and a long green cloak that swept across the cobbles, dirty from sand and dust.
The horse suddenly leapt in fear. Whinnying and jerking backwards in a sudden fright. Marys turned, his large eyes-wide and shouted. Suddenly the stable erupted into chaos. "Your beast!" He pointed a finger at Ghost. "Take it away!"
The sellsword gripped the horses reins and held him tight. His arms were thick and strong and matted with sweating brown hair, his chest full and muscular, and he was taller by a half than anyone Jon had ever seen. Perhaps even Hodor, the dim-witted stable boy in Winterfell.
"Ghost!" Jon said, he turned and ran, leading the wolf away.
For a moment he was gone, back in Winterfell. Dressed in a quilted leather coat in place of his silk tunic. And Robb stood facing him. They would always train together, since they were big enough to walk.
"I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back. "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or, "I'm the Young Dragon."
It was gone as quick as it had come. Once Jon found a shaded area, out of sight of the stables he set Ghost down, frowning all the while.
"Ghost, stay." He said, a hand rubbing over his tall white ears. "Do you understand me? Stay." The direwolf cocked its head and stared at him.
Jon smiled and brought down his hand. "Good. I'll come back, just wait for me here."
He could feel the blood-red eyes on him as he made his way back to the stables. Part of him was pained to leave Ghost behind, alone. Where no one else dared to go near him. His hands were suddenly clammy and sweating, and so he wiped them across his tunic. He would need to change into something else before long.
When he returned the stable had settled, and each of the horses has drifted back into the shadows of their stalls. Away from the sun, he thought. Marys was down on knees, washing his hands in a bucket of dirtied water.
"I'm to join you at the feast tonight." Jon announced when he was stood before him. Illyrio was right, Duncan's two sellswords were the best choice for guards. Whenever he paid visit to Duncan's chambers to jest and drink and laugh, the two of them were there, offering tales of their life as a sellswords. Though Aerar was much more reluctant, he spoke of his time in Qohor across different sellsword companies, whilst Marys boasted of his long lost lover.
Marys splashed one arm with water, snorted and then the other. "So you are," he said in his thick accent.
Jon watched him for a moment before he said. "Magister Illyrio forced the decision-"
He went to go on before he noticed Marys staring back at him blankly. He cares not for what I have to say. He's a sellsword. And not just as tall as Hodor, Jon thought bitterly, he's as simple too.
"Choose a horse, then," Marys stood suddenly, thrashing his arms clean. "You must need one. The king and his princess will go by palanquin, but not us. Unless you would like to walk down those paths."
Those paths, Jon hated those paths.
In the end he tried six of the ten horses that they had brought back with them. All the way from Khal Drogo's nine-towered manse-by-the-sea. With each one Marys stood by the stables, arms folded and legs crossed, and watched.
The first two were both grey coursers, strong and sure. He could only go as far as the courtyard to test them. There was little and less space to ride a horse in Illyrio Mopatis' manse. All the while servants gaped at him as they passed, and he even caught the hard-faced eunuchs gazing at him for a moment, before they turned away to stand sentry like pointy-hatted statues.
"You ride good," Marys said when he was on the fifth horse, a chestnut palfrey. "But I ride gooder."
I was taught in Winterfell, he almost said to him. Instead he broke a smile. "Gooder? Do you mean better?"
"I will show you, one time."
He eventually decided on the fourth horse that he had tried, when the sun was setting over the city and oil lamps had been lit to keep the manse alight. The courser was a formidable brown, swift as the wind, he felt like he was riding Ranger once again, galloping around the courtyard of Winterfell.
When he had taken up the task of changing the saddle – for Dothraki saddles were too flat to be comforting - the nearby servants brushed him away and said. "Let us, my lord. It is an honour."
Jon knew there was no honour in changing a saddle. But the sun had set and the night overhead, and he had need to change his sweat-stained clothes. "You have my thanks," he told them as courteously as he could before he ascended the steps into the manse, Ghost back on his heels.
He preferred the nights like these. When the oil maps were lit across the manse, shooting the gardens alight with golden light, the pond and the cherry trees that stood sentinel in the courtyard. All in silence. It reminded him of the solitude of the godswood. He preferred when the halls were warm, like Winterfell's hot springs, and outside the night air was cool. He could sit upon the balcony of his chambers and listen to the red priests praise their night fires. He could see the servants at their duties, going about with smiles. When all was well.
Then he remembered the magister.
He found himself thinking on the magisters words, his objections. He had stayed his manse for nigh on a moon's turn, walking the archways, the gardens, he knew it as well as Winterfell.
They have their own plans, he had said the night they feasted together, ready and prepared. Is this what the magister meant? A wedding? He was sure there were many things Illyrio Mopatis had planned. Plans he did not reveal to others. He had seemed a savior for him, a home, but now Jon could only mistrust every word he spoke.
When he came upon his chambers, he found fresh garb draped out upon his bed. With it all a sword. The tunic was freshly-made woolen, with a splendid scarlet dragon embroidered upon the chest. An exact likeness to Viserys' own. He fears me angering Viserys, yet offers this?
