JON
Jon's eyes swept over the plain, a vast expanse of tall grass stretching all the way to the horizon, rippling like waves when the wind blew. The air was thick with the smell of earth and horse and sweat. Jon swore he had seen these grasses in the north once, as he passed from Winterfell and down the White Knife, though admittedly not quite half as tall. The memories fade more with each day.
He stopped a moment upon his horse to take it all in. The others rode past him without a glance. I may never see this way again, he thought, half-frightened and half-relieved. There in the sun, Jon couldn't help but wonder if he would ever set a foot back on the soil of Westeros. Only the gods knew, but there were no gods here. None that Jon believed in.
It had been three whole moons since they had put the high walls of Pentos behind their heels, heading east towards Vaes Dothrak. By the first week, endless riding had him sweating to the bone. His thighs were chafed raw, and his legs cramped so much he could hardly walk upon a day's end.
Though it had not been long before his body had gotten used to it, the pain was fading from his memory even now. A 'green boy', Marys had called him, the loose red skin around his chin quivering with each word. That was what an iron fist to the mouth did for you. Yet the man had made the long journey through the Dothraki Sea once before in his life, and regaled Jon with mismatched tales of the lands around them as they passed.
Jon could not deny the beauty of it all. He had only ever known Winterfell in his life, its grey granite walls, the godswood. Even White Harbor had been astounding to him. The far east, though, he knew only in stories. Tales and learnings from old books in Winterfell's library tower.
Here, at the head of Drogo's khalasar, he had seen it all first hand. They had passed terraced farms and rolling hills in Norvos, townsfolk staring down at them from white stucco walls. He had seen tree trunks as wide as city gates in the Forest of Qohor, where they had ridden under a sky of golden leaves for half a moon. Men spoke of spotted tigers in that wood, and great elk, Jon had even joined a hunt or two, but to no end.
The further they rode, the lesser the land became, in Jon's eyes. They had been following a narrow path made of mud for near a month, with nothing but tall green grass all around them and the warm sun bearing down from above.
Staring back down the long-twisted path, he heard Viserys scoff aloud. Duncan was in his ear, most like telling him should he prattle any longer, the Dothraki were like to take his tongue. Viserys was miserable out here. He should have never come. No matter how long they travelled, or how far, his uncle did not cease his scorn, not even for those he meant to fight for him.
Jon sighed and turned. Daenerys Targaryen was mounted further up the ridge, Ser Jorah at her side. With the blinding sun ahead, she was no more than a shadowed shape of a rider upon a horse… but Jon knew Daenerys was not the same girl who had married Drogo beyond the walls of Pentos, with tears in her eyes.
Her city silks had long since been forgotten, her shyness and her tears boiled away by the sun. Upon her silver filly, Daenerys was clad in roughspun Dothraki riding leathers, dirtied from dust. Her feet hung bare in the short stirrups of her saddle, black from where she had walked in the mud, and her hair shone with the thick scented oil that riders often used to slick their braids.
He kicked his horse into a trot, smiling, then suddenly heard his name called through the wind. Was it Viserys? When Jon yanked the reins and his horse almost reared, he heard Marys shout "Careful, foolish boy!" as he rode towards him.
Jon sighed. After near two months amongst the Dothraki, Jon had taken service in Dany's khas. "The more swords about her, the better," Duncan had said once when they were alone, and the khas were her own swords. Duncan had even ordered that his own men do the same, for caution was no matter the sellsword took easily, and every one of them knew that he held no real trust in Drogo; nor the Dothraki for that matter. Neither did Jon. Even the warriors of her ko did not serve her in truth, but her husband.
In Winterfell, he had slept beside Robb, Bran and Rickon. In the khas, it was Rakharo, Aggo and Jhogo, each one more Dothraki than the other. By the day they rode together, and shared a fire and ate together. Duty, he thought… yet it was hard to distrust the men who were as close to you as brothers.
"Forgot what Viserys says." Duncan had told him. "You will serve her well. Watch for her. And… they respect you for the wolf, but amongst these, you must earn yourself a name. Show your strength when you can. A man gets only what he earns," Jon had nodded his head and said, "I will, I promise," with the memory of tears in Dany's eyes, in the dark hall of Khal Drogo's manse. I am fifteen, a man grown, he had thought, these here do not know me for a bastard.
Marys was in a tunic of silk, but the sleeves had been cut away and tattered at the shoulders. "You almost fell," he said with a mocking edge to his words. Jon did not meet his gaze, embarrassed, and turned his horse to ride beside him.
A moment passed, until Marys asked, "Where is Ghost?" It was not for the first time, too. Since he had been attacked in the Bay of Pentos, the night Daenerys was wed, Ghost had suddenly unnerved him.
"Somewhere in the grass, I would say." Jon replied, hiding the worry in his voice. The sun bore down on them in a blaze, hot and sticky. He wiped a blanket of sweat from his brow.
Ghost was never close when they were riding, and would oft be gone for days in a row before he returned. There was game in these lands, Marys had said, your wolf will want his share of it. No matter how long they were gone, though, or how far they travelled, Ghost always returned.
Marys grinned, the scarred red skin around his mouth twitching. "And yet you ride alone?"
Jon looked forward, unmoving. He didn't mind being alone. Further onwards, Jhiqui laughed aloud. Marys saw another opportunity there, it seemed.
He laughed too. "Ah, one of them?" He pointed at the handmaidens riding ahead, all of three of them, and settled his finger on the one on the far left. "Doreah? That's her name, I think. You should ask Viserys, he took her a few times."
Jon gritted her teeth, his ears turning red. Jon was all too familiar with their names, and their purpose. Irri would teach Daenerys the ways of a Dothraki rider, Jhiqui the tongue, and Doreah…
"You should not say that. It is Illyrio at fault." I pity her, Jon thought with shame. Illyrio was a terrible man, how had he never seen that? When Doreah had told him her name, beside a high blue waterfall, he had blurted, "That's pretty," remembering Sansa had told him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help her, in truth, but he had thought courtesy would be pleasing.
It seemed foolish now. "That is true, poor girl." Marys said, his words slurred. He had spoken differently ever since he had been recovered enough to speak at all. The tall sellsword looked over his shoulder and gestured at the riders of the ko with a slight nod.
"What about these men?" He said. "Jhogo is of your age."
