WARNING: In this chapter there's explicit violence and rape. Please read at your own discretion.

DAENERYS

Dawn was breaking the moment Khal Drogo's outriders returned.

Dany had been half-asleep, her head resting upon her sun-and-stars chest when Cohollo burst loudly through the tent flaps. Even in the darkness, and through a lidded gaze, Dany could see the excitement in his eyes. "Drogo, blood of my blood," his voice was rough, callous, the scrape of stone on stone. "Ogo sacks the nearby town of the haesh rakhi, he is ripe for the taking."

Her husband was on his feet in an instant, the furs slipping to reveal his naked body. His pure black hair fell down in a braid well past his buttocks. Longer than any man's in the khalasar. It had never once been cut. He had never known defeat. Dany found herself warming at the memory of him inside her, and smiling at the thought of them conquering the Seven Kingdoms to win her son the Iron Throne.

"Rouse the men." When her husband barked the order, she knew she would get no further rest. Cohollo darted from the tent. Drogo had told her he would come upon Ogo and his khalasar, and what he intended to do with them. With slaves, selling them could buy ships to cross the narrow sea, hire sailors to sale them. And only with slaves. The Dothraki did not trade no other goods.

Ogo's khalasar would be put in chains. Though only days earlier they had sat side by side at the high table, sharing mares milk and laughing, that had been in Vaes Dothrak, and there all feuds were set aside.

On the Dothraki Sea, Drogo would rip out Ogo's khalasar root and stem.

Her husband strapped on his medallion belt. "Today, I bring you Ogo's head." He said in the Common Tongue, a fierce determination dripping with each word. Dany did not doubt him.

"I shall treasure it." She replied with some venom as she sat up. The cold began to prickle at her skin. Meagre victories over another warring khal did not sate the blood of the dragon. Only birthing her son, sailing the narrow sea and mounting him on the Iron Throne would be enough for Daenerys Targaryen. Only when her enemies were destroyed.

Even so, there was nothing she could do or say to stop Drogo from gathering his riders and going into battle. A khaleesi did not question her khal's decisions. She watched him put on the rest of his garb, horsehair breaches and gauntlets shaped from 0leather, until he darted out of the tent like a child chasing a hare. Only then did she summon her handmaidens.

Daenerys saw it fit that she dressed lightly. For she knew once she mounted her horse, there was no returning back to the confines of her tent. Her clothes and her chests and would be loaded back into the wagons for the days ride. Dany would be expected to travel with the warriors of the khalasar before they reached the town of the Lhazareen. Then, she could only view it from afar, not knowing if her husband was alive or dead.

Irri styled her hair in a rigid braid falling down her back, whilst Jhiqui and Doreah gathered her warm riding leathers. As they readied her, she knew she would've preferred to have dressed like a warrior woman herself. Like Visenya, with pieces of mail and leather and golden bands for her arms. Yet her pregnancy would make her look foolish in any such clothes.

As she emerged from her tent, she saw the khalasar was frantic with movement. Sleeping mats were being rolled and tents dismantled, thousands of the men had already gathered their horses and arakhs, riding in circles and hooting out their cries, kicking up clouds of choking dust. Fathers, sons, uncles and cousins. Dany would've been surprised if Ogo's khalasar had not already heard their coming.

The sun was brimming the distant hills, basking the sky with a pale glow. With their shouts in her ears, Dany found it impossible to consider a defeat. How could they lose? Even so, as the cold sent a chill up her body and Dany rubbed the numbness from her hands, some part of her feared for Drogo's life. The little girl in her that remained.

Behind a dozen mounted riders whirling past in a fury, Dany smiled to see Ser Jorah approaching her. He too was ready for the fight. Already armored in the steel and surcoat made of deep green cloth. The colour of his house, she knew. He carried his great helm in hand.

"Khaleesi," he bowed his head. With each step, his armour rattled loudly.

"Your sword." Dany pointed. Blood and gore was smeared across the edge of his blade, fresh and shiny. Dany swallowed deeply, she could not stare for long.

"Ah, khaleesi. The Dothraki do not take well to a man in armour. After I had donned my plate, a boy thought it fit to name me a coward. Well, I name him dead."