His turned his attention to the sword. Servants had lit the many torches and candles of his chambers, and so the black metal of the scabbard shined, etched with silver and gold. Jon had never seen the sort before. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, soft and supple leather, and pulled the sword free.
The blade hissed through the air. Like the very steel was alive, sharp, menacing. When the torchlight hit both edges they glistened their sharpness. The sound of clashing swords filled his ears. Suddenly the scar on his side itched terribly.
Jon raised the steel to his eyes. Fresh forged, he noticed, this is from Illyrio.
He looked across his chamber and spotted his own sword, the one he had brought from Winterfell. It was sheathed in hardened brown leather, not the elegant gold or silver. The pommel was an ordinary iron stud, rusting and marked in places. Not like the snarling dragon's head that had been fashioned onto the pommel of this blade, shining, with crimson garnets set for eyes.
Jon swept the sword back into its ornate sheath and tossed it onto the bed, beside the woolen tunic emblazoned with a dragon. The dragon was not his sigil, he thought stubbornly, nor was the direwolf. The gods are looking down at me and laughing.
He crossed the chamber and found one of his own tunics. In truth it was not his at all but another gift from Illyrio. But little did it matter what he wore, so long as it was not sweat-stained, tonight he would stay to the shadows. He wrapped his sword belt around his waist and attached his Valyrian steel dagger. He mustn't forget that, he never knew when he would have need of it.
After he had put on his polished boots, Ghost watching him all the while from his perch upon the bed, he attached a cloak of black wool to his shoulders and made for the courtyard.
The manse seemed empty, or as empty as it could ever be. Empty of servants and sound as he went. Naught but his own shadow kept him company as he descended to the main gate. He had left Ghost within his chambers, the company of a direwolf would do little but insight violence amongst the Dothraki.
When he stepped out into the night the cold air hit him full in the face. Relief swept over him. They were colder unlike the days. The elaborately calved palanquin was already passing under the shadow of the open gates. Whilst behind trailed Duncan and Jon's two guards, all mounted upon one of the steeds they had brought.
Jon found his own brown courser and caught them further down the road. The loud clanking of the cobbles gave him away. The moon was high over Pentos, and the streets dark. The further they went the narrower the roads became.
"You should have heeded Illyrio's words," Duncan said when Jon came trotting beside him. His eyes looked neither blue nor purple, but black. "This is no feast, but a mummer's farce."
"I did heed his words," Jon looked behind him, at Marys and Aerar. "And all the same, you are here." Jon said simply, staring forward at the dozen servants hoisting the palanquin. He pitied them, as he pitied Daenerys Targaryen. But what could he do? Strike the collar from every slave in Pentos?
He brought his eyes back to Duncan, who was silent, brooding. From inside the palanquin Illyrio's voice boomed. Laughing, jesting. Loud and irritating.
"You have my men to watch over you," Duncan said calmly. "But only for tonight. The Dothraki do not stay in one place. Once the wedding is done, Daenerys must needs travel to Vaes Dothrak and present herself to the crones." He scratched at his bare chin and said. "The dosh khaleen."
"You know them well?" Jon said as they turned the corner. The palanquin was too large and the street too narrow, made from buildings too crooked and taverns that thrust forward their gable. They reined their horses as the servants stopped and began to turn the palanquin around.
"There is little to know," Duncan told him. "Should Daenerys cross the Dothraki Sea, so will her brother. As sure as sunrise."
But if they had already wed, Viserys had his army. That much they had discussed earlier. "Why not stay here?" Jon asked, just to see what he would say.
"I know the Dothraki settle debts in their own time. It may be months before the Khal is ready to fight for him, perhaps a year. Viserys would not spare that much time. He would not risk losing an army and a sister, and a crown."
Jon nodded his head, understanding. "Do you think the Dothraki could win him the Iron Throne?" He asked quietly, the palanquin was moving again. He feared the answer, but he had to know what he would say. "If they crossed the narrow sea? They would need a fleet."
"Only a fool would meet the Dothraki in open battle," Duncan said as they tapped their knees and began to follow the rest of them. "Perhaps Robert is fool enough. Drunk on his lost glory. I heard the king has grown fat in his throne, did you perchance get a good look of him when he came upon Winterfell?"
Jon nodded his head. Robert Baratheon had looked nothing like a king, and he was a great disappointment to Jon. Eddard had had talked of him often; the peerless Robert, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior in the realm, a giant among princes. Jon had seen only a fat man, red-faced under his beard and sweating through his silks.
Duncan scratched his chin and continued. "But the king has a council, and so each lord would hide behind their castle walls with their armies, waiting. The Dothraki have no siege weapons, nor the knowledge to make them. Whilst the lords manned their walls with men at arms and gathered their stores, the Dothraki would spend their invasion raping and pillaging the smallfolk, and what sort of king would that make Viserys?"
The answer seemed so clear. He felt a boy for even asking.
"Then why the marriage, the alliance?" Jon said in a desperate attempt. The more he understood, the less sense it made. Duncan ignored him and carried trotting forward, his long blue cloak billowing behind, seeming black as midnight sea.