Jon knew better than to stare. "I can hardly understand what they are saying," he said.
"That is because you do not follow my instructions!"
Jon found he was smiling, until he lifted his eyes and saw Jorah Mormont riding down the hill towards them, and a cloud of dust churning in the wind where Daenerys had been.
"Stop," the knight said in a gruff voice that carried through the air, "tell them to stop. Your Khaleesi commands it."
Jon frowned, his horse groaning to a halt. They both watched the exile ride by, eyes narrow. Ser Jorah Mormont should not have been the one bellowing commands. He left his lordship on Bear Island, Jon thought, when he fled in fear.
You fled too, a voice insisted. Jon turned to stare down the muddy path.
Voices filled the air as a line of forty thousand sweating horses were ordered to stop. Stallions and coursers, palfreys and mules dragging carts, all groaning as one. From the hill, the only cart Jon could see was a great thing draped in silks the colour of mud. Inside it, he knew, were three dragon's eggs.
He had never in his life thought he would ever see one. The last dragon had perished under the reign of King Aegon the Third. Every man, woman and child in the Seven Kingdoms knew that, for it was Aegon the Conqueror's dragons that had bent the realm under Targaryen rule, and dragons that had sealed it for more than a century.
The king was given the name Dragonbane, after the final beast died in King's Landing, no larger than a dog. When he was a boy, Jon had scorned the dead king like the others. Every boy wanted his own dragon. Yet he had never been more thankful for such a thing in his life when he spotted Viserys beside the cart, shouting shrill commands at Jorah Mormont.
Give him dragonflame, and the realm would burn.
"How much is a dragon's egg worth?" Jon asked, "even in stone, like those?"
Marys shrugged. "Why, a large army."
The white form of Ghost suddenly pounced from the grasses and into the path. Jon's horse leapt backwards on nervous legs. His fur was stained with dust and mud, his jaw marred red from a kill. In a dash, Jon had leapt from the saddle, smiling and wrapping his arms around him. Ghost is only getting bigger, he thought as he ruffled his big white ears with a hand.
"Your wolf knows when to appear," Marys said nervously, as men shouted at one another down the hill. Jon stood and unfastened the waterskin from his saddle, uncapping it with his teeth. Warm, he thought as he wet his dry mouth, it would do.
He looked down the path, but could hardly see far when knelt. "What are they saying?" He asked.
Marys had concern in his voice. "Viserys is causing a stir. That fool knight should know better." He looked down at Jon from his horse, "Wait here."
Then he kicked his mount into a trot and galloped down the hill, wind snapping the green cloak at his back. Ghost had the rest of the water, lapping it up eagerly. Jon felt trouble brewing. He stood and fastened the waterskin back onto the saddle, and by the time he was mounted again, Viserys was bounding past him in a blur of fury.
His horse's great hooves kicked up chunks of mud, his pale cheeks flustered red in anger. Jon watched with wide eyes, as Ghost leapt aside to spare himself a foot. The wolf snarled, but the horse nor rider did falter, the courser giving Ghost a whip of his tail.
Jon watched the rest of his ascent, until nothing but dust remained. Down the hill, men still quarreled. Jorah reined up before him, his face twisted as if in pain. "Daenerys…" he said slowly.
Wait here, Marys had said, but suddenly Jon was riding up the hill himself, after his uncle. He passed the handmaidens in a flash. They don't know what he will do.
If the journey had done him good in anything, that was riding. Every stamp of his horse was like thunder, every second that passed the more he remembered. The manse by the sea, her tears in the dark. He could still see them there in the blackened corridor, as real as the reins in his hands.
You will serve her well. Daenerys had given them all commands to stop, but Viserys was the king, and the king did not listen to commands. The descent was steep, rocky and dangerous, and made his teeth rattle so much it hurt, but Jon was not scared. In an instant, the plains suddenly swallowed him up. Green grass stalking ahead, behind, either side. He kept riding until he realized he had no clue where either of them were, and in his boldness, the Dothraki Sea had forsaken him.
Jon Snow closed his eyes and listened. The wind seemed to speak, all around him, long and shrill and loud. Shhhhhhh, the grass whispered. Like the godswood at Winterfell, the heartree with its deep eyes red with dried sap. He could hear the distant voices of the khas, the bellows of orders that were lost to the wind. All was still, yet soon enough the buzz of the grass was lost on him, and there was only silence.
He would not find them like this. Is it a prize you seek, bastard? A voice in his head asked, Jon ignored it. It's your duty now. It was useless. How far could they have gotten? He dug his heels and charged through the grass.
Then he stopped. The wind's voice was louder, sharper, as if it had turned to stone. Left, it beckoned him to look, standing in the stirrups. But the grass was so damned tall, and endless.
You! It roared.
Jon dropped from the saddle, his boots molding into the thick black soil. He shook his head and unfastened his sword from the saddlebags, his hands clumsy, fast, misplaced. Do nothing that will get you killed, Duncan had told him.
He didn't know what he would do if he found them, if he found him hurting her. Rakharo and the others did not what Viserys was like, not truthfully, they had not been in Khal Drogo's manse… suddenly he was running.
The voice was louder.
To me?
He could only just hear it. All around him grass fell, only to spring up once again when he had passed.
Look at you!
His breath was quick and steady, his feet sure as he bounded through the grass. A great green stalk came to slap him in the face, and a tangle of a dozen others suddenly whipped against his eyes. He kept going.
That was when he found them.
"Do you hear me?" Viserys had his hand under her vest, towering above her. The pain twisted her face, clear as daylight. For all his urgency, Jon nearly stumbled over his own feet as he rushed to a stop. He had hoped there was a small chance he was wrong… the wind grew still around them. Do something, you bloody bastard.
She was the first to notice him. Jon took a stride forward, his hands clenched into fists.
"Do you hear me?" Viserys made her wince again.
Before Jon could reach them, Dany shoved Viserys away, hard.
Her brother stumbled. His eyes incredulous, full of disbelief, rage twisted in his features. Even Jon almost stopped, but his legs saved him, moving forward, kicking up mud. The two chips of lilac saw him, before widening with terror.
Crack.
The air made a sound like thunder. His ears shook and screamed. The last thing Jon saw before he fell on his back was a slender snake wrapping itself around Viserys's throat. Then all he could see was the great pale sky, as his ears filled with his uncle's choking.
