A Bane of Blood

by TomSevenstrings

Jon Snow does not travel north to join the Night's Watch, but instead, having learnt the truth of his parentage, sails the Narrow Sea to seek his other blood... the blood of the dragon.

11. Chapter 11

This chapter took longer than average, but the revisions made in that time were absolutely worth it. Thank you Doublehex for the invaluable beta work!

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JON

Khal Drogo was dying.

Beneath his thighs, Jon's horse moved forward on its own accord, mindlessly following the trail the khalasar had set. The land around them offered no more than sand and boiled dirt, an empty horizon Jon Snow had seen a hundred times before... yet staring at the khal, he had never seen a man look so drained, so sick and pale as he appeared.

Large, bulging bloodflies had circled him in swarms for the last few leagues, endlessly crawling and sucking at his skin. The sight of it made Jon's own leather vest itchy against his chest, but the khal had not gone as far as to notice a single one of them. They stick to him like he's already a corpse, Jon thought with a grimace.

Riding beside him, often giving her husband worried glances and calling his name, was Daenerys. No matter how loud she beckoned him, Drogo gave no sign of even hearing her… if he dies, then we're done… and so is she. Jon chewed on that thought for a moment, considered the weight of it. He had never stopped to think what Drogo's death would do to her, so soon after Viserys. I wanted him dead the moment I laid eyes on him, he remembered, but she has grown to love him. Whatever was left of her from the girl he met in Pentos, Jon saw little of it.

I need to find Duncan. Jon looked over his shoulder to gaze at their huge trail, the thousands of riders and carts and captured slaves writhing in the dust. Amongst the black braids and brown stallions, Jon's eyes searched for faded blue hair. He couldn't see it anywhere.

Desperately, he shot one last long glance at Drogo atop his red. Move, you bastard. Jon's eyes bore into him, anxiously waiting for the khal to suddenly wake from his stupor, grip his reins with full strength and spur his horse onwards in a blaze of fury, hooting and roaring. But in place of what Jon hoped for, instead remained the shallow clop-clop of his horses hooves as the khal's empty eyes stared forward.

Jon knew he was lost.

He took a quick breath. How long before he dies truly? Feeling a sudden weight on his shoulders, Jon began to wonder if every man in the khalasar was waiting for Drogo to fall from his saddle. Waiting for him to die so they could take the power for themselves. Drogo will be lucky if he lives till sunset. Jon looked to the sky to see how far away that was.

Not long.

Jon heard the man's horse before Marys' voice rose in the air. "What are you staring at so foolishly?" the sellsword asked, sounding dry as bone. Are there tears in Dany's eyes? Jon could not see from the sand rising in the wind, dust that made his own eyes water. He scratched them and did not spare Marys an answer, nor a mere gaze. Instead he kept watching. Though the man sometimes seemed half-simple, it did not take long to follow Jon's eyes.

"The khal," Marys' tone was a chilling one, "he's gotten worse."

"Yes," Jon agreed, though quietly. He did not want his words to alarm Daenerys, or anyone for that matter. "He's a dead man. You can see it..."

At those words, Marys grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, forcing them to face one another. He looked across at the khalasar – there was a good distance between them and the main trail - then back at him. "Don't speak such things aloud. Find Duncan… when the khal dies, we must be ready."

Jon nodded. He's right, we must be ready. For what, though? That was the question he feared. Jon snapped the reins and spun his horse around. To fight, to run? Drogo's strength bound the khalasar together, Jon knew well, when he died the men had no one to follow. It would be a slaughter, and the khalasar would devour itself in less than a day.

Khal Drogo reeled from his saddle.

Jon staggered to a stop, his breath caught in his throat. The khal smashed against the ground, hard. Without an arm to cushion the blow, his face and body collapsed in full-force with the dirt. A cloud of flies and dust erupted around him, yet there was not a single grunt or cry of pain, only Dany's wild sob. The khal had not felt it. Jon watched breathlessly, waiting.

This is it.