They crossed street after street, lantern after lantern and whorehouse after whorehouse until Khal Drogo's nine-towered manse loomed over them. Its high brick walls were overgrown with pale ivy. It was as tall as the great keep of Winterfell.
The palanquin was stopped at the gate. Jon watched as a house guard pulled back the heavy drapes. He had copper colored skin and dark almond shaped eyes, but his face was hairless and he wore the same spiked cap of the Unsullied in Illyrio's manse.
He eventually waved them through the gates, after growling words with the magister in a rough foreign tongue.
The Dothraki tongue. They finally came to stop at the entrance of the manse. The dozen strong servants carrying the palanquin all seemed to release their breath at once. Poor fellows, he thought as he dropped from his horse. Suddenly a dozen slaves came running from the shadows.
They had collars like the rest, collars of an ordinary bronze. He spotted Daenerys been helped down from the palanquin, whilst Viserys glared the slaves away and followed her. Tall and straight and mean as he ever was.
Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. Slaves escorted them across the entry hall, with Illyrio and the Viserys leading their retinue. The magister held one of his smiles for all to see, whilst Jon knew his own expression was grim. He stayed beside Duncan, watching lights and shadows dance across the cold features of his face.
A mosaic of colored glass spread across the walls. Fire and dragons, the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black lanterns all around them. This was a manse more exquisite than Illyrio's.
Stood beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming. "Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of his Name," his voice was sweet and high. "King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."
He said nothing about Jon or the rest of them. The eunuch only eyed them as they passed, stammering and blinking. Jon looked away.
The pillared courtyard was overgrown with pale ivy, just like all the walls were. The moonlight from the outside shot the leaves in shades of bone and silver, as the guests drifted below them.
Jon took the time to watch. Many were big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black oiled hair braided and hung with bells. The Dothraki horselords, he realized. Yet among them moved sellswords and smaller men, perhaps from Pentos or Myr or Tyrosh, there was a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords of the Summer Isles with skin as dark as night. Jon stared in wonder.
Until Marys suddenly gripped his arm tightly, urging him backwards. Only then did Jon remember the guards he had been given. "Come," he said in his gruff voice.
His guard led him to a dais, where a trestle table laid long and empty. Jon sat himself on the end, away from the rest, in the shadows. Duncan settled beside him, the frustration still stark clear upon his face. Servants brought them food and drink, but he did not eat. His hands remained by his side or upon his knees. He regretted his coming, until finally he turned to find Illyrio stood beside Viserys and his sister.
"Those three are Drogo's bloodriders, there." Jon heard him say. He followed his fat finger as it pointed. "By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind is Ser Jorah Mormont."
Mormont?
Jon could scarcely believe it. What was a Mormont of Bear Island doing here? In Pentos?
Then he suddenly remembered, as Illyrio went on to explain. "The Usurper wanted his head. Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night's Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel."
An oathbreaker, Jon thought stubbornly. He felt like Eddard's honour was shamed, and an even more shameful need to protect it.
"He's wrong," Jon said suddenly, the words had leapt from his mouth, the anger in his heart.
Only Duncan heard, though, as the man turned to face him with narrow eyes.
Jon pointed a finger and said. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. He's here."
Duncan glanced over his shoulder, as the knight was exchanging words with a copper skinned man. "Yes. You'll find more Westerosi knights here than you would expect. What of it?"
An outlaw, he wanted to say. When he caught word of Ice coming to greet him he abandoned his home and his House, yet now he still wears the likeness of a sigil upon his tunic. The black bear stood on two legs. "A northerner. One of Eddard's bannermen. He was-"
"The last I heard of him was when he won the tourney at Lannisport, against Jaime Lannister," Duncan spoke fervently. He lifted his cup to his lips and drank hard.
More men filled his gaze, until he could no longer see Ser Jorah Mormont. Perhaps that was best. He had promised silence for tonight. Jon turned back to the magister, only to find that he was gone. Instead he saw Viserys standing beside his sister, whispering into her hair, his fingers clamped around her arm like iron shackles. Digging.
The music was too loud, the talking and the laughing and feasting. He could not hear what they were saying. But he could see where they were staring.
The man was a head taller than the tallest man in the room. His skin was the colour of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings. Illyrio stood before him, his head bowed, ever graceful. He had never seemed so small.
The Khal, Jon realized. Suddenly his face seemed harder, crueler, but he looked all a warrior. His braid was black as midnight and slick with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs.
Jon was not familiar with the meaning of their braids. Until he turned and saw that Duncan had been watching him. "When the Dothraki are defeated in combat," he said, "they cut off their braids in disgrace, so all will know their shame." Jon stared back at him, whilst Duncan carried on watching. "The Khal has never known defeat."
He looked towards the Khal once again. A man without defeat is a man without fear.
Then he saw the princess, in the shadows, with tears welling in her eyes. Viserys stood beside her still, his face angered and hand still wrapped tight around her skin.
He had promised not to anger Viserys, he had promised. His honour was his word. But what was his honour if he did nothing?