A dozen riders had burst through the tall blades of grass, Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo upon their tall steeds, Jorah Mormont and Duncan among them. It was as if they had all been hiding behind the grass, waiting. Jon got to his feet, gasping, and watched Viserys sprawl in the mud, as the whip's coil dug painfully into his throat. The Dothraki riders hooted at him.
Jon followed the rope to the rider. Jhogo sat upon his horse, arm and whip outstretched, watching as if he caught some great beast by the scuff of its neck. He rasped Daenerys a question, one that fell deaf on Jon's ears.
"Jhogo asks if you would have him dead, Khaleesi," Irri, the young handmaiden, said. Jon had not seen her, but by then the rest of her khas had arrived, spreading out around them.
"No," he heard Dany's voice from behind him. "No."
Jon turned to look at her. She met his eyes, her breath quick and face flushed. He did not object. Further onwards, one of the others barked out a comment, and the Dothraki laughed.
"Quaro thinks you should take an ear to teach him respect." The handmaiden looked between them.
This will be enough, Jon thought. He stared at each one of them, saw Duncan's face marred with pity and shame. He was hurting her, he thought, and yet Jon couldn't help pity him too. Kings should not be pitied.
"Tell them I do not wish him harmed," Daenerys said. Jon watched Duncan close his eyes.
The handmaiden repeated the words in Dothraki. Jhogo gave a pull of the whip, yanking Viserys around like a puppet on a string, just as Ghost emerged through the grass.
"I warned him what would happen, my lady," Jorah Mormont said, like the loyal man he was. "I told him to stay on the ridge." Words are wind. You were not here quick enough, Jon thought, but neither was I.
"I know you did," Dany replied. Viserys was red-faced and sobbing, laid on the ground sucking in air. A thin line of blood under his chin marked where the whip had cut deep. Still, Jon had not moved. None of them had.
"Take his horse," the order came suddenly. Jon had thought he had imagined it, until Viserys gaped at his sister, his skin paling. She is not the same girl. "Let my brother walk behind us back to the khalasar. Let everyone see him as he is."
Not at all.
When he turned, her violet eyes were on him, waiting, demanding. The eyes of a Khaleesi. Jon froze. Does she mean for me to take his horse? He glanced at Aggo, Jhogo coiling his whip, and each one of them were watching him too, unmoving.
His hand went to grasp the hilt of his sword, for reassurance, for something to hold, but Jon found nothing there but empty air. My sword, he thought suddenly. Dany's eyes crossed him from head to heel. She was still waiting. Jon turned.
He had taken no more than three steps towards the tall brown courser before Viserys screamed. "No!" He turned to Jorah Mormont, to Duncan, careful to use the Common Tongue, words the horsemen would not understand. "Stop him, Mormont. Knight! Hurt her. I command it, your king! Kill him! Kill these Dothraki dogs and teach her!"
He was out of breath from his own clamoring. Jon stopped before he could reach the horse to watch Mormont's face, fingers twitching. Draw your sword, craven, a part of him insisted, show your steel. Go on. The old knight looked between them, Dany and Jon in their sandsilk leathers and Viserys in his mail. "He shall walk, Khaleesi." He said.
Jon let out a breath. He had forgotten that if Jorah drew his sword, he had no steel to protect himself with. He opened his hand and closed it before grabbing hold of the reins of Viserys' horse.
At first the courser whickered at him, jerking backwards into the grass. Jon didn't much fancy chasing a horse through that maze of rising stalks. He gave the reins another pull, and the horse came easily. Ghost, he realized, as the direwolf suddenly burst past him, most horses were unnerved at his presence.
Viserys did not move. He was sat cross-legged in the dirt, silent. His sister remounted her silver mare and began to turn away. As Jon crossed, his two lilac-eyes followed him, cold and full of poison. He will stay sat here until we are gone, he knew.
It was all over as quick as it had begun. With the sable horse in tow, Jon went off to find his own as the others went forward. She has probably fled, he thought, yet no sooner did Jon find her grazing amongst the grasses.
Once he was mounted again, he thought of stalking back through the grass to find his sword. The others were growing smaller in the distance, and countless other Dothraki riders and slaves came trailing past him as he stopped beside the path. It's just a sword, he thought, but was it truly? He had taken it all the way from Winterfell, kept it at his belt at White Harbor, Pentos…
"Jon," much to his surprise, Duncan hadn't gone on with the others. The sellsword stared at him from across the path. "Are you coming?"
"Yes," Jon said, too quickly. He dragged his eyes away from the stalks, dug his heels and galloped onwards.
It was a short ride to catch them again.
DAENERYS
She crossed the hill from her tent with a small smile on her lips.
It was a smile that brought Dany pause, though. I should not be smiling. Khal Rhae Mhar, they had called her brother the day she had left him to walk at the back of the khalasar, the Sorefoot King. By the time Viserys came limping back among them, every man, woman, and child in the camp knew him for a walker. There are no secrets in the khalasar. The day afterwards, her husband offered him a place in the carts, and from then they called him Khal Rhaggat: the Cart King.
Each was better than the Beggar King, she supposed, and the names were no more than he deserved after he had attacked her. But all the same, Dany found herself defending him. She had not even told him that the carts were only for the eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old, when he had taken it as a means of apology.
Your brother could do with a bit of shame, Ser Jorah had said when she had begged him not to say, Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake. Dany had not been able to believe his words, but the more she thought on them, seeing her brother writhe and cry in the grass, the more they rang with truth.
Viserys would never take them home, not even with the army that her husband gave him. Dany felt that she had always known that, but she had always known he was her only brother too… and so she had pleaded to Drogo many a night to give him his horse back, and his place at the head of the khalasar. It had taken long, and all the pillow tricks that Doreah had taught her, but her sun-and-stars had finally relented.
She would find her khas below the ridge, she knew, in the shadow of a great big hill that loomed beside their tents. Dany wrapped her bare arms about her, shivering. She was careful to watch her feet, for the ground was black and dark and littered with stones. Irri had said even the smallest cut could fester, and if she was to fall…
Dany could have just as easily sent Jhiqui, or Doreah in her place, but the stars above were too beautiful not to gaze upon. The Dothraki believed the stars were horses made of fire, a great herd that galloped across the sky by night… and so did she too, now.