Daenerys was by his side in a heartbeat, on her knees, brushing the flies off his chest. Jon felt he should've gone to her, but to do what? Tell her that her husband was as good as dead? Counsel her to send for the healers? A part of him wanted to weep for her, and another unsheathe his sword for the chaos of what was to come.

Out of the haze, the bloodriders came galloping towards them. Jon dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing the snarling dragon's head. He trusted the three of them least of all, for their vicious ways and eyes full of hate. I would stand no chance against all three, he thought, until he spotted Duncan galloping up behind them.

The man reined up beside the others, watching as Dany yelled out commands through her tears. Qotho, the angriest of the three, suddenly spun his horse around and began a dash back down the trail. Jon heard the curses spewing from his mouth. The first to turn cloak?

Watchful, Jon flung down from his saddle and helped them lift Drogo from the dirt. Dany ordered the slaves to build the tent with haste, and so they set the poles and sandsilk over the dirt as quick as they could. This is no place to make camp, Jon thought as they steered the khal through the door flaps, but what choice do we have? They could not go on, not if the man could not ride his horse. When they settled Drogo atop the rushes, Dany ordered the men of her khas to guard the door. "Admit no one without my leave," she told them. "No one."

"Daenerys," Jon blurted when they the others were out of the door. Drogo's body was still and silent between them. She looked at him, waiting. He's dying, he wanted to tell her, he's lost, he's dead and we need to run, to go, to survive. Her violet eyes were full with tears. "I'll go with them." Jon said instead, sighing.

Outside, the khalasar was turning frantic, as tens of thousands of riders were forced to a stop, most of them not knowing why. Four slaves came running towards the tent, carrying a large copper tub between them. They groaned with its weight, their pale arms straining. The khas parted to let them through the doors. Baths will not save the khal, Jon thought.

It did not take long for Jorah Mormont to find them. He swung down from his saddle and ran over to them on long, desperate steps. His voice was quick and breathy when he said, "Where is the khaleesi?"

"Inside," Duncan nodded towards the tent. He was clamping an iron vambrace over his wrist, "with the khal."

Jorah rushed forward, but stopped himself before he could reach the door. Slowly, he turned back to face them. "How does he fare?" He asked, in the Common Tongue, "does he live?"

Jon's eyes fell to the dirt, then to Duncan. The two of them looked between one another before Jon said. "For now." With every moment that passed he could feel death's constraints closing in on them. From his side, Marys slapped a wineskin against Jon's chest, giving it a shake.

Jon shoved the man's arm away. "I don't want to drink."

"You look like you need it," Marys insisted, "drink, it will calm your nerves."

He's right. Hesitantly, Jon grabbed the wineskin and drank until his throat burned with the bitter sweetness of it.

When Jorah finally reached the door flaps, Rakharo blocked the way with his arakh. The steel shimmered in the sunlight. It was darker than castle-forged steel, Jon noticed, thinner yet more brittle. "Tell the khaleesi I beg entry," Jorah's words came forth in a rush. Aggo, clutching his bow over one shoulder, was the one to turn and duck back inside.

After a few moments, Aggo emerged from the shadows and gave the smallest of nods. "And you, the Andals" he said as he pointed a finger, his eyes coming onto Jon and Duncan. Apprehensively, Jon followed them inside.

Trapped between the sandsilk walls, the scent of rot hung so thick in the air it made Jon's eyes water. The battle had smelt the same, he remembered, all those corpses. Drogo was lying across the floor beside the copper tub. If not for the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, Jon would have thought him a corpse too. Each breath the khal took cracked its way up his throat, and his glassy eyes stared emptily up at the roof of the tent.

Tears were falling down Dany's cheeks as she rushed towards them. "Please, help him. For the love you say you bear me… help me now."

Duncan was silent, measuring. Jon bent over to lift her from her bruised knees. She was so light. "Get her some water," Jon ordered the maids. But so frozen with terror, they did not move. Shivering, Daenerys looked so weak, so drained of colour and life. Jon had seen her frightened before, but this was not the same.

She looked into Jon's eyes, and in her wide black pupils he saw her fear. He saw himself staring back at her, silent and dumbfounded. A single word would've been enough to shatter her. "Can we save him?" She asked, her voice as faint as a child's.