He sheathed his sword back into its scabbard. The paleness of the morning had turned his cheeks red. "How many fighters does Ogo have in his khalasar?" Dany asked.

"Far fewer than your lord husband's." Jorah replied in a bold tone. She had not seen Duncan and his companions coming - nor Jon and his wolf – until they were a mere few steps away from them. She hardened at his presence. They had not spoken since the morning after her brother's death.

Yet Duncan gave a small smile when she met his eyes. Much to her surprise, he too was dressed for a fight. Though he sported less than half the steel plate that Ser Jorah Mormont did. Instead, he wore the armour she had seen him in a thousand times. Two steel pauldron's covered his shoulders, hidden beneath them clasps that suspended his long blue cloak. It was more black than blue now, she supposed. Covering his hands and arms were iron studded vambraces. She watched them as he fiddled with his belt. Then he unsheathed a dagger.

"I didn't expect you to join the fight." Daenerys said. "To kill for Drogo."

Duncan scraped his dagger along the small oilstone in his hand. "I will kill only for us. As I always have."

"I know." Dany said. Even though she knew her husband would most like prevail without Duncan's help, she could not deny he was a formidable fighter, and she was glad to have him by her husband's side. Daenerys pitied the families of any man who would soon be unfortunate enough to come against him.

"After the battle is done, Daenerys. Please, let me speak with you." He gave the oilstone back to Aerar.

Daenerys nodded to him.

More riders were circling the camp now, and some had even begun to move north. The distant stomp of their horses slowly grew fainter.

"We should be on our way." Jorah announced, lifting his great-helm over his head. He slapped open the visor.

"Yes," Duncan said. "Gather your khas, Daenerys. If you must come with us, you will be well guarded." Duncan slipped on his black gloves. "Jon and his wolf will stay by your side."

Jon's head rose at that. "What?"

Duncan only gave him a sharp look in return. He wanted to fight.

Duncan swiftly turned him away and walked him back to their horses, all the while speaking words into his ear that Dany could not make out. Irri brought forward her silver. With their help, she mounted the mare and promptly shouted the men of her khas.

"Aggo." Dany turned to face them. They were already mounted upon their horses, waiting patiently. "Jhogo, Rakharo. I order you to join the fight and protect my sun-and-stars. Lay down your life for your khal, if you must."

"Ai, khaleesi." They responded. One after another they kicked their horses into motion and galloped down the field, kicking up tufts of dirt as they went. Khal Drogo already had his own bloodriders by his side, but Dany thought another three wouldn't harm him.

Dany would not be in harm's way, she knew. Only if the gods were cruel and her husband was struck down…. that would not happen. Dany glimpsed from her high hill the thousands of Dothraki riders galloping north. The beats of their horse's hooves made the ground tremble beneath her. She could not see her husband at its head, yet she knew he was there all the same.

When she kicked her silver into motion and began to descend the hill, the rest of those behind her followed. Eyes watched her as she went. Eyes of those who were women, maimed or too young or too old, too sickly to go into battle. Who would stay with the camp and the slaves and join them afterwards, mounting the wagons and carts to bring down their goods.

They rode a league or two, the sun slowly rising, before stopping at the mount of a hill bank, as the warriors ahead rode on.

"Stay here," Duncan said, offering her a quick glance. "Come no further until you know it's safe."

"I will." Dany replied.

Then he spurred his horse onwards and the others did the same.

Daenerys could see the shadowed shapes of the Lhazareen town brimming the horizon, small, yet more prominent than the grasslands that surrounded it. There was smoke rising from within its walls. When she turned, she saw Jon Snow was staring too.

Her handmaidens were laying mats across the grass behind them. Dany trotted over to him. "You wish you were with them, don't you?"

He did not look her way. "Of course I do." Jon shook his head. "When able men sit back and do nothing, they're craven. I can fight, but at every chance he orders me to do otherwise."

Dany was still for a moment. "It's because he cares for you, you know. He does, I can see it. Knowing you're safe will-"

"I know, Daenerys." Jon interrupted, "I know."

He turned to look at her slowly, then at the handmaidens. Dany looked back at the town in the distance. It was so far away, she realized. A moment passed, as the distant sound of the horses gave way to the wind.