When she heard their laughing, saw the distant golden light flickering against the grasses, a worry rumbled long and low in her stomach. What if he is with them? Viserys still hadn't forgiven her for what she had done, his eyes still gazed full of hatred. She hoped this would change his mind.
Her khas was seated around two blazing fires, the flames dancing up high into the darkness. As she stepped out of the grass, the heat hit her full in the face. Dany gasped. Still, they did not notice her. Most of their eyes were fixed on the two great hunks of meat that hung from iron spits over the fire, roasting and dripping fat. Dany licked her lips. Her supper had been only a simple meal of fruit and cheese, with a jug of honeyed wine to wash it all down.
Her brother was not amongst them, part of her had already known. She saw Jhogo by the far end, the other riders of her ko beside him. He curled his whip between his fingers. She remembered the day in the grass. There was an empty place in her heart where her fear had been. She stepped forward.
When their eyes found her, the voices faded.
Rakharo was suddenly on his feet, silent. The arakh hung long and sharp and curved from his hand, shining black steel. The others began to join him. Dany bid them all to sit.
It was not long before Irri came to her. "Khaleesi," she said, brown eyes delicate. She rested a palm over the small swell of Dany's belly. "You must rest. You are with child, it is known. We will go back to your te-"
Dany had not forgotten; how could she have? She lifted a hand. "Not yet, I would have a moment." The handmaid stepped aside, wordless. It had taken Dany almost a full moon's turn before she had gathered the courage to give them the commands of a khaleesi, and not the requests of a girl.
Jon Snow was already watching her from the behind the fire at her left, half-bathed in light and half in shadow. When she called his name, he merely sat up straighter, his face unmoving. It was as if he hadn't even heard her.
Dany hesitated. Years of living in fear of Viserys's anger had taught her how to read an expression; to see the anger in his lilac eyes, the crease in his brow and the twist of his mouth, to see if she would escape a night unscathed. But in Jon's face, she could see nothing.
Then he stood. Dany took a breath. Did I make the right choice? "You have nothing to fear in him," Duncan had told her, when her brother's words had left her doubting his place in her khas, "nor do you have cause to hate him, Daenerys. You are not your brother."
You are not your brother. In Pentos, she hardly dared to look his way. That had been a long time ago. She thought of those words when she said, "Please, show me where you keep my brother's horse."
The words earned her a puzzled look, but Jon Snow nodded and turned. He stepped over the thick log where the others sat, Silent and Sullen. It saddened her deeply to see the scarred red skin of Marys's face swimming in the light. He gave a meek, twisted smile as she passed. Dany followed.
They walked in darkness, the distant sound of the cackling fires fading. The air grew thinner, colder. Dany rested a hand over her stomach, over the child growing inside her. Blood of my blood, she thought, how could she ever feel cold with life stirring inside her? It was a short walk, but made longer by the silence that lingered between them.
"I kept him here," Jon said, when a tall brown horse came poking through the blackness. Her brother's horse. She rested a hand over the thick black mane, whilst Jon went to find a torch. The bristles were soft beneath her palm.
Jon had chosen to keep the horse by his side as they crossed the Dothraki Sea, pulled along by a rope. Ser Jorah had offered to take the burden, but Jon had refused without hesitation. There was no respect between the two of them, after Jorah had been banished from their homeland across the narrow sea.
When he returned, torch in hand, the golden light filled the air. Their shadows were cast upon the tall grasses swaying all around them. "Good," she said. In the khalasar, every man was a warrior – except the very old and the very young – but in the light, she was reminded how young he was. Like me.
"My lord husband has commanded that Viserys take his place at the head of our column," Dany watched his face with each word, to see if he could sense that she was lying. "I mean to give it to him. I'll need the horse-"
"Readied," Jon finished. He turned back to the shadows.
Dany was silent as she watched him throw the short Dothraki saddle atop the horses back. His fingers worked the strips with practice. He grew up in a castle, she remembered. A traitor's castle, her brother would have said, but it was a castle all the same. Dany had never seen a real castle.
The question was on her lips when he suddenly turned the horse to her, a hand holding the leather straps. It was done. She took them in silence, chin high.
"My- my, queen." Jon said, when she began to turn away.
He was her brother's son, her noble brother Rhaegar; the warrior, the Silver Prince, the man who Viserys had spent nights telling her stories of. He had come to them, desperate, and they had tried only to turn him away. There in the dark, Dany felt ashamed.
"Daenerys," his voice was low, "thank you."
Dany smiled, unbidden, nodded her head, then turned away. Dark, were the grasses around her, and she checked over her shoulder just to make sure her brother had not been near… he will not know about this, she thought as she crossed the hill, horse in hand, why should I fear?
She was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki, the wife of the greatest khal, and soon she would be a mother. Her heart warmed at the thought. It had been her fourteenth nameday, a fortnight ago, when Jhiqui had laid a hand over her stomach and said, "Khaleesi, you are with child."
"I know," Dany had told her.
The horse groaned beside her, stopping to kick its hooves in the mud. Dany gave the reins another pull. Her silver would have come easily, but her brothers horse was as defiant as he was.
She had never loved anything so much in her life than her silver. Irri had been ordered to teach her how to ride in Dothraki fashion, but the filly had been the real teacher. This horse was different, though, she found in the darkness of the hill. No matter the words she uttered or how hard she pulled, it would not come willingly.
Dany stopped and breathed. In the distance, a hunting hawk screeched. The grasses shivered all around her, sighing. She felt the mud between her toes, warm and soft, the heat in her belly, in her blood.
She mounted the horse in one swift movement.
Her back and legs were still aching from the day's ride, but not enough to stop her. The mount faltered backwards, she pressed her feet into the stirrups and gave the reins a yank. How had Jon towed this horse about for so long?
The horse almost reared in response, whickering. This was not the way. She was like to be thrown from the saddle. A man had to break a horse beneath his will when he became a khal, a wild animal that would only be his… Dany gave the horse her heels and snapped the reins.
Suddenly they were bounding up the hill. Her silver hair streaming like a pale cloak. When they finally reached her tent, high upon the mound, she was smiling and dreaming of home. Of King's Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built, Dragonstone where she had been born… the cities were alive, and all the doors were red.
Her handmaidens were waiting for her. Doreah had already made the fire when they arrived, the flames burning brightly. With their help, she dropped from the saddle and said, "Take my brother's horse. Have the servants groom him," when her brother saw it, she did not want him to be disappointed, "find trappings for it too, cloth of red-on-black would be best."