Jon turned his gaze, for mere a moment, readying himself to stand, his fists clenching. But when he looked again the Khal was upon them, with Illyrio Mopatis stood beside him.
Daenerys Targaryen was smiling.
THE SULLEN SWORD
His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, yanking furiously. Fight, a voice said, like a song in his head. Steel sang. A flash in the air. And all of a sudden he was being hauled over the small oaken trestle table.
Darkness clouded him, like a cloth suddenly thrown over his eyes. It had been dark before, the cabin they were in, but not black. Not nothing.
Pain shot through his leg, blood smeared his face. Marys felt his nose break as he crashed against the wooden wall. He fell through parchments and ink pots, through a squat wooden chair and the jars of tourmaline that had decorated the table and the shelves. His head spun wildly.
Then it all stilled. The blood on face fell steadily against the leather of his jerkin, dripping from his brow, mixed with the song of waves from beyond the window. His nose was numb and his eyes were open. His sword still in hand. Fight, he reminded himself.
He stood to the sound of a scream as Aerar buried his sword into a man's chest, further along the cabin. Three of them were coming at him, through the open door, and he was alone. He needs me. He had already slit the throat of the man who had thrown him, he saw. A craven move, Marys thought, to throw me. And a stupid one at that. He steadied himself upon the black brick wall and gathered his breath.
Then he leapt. Over the broken table, his feet cracking the oak, shattering the ruined tourmaline. May the red god protect me. He forgot his pain and thrust his sword into the back of a sellsword. Blood leapt towards him as he dug further, like the breath of a dragon, reddening his blade. The hooded man gasped his last breath, his sword clattering to the floor.
Marys wretched his sword free with a groan, and the man dropped to the swaying oak of the ship. To join the dead. Though there was little time for Marys to watch, for as sudden as a storm another sword was on him, the sellsword bursting through the broken cabin door with anger in his deep black eyes. Black like burning pits. The smell of blood filled his broken nose.
The man thrust his sword at him, groaning, aiming for his chest. Marys parried the strike. Steel scraped against steel. Their steel, or was it that behind him? He couldn't know. He couldn't turn, though he knew Aerar fought beside him.
Pain stabbed at his legs once again. Blood ran further down his brow, dripping down over his eye to scatter red upon his chin. His back met the wall, there was nowhere else for him to go. Not now. The sellsword moved closer and closer. He is weary. His longsword gleamed in the light, grinning Marys in the face.
Then wood and steel flew through the air and an axe buried itself in his opponent's side, pierced through leather and wool and skin. Aerar's axe, he realized. Relief flooded him. Marys dodged a lazy strike, gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and thrust.
The sellsword had fallen to his knees in shock, as blood crept from the axe buried in his side, as his longsword laid bare before him. As he died. He stared up to meet his eyes, and Marys' blade pierced easily the dark skin of his neck. Ripping through flesh. The wound seemed to whimper, but he would not stop. Marys pushed further, both hands upon the hilt, until he could no more. The man chocked desperately. Blood slid from his neck like a river of red. His beady eyes shut and he fell to join the rest of them.
Marys pulled his sword free, the taste of blood in his mouth.
Silence filled the air, the floor littered with four dead and the grave of broken parchment and ornament. This was a merchant's ship; the galley was three levels itself. Aerar approached him, careful not to step on the bodies of the dead. He wiped the blood from his face. "Two escaped." He said in a tired voice.
Marys sniffed in air, and in reply his nose screamed in pain. He had forgotten it was broken. One moment the pain was so near, and then it was not. "Then they are lost," Marys replied in Bastard Valyrian, "We have done all that was ordered."
He stared across the captain's cabin of the ship. The wooden trestle table flipped upon its side, the chair broken in three pieces, the pots littered across the floor like water. All blood-stained.
Aerar pulled his hand axe free of the body, the sound of steel pulled from flesh forced a wince from his lips. "Until those two are dead," the small man said as he wiped his axe across a scrap of cloth, "we are not done. They cannot go far from the bay, I wounded one of them. We should find them before the ceremony's end."
Before Duncan finds us. The words went unspoken, but Marys knew what he meant.
Their captain was beyond the walls of Pentos, where forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves had raised their palaces of woven grass. Where Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo under the open sky.
And though he was forgiving, they did not seek to disappoint him.
Aerar sheathed his hand axe and stepped carefully over the fallen sellsword, his feet moving aside from the blood gathering upon the wood. For he often polished his boots till they gleamed, and himself even more often than that. He was too clean for sellsword, Marys thought. His head was shaved but for the thick bristly line that ran down the center, the brown hair soon turning into a short braid that leant upon his back. He had never before seen it any different.
Marys followed him out of the room, his longsword held out beside him. Perhaps the men had not gone far at all, he feared. Mistakes like those could get you killed.
They descended a well of close-kept stairs, moving in a spiral. Such was a rarity in a galley, he knew, but this was the Lady's Bloom. A merchant's ship, grand and isolated from the regular stock. For that he was thankful, for the ship was empty but for the few of them. Even the sounds of their footsteps echoed through the ship, through empty cabins and polished oaks. We have butchered it, bled it.