"But Duncan's judgement can sometimes be wrong." She turned back to him. "And he will never change unless you show him."

"How can I from here?"

"Not from here, only down there. I am khaleesi, and I say you can go."

THE MAIMED SWORD

Marys clenched his jaw to stop his teeth chattering together.

The pain was almost unbearable. His ears were ringing, his head swimming, his hands loosely touching the reins. Yet he did not stop riding. He had lost Duncan and the others amongst the thousands as they had descended the hill. In his place, surrounding either side of him, were Dothraki savages howling their coming, arakhs raised high.

It was just his luck to be fighting in Dothraki feuds, he knew with some bitterness. For no just man who lived would come away from this battle with a smile on their face. The Dothraki were savage in all things, it was known, but nothing were they better at than killing. Than stringing out the guts of their enemies and raping their women, murdering their children and burning their homes. Marys did not have to be reminded. Oh, no.

Yet here I am. He spotted Duncan's blue cloak again as the lines began to part, and rode up beside him. The land around them had slowly turned from dirt and grass and hunting tracks to growing fields of rye and lentil. Yet in the place of crops were corpses. Ogo had left his mark. The Lhazareen did not deserve to have their village destroyed, Marys knew, yet in all places of the world, the men who had swords killed those who did not.

Ahead, peering through the smoke and over the heads of Drogo's riders he could see the distant walls of the town. They were made of solid mud caked in place by the sun, black as night with specks of small green grass poking through them. They cracked easily, though. Along the walls large crevices had formed were Ogo's men had destroyed them, the mud and dust falling in piles.

"Stop here," Duncan shouted at the top of his lungs, reining his horse to a slow beside a burning farmers hut. The ceiling had collapsed, crushing the farmer inside. A small brown hand poked through the mud, a dead finger pointing at him. All around them, the other riders charged onwards. Screaming. Roaring. Desperate to kill. Aerar came to a stop at his left.

"Let Drogo hit them first, and take as many as he can." Duncan's breath was short and hurried. They turned and watched Drogo barrel towards the rear of Ogo's men. Some had turned to make their defence, charging quickly to their own death, and others were still unsure on what was going on around them. It made no matter. When the two sides met, screams of the dying men and horses filled the air.

"Drogo is not as foolish as he may seem." Duncan observed, his horse whickering as Drogo's men took Ogo from four sides. The riders had split into separate lines and attacked from every entrance of the village.

"The Lhazareen will find no escape…" Marys said slowly. His scarred chin itched and he scratched it without thought, then it hurt.

"I pray they have quick deaths." Aerar said in his quiet tone. When you were fighting amongst them, in thick of it with sword and spit, it was easy to forget about all the killing. When a man fell before your sword, you moved onto the next one. Without thought. Watching it, though, from a far distance, Marys found unsettling.

"How will I know Drogo's men from the others?" Aerar asked, his eyes on Duncan.

"You won't… kill any man who wants to kill you. Let's go."

Duncan snapped the reins first, Aerar next, and Marys followed with a roar of his own. His horse kicked up clumps of mud and they descended the small bank in a wild rush.

Marys let the smell of blood fill his nostrils, and the clash of steel and the screams fill his ears. Better to let it in, embrace it, caress it as you would a lover, then spend your energy to keep it out. They were all killers here, after all.

His right hand was itching to reach for his sword, but the others hadn't yet, so neither did he. The three of them galloped into a line, riding abreast with their leader at the center. Duncan's blue cloak was flapping widely in the wind, his hair a flowing streak of faded blue… seeing him so eager for a fight gave Marys more courage than he was like to admit.

The bulk of the fighting had moved inwards into the town, he saw. Drogo had crushed them. The battle seemed already won. Yet as they approached the broken wooden gate between the two crumbling walls, he saw the stragglers remained, those who had broken through Drogo's lines and were fighting desperately for their lives. Marys unsheathed his sword.

The first one to come at him was no more than a boy. Even in the suddenness of their horses rushing together, hooves crashing against the ground, Marys could see his braid fell shorter than his elbows. The fool boy had his arakh raised high, and before he could lower it Marys slashed the edge of his blade across his face in one swift swipe. His nose took the brunt of it, hanging by a fleshy thread as he went hurling into the dirt, blood bubbling between his fingers.