The colours of our house, she thought, Viserys would like that.
Irri led the horse away, whilst Doreah and Jhiqui followed her into the warmth of her tent. It was dim and cozy beneath the silk. Her muddy toes curled in the sleeping furs that were littered across the ground, furs dark and gold and white as snow.
"Please, prepare me a bath," she told Jhiqui. She wanted to feel clean. The handmaiden smiled and ducked under the flap of her tent.
Dany felt the familiar warmth in her belly. She turned to Doreah, "Bring me one of my dragon egg's, if you would."
Doreah brought back the egg with the pale cream white shell, streaked with gold. They are so beautiful, she thought as she turned it in her hands. Every night, she liked to hold them. The scales seemed to glisten and move in the light, and they were warm.
Dany had thought she had been dreaming at first. Stone, they are only stone, Illyrio had said so the day he had given them to her.
And my child, when he is king, he shall have one. She sat with the white egg in her hands until Irri tapped her gently on the shoulder. They had prepared her bath. The great big copper tub she had been given as a bride gift was full with steaming water, calling to her. Jhiqui helped her pull the painted vest over her shoulders, and she fell into the water with a sigh.
It had not always been easy, she reflected as her Irri scrubbed her back. Dany had felt as much a stranger as her brother when they left Pentos, surrounded by horde of fifty thousand barbarians. She could no longer look to Duncan in everything. She was alone with her three dragon's eggs. Come the nights, when her husband would visit her tent before dusk, she would use a pillow to muffle her cries of pain as he took her. When he had finished, Dany would lie beside him in silence, body bruised and sore, hurting too much to sleep.
After a moon, her hands and thighs had been so wracked with blisters she could barely sit the saddle, and the muscles in her legs trembled each time she took a step. She would rather die than go on, she had decided one night.
Yet before dawn could break, that night she had found her courage. A dragon in her dreams, with gleaming red eyes searing away her skin in a great bout of dragonflame. The next the day, when she came to the saddle, she did not seem to hurt quite as much.
The blisters soon burst, her thighs toughened, and it was her who took her husband beneath a sea of stars. The gods favored me that night, she thought, when her Drogo's seed had taken root inside her. Each morning, she was eager to climb the saddle, to steer her silver in the lands they passed, and await the ones that lied ahead. Unseen.
Dany's skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. A great silence lingered in the air when Jhiqui laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterwards when they came to brush her hair, she thought about her sun-and-stars, Jon Snow, and her brother.
When she had ordered that he take her brother's horse, the day in the grass, she had done so out of some great spur of courage. Perhaps he did not know she had seen him burst through the grass, before the others, as Jhogo and his whip took her brother around the throat.
Her khas was there to protect her, and serve in her all things… yet Jon's part was his own choice, and Duncan's. Not hers. He will not serve you, she had thought. After all, what reasons for loyalty had they given him? Viserys had shown him nothing but hatred since he arrived, and Dany was too scared to have a will of her own… too frightened of waking her brother's dragon. So she had sought to pretend he did not exist, to keep herself from risk.
Yet despite it all, when her brother had her trapped amongst the grasses, Jon Snow was there before the others. Dany thought on that when her handmaidens left her, as the night beyond the entrance grew cold and dark. It was always warm beneath the silk of her tent, though. She laid under her smooth sandsilk cloak, cream-white dragon egg tucked in the curve of her belly where her son grew inside her, and dreamed.
She was a little girl again. Small, timid and innocent. Before her loomed a great big red door, and she pushed it open with a hand. It croaked and groaned and took forever. Before she could step foot inside, it was gone. Darkness covered her eyes like some thin black mask.
"Just tonight, then," she heard her brother's voice. A hand grabbed her through the dark, gentle, and she climbed into her brother's featherbed. She was still young, she knew somehow, and the storm in the distant seas of Braavos had woken her in the night. Storms frightened her, she had been born amidst one. Stormborn. Viserys would let her sleep in his own bed. This was no more a dream than it was a memory.
"Storms are fewer at King's Landing," he told her when she was tucked beneath his chin. "Once I take back my crown, they'll never frighten you again."
When she woke, it was Drogo beside her.
Her handmaidens helped her dress into a painted vest and Dothraki riding leathers. Afterwards, Jhiqui had braided her silver-gold hair in Dothraki fashion, whilst Doreah took her dragon egg back to the cart to be pulled along by the packhorses. Dany had smiled, remembering its warmth, and the sweet dreams it summoned.
The sky was turning from the colour of a blood bruise, the sun peaking the over the grasses in lazy shafts of light, as she stepped outside the cover of her tent. Irri came to her.
"Khaleesi, your brother's horse is ready." The girl did not look pleased to say. For in truth, none of them saw him as the king he was.
"Good," Dany replied, smiling. The horse had been groomed as she requested, and they had found the cloth to coat it. Red on black, that was right. "Run and find him and invite him here. I will give him the horse myself."
A part of her hoped for him to like it, desperately. Dany watched Irri turn and descend the hill, as slaves began to take the down the thin silk walls of her pavilion. Their chatter filled the air, mingled with the grass and wind and whine of horse. Was she wrong to hope? Only the gods knew truthfully.
Before Irri could return with her brother, the men of her khas began to arrive, ascending the ridge slowly, a dozen in number. Dany was no stranger to such, for her khas were responsible for the carts and her things and her precious dragon's eggs, but never before had it been more ill-timed.
Jhogo was amongst them, whip slapping against his thighs with every step. Upon that, Dany had nearly ordered them all away, but thought against it. It was not long until she spotted Jon, flanked by Silent and Sullen.
Then her brother arrived.
He climbed the hill in long steps, three paces ahead of Irri. His tunic was filthy, stained by hard travel and rotted from sweat. The clank of his borrowed sword filled the air. He met her eyes with disdain, and Dany's heart sank.
But she smiled. "Brother," she said calmly when he reached her. "You can rejoin us at the head of the khalasar. Your horse… I had him groomed for you, and the silk, it was especially prepa-"
Viserys snatched the reins from her hands. "So, my sweet sister remembers her place," he sneered viciously, "and mine. What, did you think you were going to make me walk all the way to Vaes Dothrak?"