The rhythm of their footsteps broke in his ears when their boots met cloth. White cloth from hammocks. Hammocks that were split from their straps and strewn across the floor. The room was as black as pitch, with the only the distant light from atop the stairwell shooting narrow streaks before them. Else wise he would not be able to see at all.
Marys took careful steps forward, his gaze shifting. Weary. He had always been weary of the dark, since he was a child in narrow streets of Pentos. And so was Aerar at that, it seemed, for even in the blackness he could sense the same fear lingering between them. There's nothing here but hammocks and ourselves, he assured himself, but the blackness carried on enveloping him.
A shadow shifted.
Marys spun on his heels. Waves lapped against the boat from beneath them. His broken nose was full with blood. It was not a shadow that moved, but the shadows themselves. The shadow of the deck. Suddenly the room felt darker, colder. The silence screamed in his ears, louder than a thousand swords all meeting at once.
Then a swirling shadow went from black to gray to white, unfurling in a glistening twist, like the blade of a arakh. A claw.
A claw made of steel.
It leapt for his leg. And all of a sudden the pain returned, though even worse than before. It's a sword, he thought, and it has cut me. Only then did he remember that he held his own in his right hand. Blood welled upon his leg, through sliced leather. He went to move, but it was too late. Another steel shadow came towards him, to his face. An iron-studded fist slammed him in the jaw, and suddenly his head was laid against hammock.
My nose and now my jaw, he thought. He fingered the broken skin there and felt nothing.
Aerar leaped past him, a charge of glistening steel and determination. The room was clearer now, the blackness swept away, he could see. The steel shadows were two men, two sellswords clad in iron and sailors leather. They had not left the ship, he thought.
His leg screamed in agony, jolting him. Blood from his brow fell to join the blood from his jaw. He sniffed it all through a broken nose as he leant up. Aerar was alone, defending him, the clashing of their swords rang true in his ears. He's a better fighter than me, Marys thought to himself, he reached for his sword and grasped the hilt with deft hands.
He was such a large man, and strong, even Duncan had said so. Why had he fallen? Why was he suddenly so weak?
As he pressed to lift himself from the floor, arms weak, leg throbbing, vision dazed by blood, a scream met his ears. A soft spray of blood suddenly leapt across his face, like warm rain. Aerar, he thought, if they had taken him then he was next. But then a weight fell upon his legs, crushing them even further. The lifeless body of a man in iron and leather, he saw, blood gushing from a wound where his nose had been.
Marys gripped the body by the shoulders and pulled, but his arms were weak and the body did not move easily. He felt as if his jaw hung loosely by a thread, and found himself staring at the bloodied gauntlet upon the man's hand. Curse him, he thought.
Then another hand grasped the gauntlet, black sodden leather, and the body was pulled away. Though his legs felt no different for it. Aerar lay the sellsword under a white hammock, the least courtesy he could offer, and came to kneel before him, face bloody, a wound stretching across his brow.
"Your face," Aerar said, his voice unsure. His eyes scanning. And curse you too, Marys thought, though he could not voice it aloud. They shared a moment of silence, with blood and death all around them, and then he felt hands under his shoulders and suddenly he was standing.
"The horses are in the bay," he said as they hobbled towards a row of stairs leading into the night air. The white hammocks that had been stretched upon the floor were stained red. The bodies of the men buried beneath them. Someone will find them, he thought, and Illyrio's name will protect us.
This was supposed to be a simple deal of debts, and not bloody. Though Marys imagined Illyrio would be satisfied either way.
He dropped his head, watching his feet hobble deftly across the floor. His breeches were split and blooded and muddy, though his boots had only suffered a stain.
Aerar was struggling with his weight. "We're nearly there," he said suddenly, through gasps, "hold on." Marys could not think how long it had been. The night air hit him in the face, and his wounds burst aflame.
Yet he saw lantern light through watery eyes. The pain stung him. The bay was mostly empty though, that he knew from the sounds of creaking cogs and lapping waves meeting his ears, and not the sound of sailors. Sailors would only rouse suspicion.
Their horses had been bound at the entrance of the secluded bay, not the very Bay of Pentos. He knew they were the close when he heard the sounds of them whinnying. Aerar carried him over, his breath heavy, Marys was not a small man to move. He would have need to thank him when he could. He gripped the reins of his own mount - Fleet, he had named him - until the leather burned against his palm. The weight on his legs made his eyes water even more so, until Aerar hefted him upwards onto the saddle.
The horse was restless, the thick of smell of blood reaped only fear. He tried to straighten himself, to offer more control, but found he could only slant or scream. Aerar cut the bounding rope and the horse went wild. The stars swept in a circle above him, the ground rose up to kiss him, and all went black.
For a moment, the pain fell away like water and he glowed in his red god's blessed flames. As if he was watching over himself from another's eyes. Floating in a blazing darkness. Marys lived days old and time's long past, of Vaera and sharp knives and burning blood. Screams that shook him.
He woke to the sound of voices.