Marys rode on. Slowly the line they had formed began to break as the fighting grew thicker. He steered his horse right, where the plain fields and open squares were plentiful. He did not like to be trapped. Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Aerar reaching for his throwing axes. He hefted one from his saddle, threw his arm back and sent it spinning through the air. It stuck its edge into the horse of an oncoming screamer, and mount and rider alike went tumbling to the ground.

Then his own battles were upon him. The pain in his jaw quickly fell away. All Marys could feel was the leather hilt of his sword burning against his palm and saddle between his thighs. "Die!" One of Ogo's riders yelled as he charged at him. A poor choice of last words, Marys thought before he stuck his sword in the man's throat.

Then when he went down, choking, there came another. Marys ripped his blade free and spun wildly in the saddle to block the arakh rushing to his head. Just in time. He felt its sharp edge scraping against his brow, as desperate for his blood as the man who wielded it. They stopped there for a moment, blades locked as men and horse died around them; then Marys punched him in the gut, wrenched his sword free, and slashed wildly at his throat until the man's horse took off in a frenzy.

That was closer than he liked. He gave Blackblood his heels and spurred him off down the muddy road ahead, steering his horse through the corpses. The soil squelched loudly with each step, Blackblood's hooves were soaked wet with blood. A hail of arrows flew over his head and landed somewhere near the distant mud huts and grass hovels, earning a dozen cries.

It was hard to only the kill the men who were trying to kill you, Marys realized, for when you were finally close enough to see where their loyalties lied, their blades were only inches from your throat, their arrows already notched in their bows. Marys swung his longsword in wide arcs as he went, cutting down any man who made for him, sending them to join their dead horses on the ground. When he reached the end of the path, he quickly turned his mount around to go and find Duncan and Aerar amongst the fray.

He got as far as the end of the path before the familiar whistle of arrows came through the air. Closer this time, he realized, as black shafts came darting past his head. Fired at him, not over him. He ducked his head and hugged Blackblood's neck, praying, until his world suddenly flipped over and his face smashed against the mud.

Black soil filled his mouth. And blood, not all of it was his own. His head was rattling with the impact of the fall, his jaw suddenly screaming in pain. Perhaps he had broken it again. A dozen different horses came stomping closely to his head, dazing him, and before he could turn his ungainly body another two dead men had joined him on the ground. Their faces were smeared with horror. Marys spat, leant up and let his instincts take control of him.

Turning, he gritted his teeth as his shoulder wracked in pain. It was then he saw the long arrow shaft poking out from Blackblood's eye, and another in the horse's snout. Another dead horse, Marys thought. He had liked this one, but had no time to mourn him. He swiftly untangled his legs, numb from the weight, and reached for his sword.

While his fingers clambered through the dirt, a rider ahead spotting him moving and swung his horse around. He means to end me, Marys knew as the man spun his arakh in a wild fury and came galloping toward him. He lunged for his sword again, his fingers scraping the hilt. It was no good.

Death had all but took hold of him, his eyes slowly closing, his body tensing, memories of home leaking into his mind, until Ghost leapt to his defence. The white wolf came bounding through the mud and sprang so high his teeth found the soft flesh of the rider's neck. They went spiraling to the ground in a twist of blood and hair and growls. Marys let go of his breath.

The fighting around him had grown even scarcer. For that he was relieved… "Marys!" A familiar voice suddenly called through the distant clash of steel and horses and men. The song of war. It can't be…

Jon Snow came galloping around him with a concerned look about his face.

"Boy!" Marys tried to leap to his feet, but his legs betrayed him and he stumbled onto a knee, nearly falling again. I am fool, he thought, that bastard wolf should've let the man take me. Jon's sword was unsheathed and its long fine edge already coated with blood.

"Are you hurt?" The boy asked. He quickly reined to a stop and leapt from the saddle, rushing to give him a hand. Marys looked around them to make sure nobody would soon attack, and when he saw it was unlikely, he took the help with a smile.

"No, my horse took the arrows, I took the fall." He tapped a boot on Blackblood's still dead head.

"Jon!"