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. I don't know what to tell her, he thought, for the truth was not what she needed to hear. Jon took a breath, lifted her further from the ground and said. "By the gods, we'll try."

He felt her hands grip his arm all the harder as she clung on for strength.

They watched Duncan kneel beside the khal. He looked at the mud poultice on Drogo's chest, sniffed the air, then met Dany's eyes. "Send away the maids."

With a single gesture, they went running from the tent. A small breeze lapped across his brow when they passed through the tent flaps, the smell fading, and for a moment Jon had never felt anything as half as sweet. Then it was gone.

"Jon," Duncan's words broke the silence, "pass me your dagger."

Jon wondered why he didn't use his own, but wordless, he unsheathed the blade and passed it over to him. Valyrian steel held a finer edge than any ordinary steel, he supposed. Duncan used the dagger's edge to cut away at the rotting, black leaves and dried mud from Drogo's chest. It cracked, oozed and crumbled as his deft fingers pulled it back. When he pried away the last chunk of the poultice, cutting at the tendrils of hardened puss that bound it together, the foul smell of rot grew even thicker. Jon nearly retched as it swam to the back of his throat.

Blood leaked from the wound. Black and thick and corrupted. It seemed to be the only thing the khal felt as it slipped down his ribs, as he shivered and thrashed. "No," Dany whispered as tears ran down her cheeks. "No, please, gods hear me, no."

Duncan got back to his feet, passing Jon his dagger, "Daenerys, he's gone. There's no coming back from this. I'm sorry."

"No, he can't die, he mustn't, it was only a cut." Dany was back by Drogo's side again, taking his hand in her own. "I will not let him die..."

"A small cut," Jon watched the puss gape from the wound, thick and black and awful. It has festered. "Who healed him?"

"It matters not." Duncan said. He ran a hand through his faded hair. The blue dye between the strands was so old it was purple, and the rest a smoking silver. "We don't have the time to sit here and watch him die, Daenerys. I'm sorry, I am, but we need to go."

She looked up at him, trembling. "Go where? Where would we go? Why should we run? I am khaleesi and I carry Drogo's heir, he will be khal once my husband…"

Duncan sighed. "The Dothraki do not believe in heirs and blood, sweetling, only strength. We shall go back to Pentos. We'll find a ship, or ride there if we must. Yes, Illyrio is cunning and treacherous, but for a year and half we lived safe within the walls of his manse. Once we get there, we can plan what to do next… will your khas come with us?"

"Yes, I think…" Dany replied, doubt dripping from her every word. She clutched her swollen belly with one hand and her husbands with the other.

Ser Jorah's voice was full of caution. "If we are going, then we should go now."

"I will wait outside." Jon said.

Stepping out from the shadow of the tent, he nearly fell to his knees as the cool air flooded over him. Sweat clung to every inch of his skin, and Jon gritted his teeth as he kneaded the sickness in his stomach. He found his waterskin and uncapped it. After a few swings, he gave himself time to breathe. The heat was astounding. Tents and sleeping mats had already been assembled around them, stretching for miles. The sun was falling to the horizon, the sky slowly turning the colour of blood. A red sky is a bad omen, he remembered Old Nan saying once. They were just stories.

Qotho and the other bloodriders were suddenly rushing out from the tent, barking curses. Jon had never seen them enter in the first place. Jhogo and the others swept past them, leading the khal's horse inside. What are they doing? Duncan came rushing through the flaps. "Find Ghost," was all he said before running to his horse. He will find me, Jon knew as he made for his own.

He began to loosen his sword from the straps that bound it to the saddle. The bloodriders did not make idle threats, and Jon knew he would need it by him if it came to blood.

A crowd was beginning to gather around them, the air full of moans and howls and curses. Jon did not have the patience to heed them any of them. The straps that bound his sword would not come lose, so Jon ripped out his dagger and cut them instead. In a single slash they snapped, and he grabbed his sword and ran back to the tent door. In the corner of his eye he saw Ghost bounding to his side. Good, he thought.