Fire streamed into his eyes. Blinding him. Light, he thought as he murmured through cracked lips, torchlight. Was he still dreaming?
"You're awake," a voice said from beside him, a familiar voice. Those like he had heard in his dream. Suddenly the torchlight dimmed, he blinked and blinked and blinked again, and over his head loomed the boy, Jon Snow.
He stared down at him with clueless grey eyes. His face half etched with concern and half wonder. His attire was an embroidered black jerkin, stiff of collar, that stuck to his frame like sweat. The wedding, he remembered. Marys wanted to growl at him, to say anything, but his own mouth could not summon the words. All that left his lips was a whimper.
The boy turned and made for the door. They had set him upon a trestle table, he saw, over furs and leather stained in crimson. Marys looked down at his body, his jerkin had been ripped from him, as were his breeches, with the only the sodden remains of his underclothes stretched across his skin.
He could remember falling from astride his horse, his head hitting the stone. The thought made him laugh, well, in his mind's eye. He had grown atop the cobbles of this city, he would be damned if they were things that killed him.
He found a black poultice stretched long across his leg, dressed in white bandages stained with blood. A shadow, he remembered, a moving shadow made of steel. The wound suddenly itched in pain.
Then he looked all around him. The chambers were marble and grand, with paintings and gold, shining from the torchlight. The Illyrio sort, he thought, he knew where he was.
The iron door suddenly screamed open. He turned his head to see Duncan and Aerar approaching him. His captain came as if eager to see if his wounds were real, whilst Aerar lingered behind. Marys tried to raise; he had never thought himself a man of weakness, but instead he only gasped.
Duncan settled beside him, looking him up and down with those narrow violet eyes. "How do you feel?" He asked, his voice was surprisingly calm.
Marys flashed his eyes at Aerar, and mumbled. He could not speak for himself. "He was caught across the jaw," Aerar said, leaning against the white marble wall. His brow was marked with a bloody scar. "The healer said it would be a while before he could speak again."
Duncan was silent for a moment before he said. "Should I be thankful or disappointed?"
Marys tried to offer a grin.
"But he still listens well-enough," Duncan smiled, staring between both of them. "So hear me now. Daenerys has wed the horselord, and come the morn they will leave the city."
He had warmed them of this. Once the princess had wed Drogo, they would put Pentos behind them. The Dothraki stayed no homes, planted no trees, every man knew that, they raped and pillaged and wrought only terror. This little girl had become their queen.
He knows that as well as I do, Marys thought as his captain went on.
"When they break camp, we will follow. Drogo will offer us his hospitality." Duncan nodded his head in knowing and said. "Viserys will not wait for them to return to him, he will go to Vaes Dothraki, go wherever they take him. He's desperate. That I will use to sway the magister of my reasons."
Duncan is sworn to The Beggar King, Marys thought. Aerar stepped towards them, his arms folded. "Sway him? If Viserys goes Illyrio knows you would follow. There's no need-"
Duncan shook his head. "But I am not leaving because of Viserys." He interrupted. His eyes were wide with the seriousness of his words. "Not truly. The boy, Jon, he needs protection more so than Viserys. I will not leave him here. He must come with them."
Aerar unfolded his arms, leaning back against the wall. "And does Jon know of this?" The sellsword shrugged and stared his captain in the eye. "Viserys has no love for him, nor the girl I would think. What better does it do him?"
A familiar sadness returned to Duncan's eyes, one Marys was not a stranger too, for he often noticed it when the captain thought himself alone. It was a stare too long, a glance too solemn. He is a man of a terrible past, he reflected, a man with secrets.
"Illyrio would have him stay," Duncan said slowly. "I've heard his whispers, though he thinks me unaware. Words of a boat waiting at the Rhoyne and the city of Volantis, ready to depart once the Dothraki are clear of these walls. There is nothing in Volantis for that boy. He comes with me."
They stared at one another in a knowing silence, a silence that spoke treacherous words. What is there left to do?
Marys reached for his mouth. Finding two of his front teeth gone. Toothless, they will call me. His jaw was still numb, the skin felt taut and broken to the touch. And all the maidens will turn their head in disgust.
The candle guttered and darkness met his eyes.
Marys mumbled in agreement.
DAENERYS
"Khaleesi?"
Dany turned in her saddle. Jhiqui, she thought as the servant approached her. No. This one is Irri. They were all hers now, best she did not forget their names. She had never thought herself forgetful, yet there was so much she could not remember.
She had spent her wedding ceremony atop a mound of mud, a place of high honour, watching her brother's face, watching Duncan whisper to Jon Snow. That was before she was given the three dragon eggs, old as eons and white and black and green, from then on her thoughts were unchanging.
Dany looked back into the sky. The day had dawned bright and golden over Pentos, yet the wind still twisted her silver hair in tousles over her face. Her brother had awoken her with harsh words and a desperate tone, whilst her lord husband had gathered his bloodriders to watch the slaves dismantle their tents of strewn grass, for soon they would be leaving the city and crossing the Dothraki Sea.