Though he could not see him, Marys could taste the fury in Duncan's voice. It almost made him shiver, never mind the boy. No sooner did Duncan come trenching through the mud and corpses with long steps and a stern look on his muddied face. His blue cloak hung steadily from his shoulders, ripped and bloodied from the dead and dying. "I told you to stay with Daenerys. You were to take her to safety should we lose."

Jon Snow stared at him tiredly. But before he could say a word back, Aerar leapt between them. "What does it matter?" he suddenly yelled at the top of his lungs. It was a shock big enough to nearly take Marys off his feet. "He's here now. We get on with it!"

None of them spoke afterwards, but Marys took their sudden march forwards as a sort of silent agreement. The gods had saw it fit to take the three of their mounts, so Jon Snow joined them on foot, leaving his own horse behind. What was left of the battle raged ahead. Marys watched the boy's face as they approached, expecting to see a tremble in his lip, a twitch of fright in his eyes, yet the boy only looked like he was ready. Like he was brave.

Marys could not deny the pride that filled him.

The fighting was almost done, Marys noticed, with more men running away in terror than towards them in fury. Yet as with all wars, it was not truly at an end until the last fighting man was put down. Two dozen of Ogo's men still fought, most of them on foot. They eyed the four of them as they approached, and gripped their arakhs all the harder.

Duncan leapt forward, sword at the ready, and met the first of them. And from there he cut through them as a dagger does cheese. With ease. A single swipe of his blade would send them slumping to his feet. Each time his sword finding the gap in their defence. What little defence they have. It was a slaughter.

The fools kept coming at him, desperate for the glory and the trophy they could earn, and the clever ones stayed well clear and came for them instead.

Ghost bounded forward with fang and claw. An arakh came swinging at Marys through the haze, and he put his own sword in the way. The smash of steel rang loud in the air. Blades wedged together. Marys could see the terror in his opponent's eyes when Jon Snow's sword took his trapped arm clean off at the elbow, blood spurting in a fountain as he fell to the ground.

Marys felt a thrill rushing through him. He looked at Jon, gave a small nod, and the two of them went rushing forward. In ones and two's and three's they came at them, screaming, flashing their blades like the beasts they were, and every one of them was sent to the dirt.

By the end of it, so much blood had covered his face that Marys could hardly see. He could smell the familiar stench of piss and shit. It's always worse when there are as many dead horses as there are men. Marys let his arse slump to floor, dropping his sword as the others came to a still around him. It landed with a thud.

He leant over and grabbed the vest of a nearby dead man, using it as a cloth to wipe his face. The blood painted the vest a deep red.

The bear knight was approaching them. "They are routed and fleeing," he was saying, removing his dinted great helm, "but still as many as ten thousand captives."

"The Dothraki would make prisoners of their enemies?" Jon said, his breath still frantic. The boy had ended many lives today, Marys knew, their blood scattered in blotches across his face and clothes. He even saved my own. He felt like praising the boy. Dothraki warriors were no easy opponent, yet they seemed to have made short work of them.

Most of them already knew they were dead men.

"Not prisoners," Jorah replied., "but slaves. This way, Drogo can sell them in return for ships."

A hushed silence fell, as the five of them all seemed to get breaths back at once. The air stank of blood and death. Aerar began to chew on his sourleaf loudly. Every yard of the Lhazareen town was decorated with a corpse, and for every corpse were three arrows. Each one of them soaked in blood and shit.

Drogo's men were huddling about them, taking their boots and cutting their braids, small bells jingling in their hair. Far away in the huts, a woman and a child were crying desperately. Marys pitied them.

"We should send word to Daenerys that the battle is done." Duncan declared. Marys didn't move. He'd spent enough time laboring after that girl.

"I'll go," Jon insisted, sheathing his cleaned sword.

Duncan shook his head. "No, you stay. Aerar, find a horse. Do you know where she is? Good."

Aerar never questioned his orders. They watched him leave.

"You fought well, Jon." Duncan said when Aerar's footsteps had faded. It seemed they were all waiting for the 'but', yet it never came. Instead Duncan gave him a small smile and a nod. "Our teaching has not been for naught, has it, Marys?"

"It seems that way," Marys said with a grin of his own.