"Stay here," Jon said to the wolf, squatting down beside the door. "Do you hear me? Stay."

The wolf hesitated, staring at the blackness inside. But then as if in response to his words, Ghost sat on his hind legs and looked at the masses gathering around them. A white wolf standing vigil to the shadows at his back.

Everything was happening at once. When Jon turned he saw Jhogo and Aggo digging a firepit, heaving as their shovels cracked the soil; Marys and Aerar were spinning back and forth on their horses, keeping the others at bay; the handmaidens were crying, the children wailing, the men shouting. Duncan came marching through them, armored some, his greatsword slung across his back. Jon looked for a longsword at his belt too, but it was nowhere to be seen.

When Dany came stumbling from the tent, Jon could see something was terribly wrong.

"I had to save him," she said in a weak tone, her eyes sore and red. Jon wrapped an arm around her and led her aside. There were too many people watching, praying on her weakness. Everything was falling apart, but he had known this would happen. Daenerys clung to him for strength as they crossed the side of the tent. They made it halfway before Jon faltered to a stop, as a boy jumped from the crowds and stood before them.

"You magei." He spat at their feet. There was true hate in his dark eyes, and that alone pushed Jon Snow over the edge. In a heartbeat, Jon ripped his sword from its scabbard and pressed the steel to the boy's throat. The apple of his neck bobbed as he swallowed. "Hold your tongue," Jon spat in Dothraki, "or I'll cut it out."

With that, the boy disappeared amongst the crowds. "Come on," Jon said as he hauled Dany back to her khas. Doreah took her from him, the three of the maids bundled together. "The child," Irri said slowly. Jon did not have time to listen. He turned and spotted Ser Jorah rushing towards them, armored in his mail and leather and steel. "What has she done…"

He had not seen it before, but following Jorah's eyes he looked back at the sandsilk walls of the tent. Inside, shadows danced within. How? An uprising surged in the crowds as the Dothraki began to mutter and back away. Their cries turned from sorrow to anger, curses growing louder. They won't stand for some dark magic.

Jon lifted his sword to his side as the bloodriders returned. "This must not be," Qotho, at the front, thundered loudly. Spit was flying from between his teeth. They had brought the hairless eunuchs - healing men - along with them. It's too late now. Marys and Aerar were bellowing down at the crowds from their horses, keeping them back. The steel of their longswords glistened brightly, but were otherwise unbloodied. Ghost was bearing forward.

"This will be!" Dany shouted from behind him, her voice cracking in agony.

"Maegi!" Haggo came stepping forward, ripping his arakh free with a growl. Jon tensed and slipped into a stance. But then, as silent and as swift as a shadow, Duncan slowly came past him. Jon watched Qotho draw his arakh. "You will die, maegi," he promised, "but the other must die first."

Duncan's voice pierced the air like an arrow through flesh. "Stop." He said, with a subtle fury that made Jon tremble. Everyone fell to a standstill. Qotho's dead eyes settled upon him, mouth seething, pupil's shaking with mad rage. The others behind him just the same. Duncan's tone was iron. "Jorah, take Daenerys and the others to safety. Protect her with your life."

Jorah warily shook his head. "No, I will stay and fight," the old knight began to reach for his sword.

"Now, ser." Duncan insisted, his tone offering no argument.

With that, Duncan slowly reached a hand over his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his greatsword.

In that moment, the air smelt like blood.

Jon had never once seen the blade bare, never taken the time to really look at it. If Duncan paid it no heed, why should he? Though looking now, from the hilt itself – a round pommel of pure white, engraved with a star, and a cross-guard made of languid metal the colour of milkglass – Jon could see it was a sword made for kings.

The blade slid from the scabbard with a metallic hiss that seared the air.

Jon's breath fell away as even in shadow, the steel shone as white and pure as a star. The world grew brighter as flares of light danced along the fullers, moving here and there as Duncan swung it to his side. Its vicious edge shimmered for all of them to see, warning them. It was as if dawn had come all over again. White and sharp, white and deadly, white and dangerous.