Irri handed her a beautiful sandsilk cloak. Part of her bride gifts, she knew. "Thank you," Dany said, but the almond-eyed servant only stared flatly and turned away. She was still a stranger to their ways. Only the day before had they feasted on steaming joints of meat and Dothraki blood pies, a seething sea of Dothraki writhing beneath her as she was wed to their Khal. She was their queen and they shared no common language, not one of them spoke the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, and Dothraki was incomprehensible to Dany.
She tugged the cloak around her shoulders. "Jhiqui will teach you their tongue, Khaleesi." Ser Jorah Mormont said from beside her, as if he could sense her thoughts.
On the night her marriage was sealed to Khal Drogo, Jorah had sworn his sword to her brother, who had accepted eagerly. He was never reluctant to gain more swords of his own, Viserys. The knight had been their constant companion ever since.
Yet it was another knight they meant to seek out, and one far closer to Dany's heart. Duncan had agreed to meet them come the morn's early hours, yet when he had not shown panic had struck her, and Viserys too.
Her brother appeared from around her tent, already mounted atop a pale palfrey. It certainly paled when beside her silver, Dany saw, but she did not dare tell her brother that. All her life Viserys had called her a princess, but not until she rode her silver did she ever feel like one.
"That oaf was to meet us here," her brother said with malice in his voice. Duncan is not an oaf, she thought defensively, but Dany only kept her gaze upon the walls of the city before her, her lips sealed. Her brother had his army, yet he still insisted to travel with them to Vaes Dothrak. Daenerys did not think that Illyrio would agree to that.
Viserys growled and dug his heels, his horse whickering. He had crossed half the ridge before they made to follow. He will not leave without him, Dany knew, despite all the poison he seethes. if I commanded the Dothraki to wait, would they listen?
Ser Jorah rode steadily beside her upon his brown courser. His face stern and back straight. He was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly that there were none left for his head. Her thighs stung as she rode in the saddle. The blood of the dragon, she had called herself, she could not let fear taint her.
She had almost forgotten about her khas until she turned to the sound of horses. Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo, following close behind her. She remembered their names for their fearsome faces. Upon their mounts they were all as fluid as centaurs. The khal had given them to her for protection, a ko to watch over her as the khalasar moved east.
The tall pale walls of the Pentos were ripe with guards, tall black spears poking above the ramparts. They fear the Dothraki, Dany thought as they rode through the streets, so they fear me too. No one had ever feared Daenerys Targaryen before, nor The Beggar King as they called her brother on the streets. But now she was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki to them, and not the girl she was.
They crossed through the gates in a horde and flooded past the market square. All those gathered before them moved aside. Men and women and children, crushing one another against the narrow walls enclosed by rows of buildings. Are we so frightening?
They were watching her. Each one of them. Dany would have told her brother to stop if she dared to, so she could look upon their faces and calm them, but her brother was riding ahead of her and the gruff men of her khas behind. She could not stop.
By the time they reached the manse of Magister Illyrio, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and weep.
"We dare not stay here long," Jorah said as they reined into the courtyard of the manse. If not for the eunuch guards lining the walls, they were alone. "A Dothraki trail is hard to miss, Khaleesi. Yet it is a great dishonor to not depart with the khal."
His words frightened her. She looked across her three Dothraki guards, still-faced with whips and daggers and arakhs hanging from their belts. "Then we shall not take long," she said.
"Your Grace!" A voice echoed in the wind, deep and booming.
Illyrio Mopatis stood at the height of the steps ahead of them. His garb one of velvet robes rather than thin trails of red silk he often adorned. He had not yet oiled his beard, she saw, so instead it shined a dull copper rather than gold. He descended the steps gracefully, smiling a mouthful of rotten teeth.
"My king," he bowed to her brother, high on his horse. Viserys twisted his features and snorted. "Where is Duncan?" he demanded. "Where is he?"
Illyrio seemed rather shocked at that. Daenerys did not believe his expression. She hardly believed any of the words he uttered. "Here, Your Grace. Yes. I believe you have come to join him." He waved a languid hand in the air. "As I have told you, all is settled. I have had the Khaleesi's things loaded in carts. The khal has promised you a crown, and soon you shall have it."
Her brother shook his head. But the magister went on. "Have the hospitality of my manse, Your Grace. For as long as you require," Illyrio looked at her khas. "Until the khal has led his procession across the east and presented his bride to the crones of the dosh khaleen. Yes, you have waited most of your life, great king. What is another few months, another few years?"
Ser Jorah cantered forward. Dany watched him, silent. "I counsel patience, Your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A less-"
"Guard your tongue, Mormont." Her brother bristled. "Or I'll have it out. I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not beg, nor will I wait."
Jorah Mormont lowered his eyes respectively, whilst Viserys lifted his chin high. Dany knew he had made his decision. "I will stay with Drogo until the debt is paid, until I have the crown I was promised." His pale lilac eyes narrowed. He was careful to use the Common Tongue, even so she found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain they had not overheard. "And if he tries to cheat me, he will learn to his sorrow what it means to wake the dragon."
Her brother laid a hand on his borrowed sword, whilst Illyrio only stared back at him. Blinking wildly.