JON

Jon watched the heavy axe fall. The dying man's groans came to a sudden end as it sliced clean through his neck. When he had lifted the axe free, the small man grabbed the severed head and threw it towards the nearest pile. Others did the same. Jaqqa rhan, Marys had named them, mercy men who disgraced the dead and ended the suffering of the dying.

The town was still rapidly burning. Long plumes of choking smoke rising into in the air in thick black clouds. Nobody seemed to notice, or care. Dothraki were no strangers to plunder and fire. Khal Drogo's riders were herding the survivors and captives through the town, whipping them as if they were cattle, putting an arrow through whoever failed to walk or tried to run. The Lhazareen who had survived, for better or worse, were ripped from their broken homes and made to join the rest. Mothers and children crying…

They waited for Daenerys at the broken gate - Duncan and Marys to his left, Ser Jorah to his right - where company was scarce but for the carrion crows and rabid dogs that had arrived to feast upon the corpses. Jon had never seen so many dead in one place, or so many dead at all. A few of them he had put there himself. This was no pitched battle, he knew, yet Duncan had said he fought well, and Marys had commended him that Dothraki were no easy opponent.

The sun had risen high when Daenerys arrived. She rode at the head of her long trail, Aerar by her side, her handmaidens and her khas slowly following behind. From when they had peaked over the road, they seemed to take a thousand years to finally reach the gate. Yet Jon noticed Daenerys was taking her time to look around at the remnants of the battle. Over the farmers' fields and huts, the streams that ran crimson. Was there revulsion in her eyes? From the gate, he could not tell.

"Your lord husband awaits you within the town," Ser Jorah announced when she finally reached them. It did not take him long to spin his horse around and begin riding beside her.

"How does he fare?" she asked.

"A few cuts," Ser Jorah replied, "but a great victory was won today. Come, we shall take you to him."

For the khal, what great victory it was. Khal Ogo and his son Fogo had stood no chance, both falling to his blade. The men of their khalasar killed, fled or enslaved. Their eyes had been so firmly set on pillaging the Lamb Men in their homes and temples that before they could even reach their for arakhs or mount their horses, most of them were dead.

Yet the men of Drogo's khalasar were no better. The thuds of their plodding horses mingled with the screams of babes and innocent men and women, the crack of whips and spit of the fires that burned deep within their homes. Jon could not simply abide to watch them slaughtered.

Jon rode up beside Duncan, who looked around the remains of the battle with hard eyes. "Why must they kill the lamb men? It was Ogo who fought back."

"These men and women erected their homes on the Dothraki Sea," Duncan said, "they have always known the risk."

And so it went on. They left the broken gate and began crossing the town. Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. Jon looked away, his anger growing.

"I've told the khal he ought to take the slaves for Meereen," Ser Jorah was announcing. The girl wailed in pain. "They'll pay a better price than he'd get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten-"

The girl screamed.

"Make them stop." Daenerys said, suddenly coming to a halt. Her eyes found Ser Jorah, and them him and the others.

"Khaleesi?" Jorah replied in a baffled tone.

"You heard me," Dany said, "stop them."

Jon needed no more convincing. He whirled his horse around, as the girl still screamed, and galloped towards them. This could end in blood, he knew. He gave a high whistle, and Ghost came bounding beside him.

By the time they reached them, the first man was done with her, and second man had taken his place. The bells in his braid chimed with every thrust of his hips.

"Stop." Jon said in Dothraki as he reined beside them. A few of them turned. He lunged down from the saddle. He did not doubt they understood him, Marys had taught him enough words by now. "The khaleesi will have no rape."

He pointed at Daenerys. The rapers followed his finger, looked at her, then laughed in his face. "I do not take orders from that bitch!" he spat. The others laughed louder. The man smacked a hand against his cock, a stupid move, for that was where Ghost then plunged his fangs.

A great crunch cracked the air. The man went screaming to the ground. Crying, gasping. Though the others hid it well, Jon saw the fear in their eyes as they watched him writhe in a pool of his own making, Ghost's fangs buried deep. Jon unsheathed his sword. Blood still stained the snarling dragon's head on its pommel. The men went for their arakhs. I may die. He took his stance.