This time, Jorah did not disobey him. "Yes." he said. The knight quickly sheathed his sword, turned and began to the walk the others away.

"I will give you one last chance," there was a sudden valor in Duncan's voice that Jon had never heard before. The voice of a sure man. He had taken his sideward stance, back as straight as the sword in his hands. "Defend your khaleesi and live, or fight me and die."

The six of them were bearing down on him, but Duncan was unchanged. Unmoving. Without fear. Qotho was enraged. "You are nothing, milk man. Once you are dead, I will kill the girl and leave you both for the dogs."

"Nothing?" Duncan said slowly. The wind was brushing his sodden blue cloak, his head seemed to edge Jon's way, only for a moment, before he said. "I… am the Sword of the Morning. You have made your choice."

Jon nearly dropped his own sword as the realization dawned on him, but before the words could run through his head, before he could take their meaning, Qotho was already dashing forward. His arakh rose in a terrible swing, the air hissing, a roar coming from his mouth. Duncan stepped forward to meet him.

When the two blades met, light flared and a great steel shatter rattled the air around them. So loud it could've been the world breaking in two. But Jon soon saw it. Qotho's arakh was split in half, part of his blade laid flat upon the dirt. Brittle steel, Jon thought as the bloodrider stared down at his broken arakh, dazed. Duncan wasted no time. Swinging his sword in a rising arc, in one strike the blade took off Qotho's head.

Screams rose all around them as blood leapt up into the air. Duncan danced forward to the others, Qotho's lifeblood dripping from his sword's edge. It was still five against one. It was no match… and yet, Jon did not fear. The others held their arakhs before them. They had grown far more hesitant, but their instincts were too strong to resist. They rushed towards him.

Duncan parried their first two strikes, and then a dozen others, trying his hardest to stop them from circling him. It was no good to be surrounded. Cohollo lunged too far, desperate to draw blood, and paid for it. Duncan knocked his blade away mid-strike, then gutted him in a single blow. The old bloodrider's insides rolled forth like writhing red worms. He fell.

The others were more cautious now, but they had all gotten around him. Duncan made sure his back was never exposed, and Jon saw no fear in his eyes. He's no stranger to this.

Haggo, the only bloodrider still breathing, spat at Duncan's feet. The three others laughed aloud, then one of them sprang forward, his arakh cutting high. Duncan put his sword in the way, the clash of steel sent sparks flying. With their blades locked, another arakh came swinging for Duncan's head. He ducked, pulling his sword down with him, and the steel cut nothing but air. Now, Jon thought, as Duncan brought up his sword and sliced the man open from naval to breastbone. A slash of red mist followed the edge of his glowing blade, and a shallow scream left his opponent's lips before he died.

Then there were only three. Three dead men, Jon thought, but in a heartbeat another one of them was bearing down on Duncan, and everything moved too fast to think. The man hammered at Duncan's head, swinging right then left and right again. The smash of steel on steel filled the air. When the arakh finally came low, sweeping for Duncan's feet, he was ready for it. The blade brushed nothing but sand and dirt. In that instant, Duncan plunged his white sword down with all his might. The steel cut straight through the man's collar bone, and his neck exploded with blood.

Haggo had decided he would put an end to it. Swinging his arakh, he hurled down on Duncan with an endless stream of strikes. Duncan parried and dodged each one after the other, biding his time, until a rock suddenly came flying from the crowd and smashed against the back of his head.

It was small, Jon saw, but enough to lower Duncan's defence for even a moment. He fell to his knees, and Jon thought he was a dead man. The rock clattered at his feet, marred with blood. Haggo gave his arakh a deathly swing and buried the steel in Duncan's side.

"Ghost!" Jon yelled. The wolf was bounding on his feet. He leapt over Duncan's head and tried to wrap his jaws around Haggo's arm, but the bloodrider lunged backwards, pulling his arakh free, and gave the wolf a swift smack on the snout. Ghost went clambering to the dirt.