"Then I wish you good fortune," the magister said, smiling a false smile.
He will not beg, Dany thought, but I will not be alone. The thought warmed her. Even so if her brother was foul company, he was company all the same. Duncan will come too, she remembered. A year this manse had been their home, their sanctuary from the Usurper's hired knives, and now they were leaving. For a moment there was only the sound of the wind brushing against her ears, all the rest was silence.
Until she heard horses.
Duncan galloped into the courtyard upon his grey courser. His long cerulean cloak stretched out behind him, flapping in the wind. He was dressed to ride, to leave with them. Slung from his saddle was his greatsword, sheathed in leather. Dany let a smile warm her face.
His two sellswords followed close behind, Silent and Sullen as Dany called them. Sullen's face was red and scarred, his jaw a mess of broken skin as if a single touch would break the flesh away. Even his brow was bloody, his posture slouched. She did not want to think on what had happened to him. Behind them all followed Jon Snow, who met her eyes as soon as she found him.
Dany could not stare long, she looked away and found crimson instead. A narrow red gaze belonging to the quiet white beast that prowled beside them. She felt as if she was still in a dream, a dream of howls and fire and blood. A chill crept along her skin. Dany turned to her brother.
Viserys had a gaze hard as stone. He watched them closely as they approached, his jaw set and a gloved hand still lingering upon the hilt of his sword. He had donned black this morn, Dany had noticed, and black is his mood.
But it was the magister she watched, for his face was beaten-red, even in the shade of the trees. Flushed. Like he was sweating under the weight of his own barbed-beard. Anger flashed in his beady eyes as Duncan reined beside them. Suddenly his smile was forgotten, Dany noticed, and the wrinkles on his face glared back at her like the rot of his teeth. He was shocked, truly, for the first time in the year she had known him.
He clenched his fat fists and settled his gaze upon her nephew.
"Viserys," Duncan said as he came beside them, though he did not spare them a look. His eyes were trained on Illyrio. "Wait for me at the gates."
Her brother looked between them, his lilac eyes flashing with amusement and anger. He will wake the dragon. Dany's heart quickened in her chest. I am not a khaleesi, she thought, I am scared little girl. Tears formed behind her eyes, waiting to break her.
But Viserys suddenly turned away, he listened, and she twisted her silver to follow, quick as she could. Their eyes watched her from behind. She wanted to keep going. To ride through the wide iron gates, through the cobbled streets of the city, over the sea and to the house with the red door. To a home.
She stopped beside her brother, under the shadow of the wide arch of stone that loomed over the gateway. The pathway into the courtyard had always been lined with tall pines of green leaves, but never before had they seemed so tall as they did now, so loud and frightening. Arthur had ordered Jon to wait for him too, she found, the bastard sat from his horse beside them staring at the Unsullied guards.
Illyrio had taken a step towards Duncan, who loomed high over him. Dany tried to make out what they were saying, but all she could hear was the wind.
Perhaps she could order one of her khas to listen for her, to be her ears. They would not order them away, Dany thought, but neither would the Dothraki understand. The khal himself uttered only a few words of the Bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, she doubted the rest of them could at all.
Instead she found herself thinking of her dragon eggs. Scales black as night, dancing with scarlet ripples and swirls. She had placed them back into their huge cedar chest, encased in velvets and damasks. She had watched as slaves loaded them onto a wagon, where they would stay as they crossed the Dothraki Sea.
Moments passed before she turned to face her brother, and she gathered the courage to speak. "What are they doing?" Dany asked in a timid voice. Illyrio Mopatis took a step closer to Duncan, her protector. Yet she still did not know what they were saying.
Viserys ignored her, he swept a glance at Jon and turned back. The taut lines of his face clenched. He knew but he would not tell her. Dany saw Jorah Mormont lower his head. "Whatever it is," he said solemnly. "They best hurry, the Dothraki will not wait long."
They will wait for me, Dany thought, and I will not leave without Duncan. She could not. Who else would protect her as he did? Her men watched her sternly with their dark brown eyes. Causing doubt to prick at her mind.
Illyrio took several steps back, graceful even in anger. She saw that it had ended. Dany let herself breathe again. Duncan suddenly yanked the reins of his horse and spun wildly, his thin blue cloak twisting and churning like a dragon's tail. Silent and Sullen followed him closely.
"Now we go," Duncan said when he was upon them. His face flushed with anger. He had dyed his hair the night before, she noticed, for there would be no Tyroshi dye on the way to Vaes Dothrak. Perhaps she would see the true colour of his hair once again.
"Khaleesi," one of her men said from behind. Dany could not tell which one, for each one of them sounded the same. Gruff and stern and thick, but she knew it was a question. They were waiting.
Oh, she thought. No one had ever waited for her before, she did not dare look at her brother. Instead Daenerys turned her silver. Her chin high, her violet eyes stern, sure in her saddle. She looked down upon the city from the manse and urged her silver forward.
The rest them followed without hesitation. Duncan upon his grey horse, Silent and Sullen and the three men of her khas, and even Jon Snow and his white wolf.
All of them but her brother.