Before the closest man could lunge for him, an arrow came spiraling through the air and took him in the throat. He fell to the mud, choking on his tongue. The others stared in rage, but by then Aggo and Rakharo and Jhogo were upon them, with Duncan and Ser Jorah at their rear.

So instead, they quickly mounted their horses and bolted. All the while the man atop the girl continued to plunge in and out her. So desperate for his own pleasure he was blind to what had occurred around him. Duncan suddenly barged past them on swift steps, dagger in hand. He grabbed the man's braid and yanked his head backwards, then slit his throat. The blood went flying on the girls torn dress. Her screams came to an end. Jon slowly reached for her.

She flinched at his touch, tears in her eyes. "Safe," Jon said. "It is safe." Whether she understood his words was a mystery, but eventually she came with him all the same. Mormont passed him his own blood-soaked cloak and Jon wrapped it around her. They walked her back to Daenerys. She was shivering, stiff with fear.

"What do you want done with her?" Jon asked.

Dany's eyes found her handmaidens. "Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not a have a rider's look, perhaps she will not be so frightened of you. The rest of you, with me." She spurred her horse onwards.

It did not take long before another girls wail broke the air, as they crossed the narrow twisty lanes lined with headless corpses. Dany did not have to order them this time. They knew what they had to do.

They were five men this time, dismounted and watching and laughing as the two girls were raped. Ghost ran over on quick paws and hamstringed the first. The man was dragged screaming to the floor as the wolfs jaws made a bloody mess of his leg. The riders of the ko surrounded the other three, whilst Jorah wrapped a mailed hand around the last man and threw him to the dirt. When he made for his arakh, Aggo's arrow took his between the eyes.

They took the sobbing girls back to Daenerys. Though they had saved them, Jon did not see any kindness in their eyes. How could they be grateful? We save them from a fate we brought upon them ourselves. They would not forget that their families and friends laid butchered around them, their town a burning wreck. They were suspicious of them, wondering if they had claimed them for some worse fate.

The others along the paths had begun to see what they were doing. When Ghost came towards them, his snout dripping blood, some men climbed their horses and rode away, cursing. Others reached for their blades, so intent on defying Daenerys that they would give their life. Either way, they claimed all the women that they came across, whether blood was spilled or no. By the end, a long trail of them followed at Dany's back.

One old woman had thanked them in the Common Tongue. A man had mounted her over a caked mud well, which he was later thrown down. She was holding her ripped and bloodied robes to her chest, but still she settled below Dany's horse and bowed her head. "Thank you, Silver Lady." Was all she said before she joined the others.

Finally, they came upon Khal Drogo. He had seated himself below a mud temple, rising high upon a mound of earth. Beside him, a pile of heads festered, taller than he was. The smell was almost unbearable, and the buzz of flies so loud he thought there might've been thousands of them.

The khal himself did not seem to care. Jon had not seen him during the battle, yet he knew had been at thick of it. There was evidence of that in the arrow that gaped from his upper arm, the blood spattered across his face from the men who he had felled, and the more bells that rang loudly in his braid. Not only that, his left nipple had been replaced by a long curving gash than ran up his chest. Red and sore.

Daenerys dismounted and ran to him. Jon did not hear their words when Duncan suddenly pulled him aside. The man lead him behind the crowd of Drogo's warriors and beside a fallen hut.

Duncan eyed the slash on Jon's arm. "Does it hurt?"

Jon had near forgotten about it. He looked down at his arm and inspected it. It was no more than shy of two inches, only quite deep. "No." he replied.

Duncan clicked his tongue. "It will now. Go to Aerar, he knows to how seal a cut like that."

He was right. The more Jon thought about it, the more it stung. "I could do it myself," he said. Luwin had shown him once or twice whilst stitching a wound he had taken on the training yard.

"Well, he knows how to do it properly." Duncan gave him a resolute look. Like he was unsure what do with him. "Marys told me you saved his life today."

Jon remembered it clearly. He had only just ridden through the shattered wooden gates, after cutting down his first opponent, when he had seen Marys crawling through the mud. He shook his head. "Ghost saved him. I wouldn't have made in time…"

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. "Should I go and thank the wolf instead? That beast is wild, sure, but be grateful for it. He savaged a great deal of men today. When they fear him, they'll fear his master too. Anyhow, I didn't want to pull you aside in front of the others, not when I could see the pride in your eyes."