Dany shook her head. "No, I'd never…"
"Good. I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some savage with bells in his hair." He climbed the horse with a grunt. Dany remembered how she had rode the horse the night before. Her brother had never gotten used to flat saddle and short stirrups of the Dothraki. "You and your bastard ought to remember that."
Before she could say another word, her brother was galloping back down the hill. Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to see him smile, to be grateful. Her mind had been full with the memories of her dream, real memories, and Viserys himself had shattered them all.
When she turned, Jon was staring right at her. His face was long and blank and solemn, but in his eyes Dany saw the words.
He knew this would happen, she thought, and so did I.
JON
The Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak was made of two gigantic bronze stallions, rearing, their hooves meeting a hundred feet above the roadway to form a pointed arch. Jon had seen no such wonders since he had sailed beneath the Titan of Braavos, looking out through his small cabin window on the Wind's Wave.
It had been as tall as the clouds, Jon remembered, a god wrought in stone. He looked about him. The narrow road to Vaes Dothrak was littered with stone gods.
They flanked either side of the path, still and immense, stolen and plundered over countless years by countless khal's. Stone kings stared down from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained. No iron swords rested upon their knees, like how the Starks honoured the dead Kings of Winter, you'd need swords big as tree trunks. Maidens danced on marble plinths, flowers cresting their shoulders. Further onwards, monsters stood in the grass; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores.
Viserys was ahead, inspecting the likeness of a woman with six breasts and a ferret's head. Jon was relieved. Ever since they had spied the two tall stallions in the distance, all his uncle had done was complain.
"I pray that my sun-and-stars will not keep him waiting too long," He heard Daenerys say. She rode ahead, with her shadow Jorah Mormont trailing beside her.
"Your brother should have bided his time in Pentos." Jorah replied, that much Jon could agree upon. "There is no place for him in a khalasar. Illyrio tried to warn him."
The sun was weighing on him once again. Jon wiped a fresh layer of sweat from his brow, and fumbled with the sleeveless jerkin that rubbed against his chest. There was dust in the air about Vaes Dothrak, Jon had felt the need to cough more than once, in between rubbing his eyes. He could only imagine what it was like at the back of the khalasar, where forty thousand horses all rode together, kicking up clouds.
Marys came trotting beside him, his laughing seemed to stretch all along the plain. Jon could no longer hear their words. "Funny, isn't it?" the sellsword grumbled. The scarred skin around his chin shook wildly. "Such a large gate, but no walls!"
He tipped his head and laughed aloud. The scars had not done anything to his humor. Jon smiled, but turned to look over his shoulder where the other riders of the khas followed. They did not understand. "Where is the city?" he asked.
Marys was smacking hand on his thigh when he said, "the city? Under that mountain!"
Jon looked ahead and saw the great mountain in the distance, but no city was yet to appear, even a distant speck of it. Marys tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you not listen to anything I told you? The Mother of Mountains?"
"I remember," Jon said, half-heartedly. He was trying to listen to what Jorah was saying again, but Marys was still laughing to himself. The Others take him, Jon thought bitterly. He cantered his horse further, closer to them.
"-The Usurper would agree. He is a strong man, brave... and rash enough to meet a Dothraki horde in the open field. But the men around him, well, their pipers play a different tune. His brother Stannis, Lord Tywin Lannister, Eddard Stark,"
Jon squeezed the reins, hard. He had crossed thousands of leagues, the very narrow sea, but Lord Eddard's name was on everyone's lips. Always reminding him.
My sword…
"You hate this Lord Stark," Dany replied. Jon stopped, his horse whickering. They did not know he was listening. All around him, the air seemed to grow still. He waited for the answer.
"He took from me all I loved," the exiled knight began. Jon tensed. "For the sake of a few lice-ridden poachers and his precious honour,"
The words pierced him like a knife. I have been waiting for this, he thought, as a black rage take hold of him. Daenerys did not know the truth, only what others told her, but Jon Snow did. He gave the horse a strong spur, snapping the reins, until Duncan suddenly came rearing before him. Jon flung to a stop, nearly losing his seat, as the great grey courser kicked the open air.
They settled there in the road, the dust at their feet sweeping east. Staring. Jon shifted back into the saddle, silent, and felt the need to cough. Duncan said, "It would not be wise."
How had he heard? When Jon opened his mouth, he almost blurted my father, but caught himself at the last moment. "Eddard had the entire north's reputation to protect! He knows that!"
Duncan did not move. Jon went on, "a reputation he dragged through the mud!"
Still, the sellsword watched him with silent violet eyes. You abandoned the north as much as he did, the quiet air seemed to whisper. Jon gritted his teeth in anger. Somehow, the silence was worse than anything he could have said.
Marys came to shoulder, a cautious look about his face, but Duncan waved him away. "I heard Mormont, and what of it?" he said once the sellsword was a way away, an iron tone to his words.
Duncan swung his horse about then, and all Jon could do was frown and join him. "Jorah did bring dishonor to the north. But the north has not asked for your retribution," he said, "you will find no reward for it here."
"I don't want a reward!" Jon said. The faces of Ned and Robb and Arya shot up before him. "He was speaking about Lord Eddard…"
"Does it come as a surprise to you that not everybody loves the lord? No one can blame for you defending him, and though Mormont was wrong to do what he did, your words will not change his thoughts," Duncan sighed.
His beard and hair had grown quite unkempt since Pentos, Jon noticed, fading blue slashed with silver. He didn't look so old as to be going grey, but Jon supposed some men were different to others. "You are Rhaegar's seed," Duncan said with a pain in his voice, "but it was Eddard who raised you."
Viserys was riding down towards them in the distance. Had Rhaegar looked anything like Viserys? In Jon's mind, he had not. Duncan went on, "Robert would have had you killed at first sight, like your brother Aegon and your sister, Rhaenys. Eddard declared you as his own for the whole realm to see, to protect you from that fate. You grew up safe within the walls of Winterfell, in the company of his own children. No man can deny there's a certain honour in that, not even Jorah."
Jon knew he spoke truthfully. He felt a fool for ever getting angry. Nobody knows, Ned had said, nobody could know.
The scattered city of Vaes Dothrak finally came looming over the crest of the hill. It sprawled both east and west, a vast line of rising black shapes in the distance, with no walls and no end in sight. As they got closer, Jon noticed the shapes were in fact pyramids and wooden towers and grass castles, all separated by streets made of mud and flowers, all baking in the warm sun.
It must be ten times the size of Pentos, he thought, and that had been a great bustling city with port and trade, a hundred-dozen different bricked buildings piled against another. There you seldom could walk the streets without your shoulders barging into others, and Jon could only imagine what Vaes Dothrak would be like… and yet, as they entered in a long train of riders, he noticed it was in fact almost empty.
"Where is everyone?" He asked Duncan, as Khal Drogo led them through the great bazaar of what was the Western Market.
"Only the crones reside here permanently, with their servants and slaves," he looked around the stalls and hummocks, "it is the curse of marrying a khal. Should their husband die and they do not, they must live out the rest of their days here… in this place."
They rode through the Western Market for a time, small children running beneath their horses and old men stood sentry before empty stalls, watching with weathered eyes. Except for those, it was almost empty. The West must have meant for the Free Cities too, Jon supposed, some Braavos and Pentos, Tyrosh and Lys, for there was nothing here that reminded him of Westeros.
Finally, Drogo stopped their trail at the Eastern Market. Where the few scant merchants would sell goods of a queerer kind, ones from Yi Ti and Asshai. Jon paid the stalls little heed as the riders ahead began to dismount, and a clangor of voices filled the air.
"Here we go," Duncan said, as a great army of slaves came running out of the stalls on light, dirtied feet. Jon creased his brow, watching the rest of them from his horse. But when Duncan dismounted and began to unstrap the belt at his waist, he did the same.
So was every rider, he noticed, unbolting their arakhs and dropping them in the hands of waiting slave. Even Khal Drogo himself. Jon stared at Duncan over the saddles of their horses, hands working quickly at straps of his dagger. "No weapons?" He said.
"None," Duncan replied. Jon did not fail to notice the lack of greatsword amongst the two daggers he placed in the slave's hands, nor the great bundle of wrapped stained leather and furs that hung from the side of his saddle, suspiciously long. That was dangerous.
A slave approached. The man was older than Jon, with heavy lidded eyes and a shaved head red with sunburn. Jon offered a meek smile, pitying him, as he dropped the sheathed dagger into his hands. The dagger had come from Winterfell too… but it had not been his for long, it had been Joffrey's.
When the slave did not move, Jon found himself growing startled. He eyed Duncan for help, but the sellsword was not looking his way. They stood there staring at one another, the air full of voices and the clank of steel, until the slave slowly pointed a withered finger at the sword knotted against Jon's saddle, at the crimson hilt wrought into the shape of a dragon's head.
Jon sighed. He had kept Illyrio's sword wrapped away in cloth, hanging forgotten from his saddle. Even when he had lost his own. Why had he not thrown it away? Jon untied the straps that bound it to his horse and gave it to the slave. If he knew the words, he would have told the man to keep it.
As the slaves departed, arms full with weapons, he joined Duncan at to the head of the throng. Khal Drogo and his bloodriders were mounting their stallions once again. Ahead was the temple of the dosh khaleen, at the very center of the city – as Marys had forewarned– and it was not made of bronze and silver like he claimed some stories told, but wooden with huge pillar of oak, roofed with worn silk.
"With no weapons about us," Jon said, "how are the khas meant to protect Daenerys? Or the bloodriders?"
Duncan shook his head and said. "They will be no need for protection here. No khalasar may stay Vaes Dothrak armed. Khal's put aside their feuds and share meat and mead," they reached Daenerys, where her ko and handmaidens huddled around her like flies, "there are ways around it, though."
Even in the sweltering heat, those words seemed to make him chill. "What ways?"
Duncan scratched the stubble of his face. "No blood may be spilled, no sword drawn in earnest, that all must obey… but a clever man may do neither of those things to kill."
Jon did not like the sound of his words. Words are wind, he thought, he is only warning me. "Or a desperate man," Jon said in an icy tone.
Duncan didn't seem to hear him, staring forwards as Khal Drogo and his bloodriders rode alone into the haze of distant dust, past the temple and towards the Mother of Mountains.
Only when the four shimmering shapes of them were lost did they move on. Doreah led them to a large, hollow hill that had been prepared for Daenerys and the khal. An pavilion shaped from earth. Jon did not doubt the silk tent they had used in travelling was more of a comfort, but this was the city of the Dothraki, and comforts were not to be had.
Jon took a seat in the grass, the mound of mud looming behind him, as the others reined in the packhorses. In truth, it was great comfort enough to know that he would not have to climb his saddle again come the morrow, even at Winterfell he had not rode every day. A rest is needed, he thought, and perhaps here I can earn the name that Duncan speaks of.
Ghost came through the haze of slave, servant and warrior. Earning gasps from each one he passed as they stood and froze to watch him. Only when Jon gave the direwolf a ruffle over the ears and he laid at his feet did they turn away. Come the nights, when he slept beneath the stars, he had missed the warmth of his wolf's white fur and the rumble of his belly as he breathed.
It was three days' past when Ghost had gone off again, into the wild to hunt. Jon had been doubtful at first; what if he should be found by another khalasar coming to Vaes Dothrak? Or some tiger or great lion? Ghost was a direwolf, bigger than his distant-cousins, and fiercer, but not fully grown yet.
Big enough to tear out the throat of any man, Marys assured, often urging Ghost away. Ever since he had gotten his scars, Ghost had suddenly unnerved him.
"We're staying here, Ghost," Jon told him in a whisper, so the others around them could not hear. "Only for a while."
The wolf only cocked his head sideward and stared up at him with big red eyes. Did Ghost understand him? He did not know, but the two remained still, watching as Drogo's khal of fifty thousand Dothraki settled into the endless city of Vaes Dothrak.
It was not long before a bronze brazier was hefted in the grass, small flames poking above its wide and round frame. Rakharo stood poking it with a black iron rod, whilst Aggo and Jhogo sat beside one another laughing. The sun was falling to the west, and the light with it. Jon laid back and listened.
"… Khal Rhaggat does not… the right," Aggo was saying. Jon couldn't see him, but knew the words to be his. But most of the words he couldn't understand either, the Dothraki tongue did not come easily to him, no matter how good a teacher Marys might have been. "We see the Khaleesi to the crones… find me a good woman…"
Whatever he said must have been funny, for the others laughed, but Jon did not understand. He decided to stop trying, and only then did he notice the Irri returning from one of the markets. She carried a basket of fruits and vegetables, ripe and clean, and a haunch of goat was tucked under her arm. Were they preparing a feast?