"Pride?"

"Yes. Pride. You fought well, make no mistake. Only a fool would feel no pride. Yet, I did ask you to watch Daenerys…"

Jon sighed. "You did, and I held my tongue and waited on the hill. I would've stayed there till the battle's end. But Daenerys herself saw the truth of it… she didn't need me there to protect her. Marys did, like you said. If I hadn't come, he'd be dead."

To his surprise, Duncan didn't fight him. Instead, he glanced down at his dirtied boots and said. "So, this is how it will be. So be it, boy. Every morning and every night we'll practice with sword and shield, spear and lance. You have a trained arm on you, no doubt, but there is still much for you to learn."

Jon nodded in agreement, a smile on his face. They had sparred already, often at night or in the day time of Illyrio's manse, but not lately. Not in Vaes Dothrak where no one was permitted to carry a blade. It would be good to learn from him again. His skills seemed to go beyond that of a sellsword.

"Now, go." Duncan demanded. "Find Aerar."

Jon turned without another word. His teeth gritted as a shot of pain crawled up his shoulder. He felt a cold river of blood running down his arm. He had taken the wound from the first rider he encountered. Only a scratch, he reminded himself. Yet even shallow cuts could fester, he knew, once the rot got in them.

Jon recalled a guard in Winterfell who had sliced his bare foot against a rock, and left it so long without the maester's knowledge that by the time he was sent to Luwin it was too late. The whole barracks had reeked of death and rot, and Luwin had taken his foot, in the end. Jon still remembered the night the guard's screams filled the castle.

Passing through the crumbling town, he found Marys and Aerar sat languidly upon the belly of a dead horse. Respect for the fallen did not seem to be at the forefront of their concerns. They eyed him as he approached. Marys was taking long swigs from a wineskin, slushing it around in his mouth before swallowing. Whilst Aerar chewed sourleaf, a red tinge to his lips as he sat gazing silently at the floor.

Jon stopped before them.

"What is it you want?" Marys grumbled with a burp.

"I took a wound in the fight." Jon said, showing them. "Duncan says you can tend to it, Aerar."

The short man was on his feet in an instant. He grabbed Jon's arm with one hand and with the other began to prod at it. Jon sucked in his breath as a cold pain ran down his arm and into his fingers. "Should be easy enough. It will need cleaning, and closing. Marys, get me my tools."

After a sigh, Marys rose to his feet. "Yes, master." He said sardonically. He took a step closer to Jon, inspecting the wound. "It will scar well, that one. Scars in battle may make a man of you yet."

With that he began to slowly walk away, every footfall as unsteady as the last, his green cloak scraping the ground. Jon wondered just how much wine he had drank.

It did not take long for Aerar to close and treat the wound, and all the while Marys sat beside them regaling him with stories of his time within the Second Sons. Some stories Jon had already heard from his lips, others he had not. All the same, the man went on. He had left the Second Sons when Mero, The Titan's Bastard, had become their leader. He had sunk their reputation so low that even the Free Cities would no longer employ them. Afterwards, he has crossed from city to city, lending his sword to anyone willing to offer the coin. Until finally he had found Duncan in a port of Volantis. The two of them had worked under the pay of a nobleman, and had not strayed far ever since.

"It is done." Aerar announced as he leant back. Jon gave his shoulder a shrug. The skin of his upper arm felt taut and stiff, but the sting had near but gone.

"Thank you." Jon stood.

Around them, the riders of the khalasar had begun to mount their horses. The crack of distant fires deafened by the plod of horse hooves. The Dothraki did not stay long in the places of their plunder. Jon was glad to be going, too.

Jon turned to Marys, as the riders began to stream down the nearby path. "You'll be wanting a new horse."

Marys chuckled. "Yes. How long, I ask, before an arrow kills me and not my steed? This is my third in five moons."

"Perhaps the gods favour you." Aerar said as he gathered his tools.

"Gods?" Marys got to his feet. "The gods are selfish cunts."

They both started to laugh. That was how Jon left them.