Jhiqui was stood over the brazier, long black hair glimmering in the fire as she worked a spit. The smoke carried the scent of meat, rich and warm. Jon licked his lips, his mouth watering. He had ridden on an empty stomach, like most days.
He never saw Marys and Aerar return until the tall man tapped him on the shoulder.
"Are you ready?" He said, taking a seat in the mud beside him. Aerar was helping with the meat, and smiling. Jon had never seen the man smile before.
He turned to Marys and said, "Am I ready for what?"
"Why, your lessons boy. Unless you don't need them?"
Jon turned back to the brazier. "Not tonight," he swept a hand over Ghost's fur. They had ridden hard today, hoping to make the last stretch towards Vaes Dothrak before nightfall. He was in no mood to be scolded by a sellsword who fancied himself a maester.
Marys did not reply, Jon took that for acceptance. The smell of meat was growing stronger, even Ghost had been roused from sleep, and the sky was turning darker. What are they preparing? When Doreah came running through the door at his back, Jon could not help but call after her.
"Lord Jon," she turned on him, eyes wide. I am no lord, he wanted to say, but it would not make no difference.
Instead stood up straighter and said. "What are you preparing?"
Doreah looked at the brazier. "The Khaleesi has commanded me to find Viserys, she wants him to join her for supper... and she has some gifts she must give him."
So that was it. Was the horse not proof enough? He could already feel the beginnings of a mistake here, but he could hardly march into the tent and tell Daenerys Targaryen that. Jon looked her over wearily. "Well," he said, hesitating. He remembered last when he had let another fall into his uncle's grasp, and that had ended in blood.
Doreah's big blue eyes were on him, waiting for his words. Earn a name, Duncan had said. She blinked slowly. You have no part in protecting them, bastard. Go back. "I'll come with you." Jon said.
Her face was marred with doubt. "That is most kind of you," she said, "but Viserys, well, after you took his horse…"
She is right, Jon thought. His presence was not like to bring any high spirits to his uncle, but he had seen how Viserys treated requests. If anyone was fool enough to spill blood here, it would be him. I cannot stand by and let him hurt anyone else. "It will be fine. Daenerys will suffer no delays. Go on."
Hesitantly, she turned and carried on walking. Jon followed in silence, hand curled around the air where the hilt of his sword would be. It was his duty, in the khas, to protect.
They passed through hovels once empty now lit with fires, the blackness inside now replaced with golden light. Jon saw shadows from within, dancing along the walls, laughing and mumbling in deep tones. Families. The inner circle of the city was filling quickly, but that was only Drogo's khalasar, and Duncan had said it was likely that others would return to their Mother of Mountains to see the khal's new Valyrian bride.
Blood seemed inevitable, Jon thought. The Dothraki were warriors indeed, skilled in the ways of horse and bow, loyal; but Jon had not been blind to the sights of men and women rutting openly in the grass, the corpses sown from a night's drinking left to the carrion crows. How could a few words from old crones stop that?
Doreah stopped beside a timbered hut, the door covered by thin silks turned more black than white over the years.
"Wait here," she said in a commanding voice. Jon was silent. He took a place beside the door, stood up straight, feeling like Desmond or Jacks at Winterfell, when they would guard the way to the Great Keep… or even Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Jon found himself smiling.
The sky had turned the colour of Duncan's hair, dark blue and deep purple, with scatters of silver cloud amidst it all. Night was coming. Jon eyed those sat around nearby fires, greybeards and men and boys without bells in their braids. There were no arakhs hanging from their belts, but in a fight, Marys had said they use claw and tooth just as well.
He prayed it would not come to that, but when his uncles voice came booming through the door, he could not be certain.
"Commands me?" Viserys screamed. "And she sends you?" Jon heard footsteps from within. His body tensed. Why had he come if he was going to stand outside and do nothing? He had been too late in the Dothraki Sea. It is your duty.
Jon ducked through the door.
His boots came upon uneven trestles of flat oak, laid upon the floor. The sound almost made him jump, and gave way to his entrance long before the others had seen him. The room fell deathly quiet. Jon pushed aside low hanging awnings made of grass and silk, slowly, until Viserys was stood tall before him.
The long silver-gold hair framed his poisonous eyes. "You," he growled, "does a bastard mean to give me orders too? No one commands the dragon!"
Jon clenched his teeth as his uncle took a step towards Doreah. The girl was hunched, smaller, frightened. Jon could taste fear in the air.
"Nobody is commanding you," he said calmly, but his fists were clenched tightly at his side.
The boy in him had endured enough of his uncle's cruelty. After Pentos, the sneers and the names, the Dothraki Sea… but Daenerys had suffered the same, and she still tried to make amends. You will serve her well, Duncan had said. Jon remembered the image of his uncle curling in pain amongst the grass, crying as the whip coiled into his neck; and his anger left him.
"Daenerys requests that you would join her for supper."
His words lingered in the dusky air. He could hear men laughing outside. Viserys shook his head and in an instant, darted past them, stepping out into the night.
Jon turned and followed, wordless. There had been no fight, no quarrel, and that was good enough. The others did not watch them go by, sat silent around their dull fires. By the time they reached Dany's mound of mud, the meat above the brazier was gone, but the smell lingered in the air.
Viserys swept inside, silent. Jon could only pray that this was not to be another mistake, as he thought it would be. Marys was still sat upon the mud, talking over his shoulder to the shrunken form of Aerar. Jon stood a distance away from him, and hoped that whatever gods might have heard him, they proved him right.
No more than a few moments later, Viserys came sprawling from the tent. He stumbled into the dust, a hand grasping his right cheek. Jon saw the blood welling beneath his fingers. Only Daenerys was inside the tent. Suddenly they were all on their feet. The silence swept away by the dust, and Jon's hope with it.
His uncle stood and stilled himself, angry lilac eyes gazing over them. A drop of blood fell from his face and landed on the side of his boot, mingled in the grass. Jon waited.
Viserys turned and scrambled away, grunting. They watched him go.
Gone for a year. Time goes so fast its quite scary sometimes. Anyway, I want to see this story through to the end for myself and those who would like to read it. Have a couple more chapters ready, hope to have them up soon.