Aerar's axe suddenly flung through the air and took another rider in the back. Then Marys went bounding forward, his horse rearing, his sword cutting low at Haggo's head. But the bloodrider had the better of it, he slid to his knees and swung his arakh. The blade cleaved through one of the horse's legs. Screaming, the courser toppled to the dirt.

Marys' body smacked and rolled against the ground, his longsword flailing well out of reach. Haggo will kill him, Jon thought as the bloodrider's shadow crept over Marys' body. Duncan was coming back to his feet, but he was too slow. Someone took a knife to the fallen horse to end its screaming. They need me. Jon squeezed the hilt of his sword, felt his palm burn, and ran.

But it was not quick enough

Haggo's arakh was a blur.

Jon's heart beat so fast he thought it might burst through his chest. If you had blinked, you'd have missed it. But Jon had his eyes wide open.

Not him, Jon thought, as he stared at the crimson stain on Haggo's blade. Marys gagged, reaching a hand up to his neck. The blood leaked through his fingers and pooled around his head. He coughed again, and it burst out through his mouth. Jon felt a black rage take over him.

Haggo was ready and waiting when their blades clashed, his arakh getting in the way of his sword. Jon stared into his eyes, saw the madness in them, and wrenched free. He felt the warm sweat dripping down his face, the smell of death that burned his nostrils, and through it all his blood boiling. I must finish it, Jon thought. He wanted to charge him, but Haggo's defence was too strong for that. I watched him fight... he'll let me grind myself to dust, then end me.

With that thought in his head, Jon placed a foot behind him and waited for his opponent. He saw the hesitation pass through Haggo's eyes, for a single instant, before he came swinging at him. No Dothraki would ever dare show fear. When the rider struck at him this time, Jon was waiting. Steel smashed in the air, spitting sparks. His sword would be a ruin by the end of it, Jon knew. So long as I live.

They staggered away from one another, but Jon had reach on his side. He thrust his blade forward with both hands. He'll deflect it, Jon thought, he'll leap out of the way.

Blood shot up the fullers of his sword as a red eye split open on Haggo's leg. Jon pounced backwards on his heel, and Haggo's arakh whistled an inch past his face. The man looked down at the wound on his leg, spewing Dothraki so fast that could Jon not understand a single word of it. But any man could've seen his anger growing.

Jon waited. Let him take his time, let his leg collapse under him. His right eye suddenly throbbed, and his left leg burned in pain, but Jon did not dare show it. Blood started to clog his vision, or was it sweat? There was no time to think. Haggo was coming at him again, and deflecting his blow sent a sharp ache rattling up to Jon's shoulder.

The bloodrider grew restless. With every charge, his right leg wept red tears. Blood was sputtering from his flesh and spraying across the dirt. He grew slower, and Jon quicker. When the arakh came swinging for his head, Jon ducked low and sliced Haggo's calf. Then the man was limping. As good as dead. Yet Haggo pressed on, and blood begot blood.

Jon had opened a dozen wounds before Ghost leapt before him. Stumbling, Haggo didn't lift his arakh in time. Ghost's jaws sunk in into the bloodrider's stomach. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

The last man, Mago, was dead as well. Aerar's axe hung from his shoulder, and Duncan's shining sword poked clear through his chest, dripping blood. Jon ignored the wetness streaming down his face and ran to Marys.

The blood had come forth in a rush, covering his neck and the ground below his head. Jon fell to his knees beside him. He remembered saving Marys' life at the battle of the Lhazareen town… it had not been so long ago.

His face had been bloodied and was dirty from the fall, but now it was only blue and cold as snow. His big black eyes darted around endlessly, searching.

They settled on Jon's face.

As carefully as he could manage, Jon lifted his head and held it above the ground. He felt warm blood slipping through his fingers. The crowds around them roared and writhed, but Jon paid them no mind; he didn't care for them. A hand touched his shoulder, it looked like Dany's, but it was gone before he spared a look.

A choking sound erupted from Marys' throat. You're going to live, Jon wanted to tell him, but the words would not come. Marys had known many battles, seen many men die. He was no green boy. Jon's lies would've done more harm than good, he had no doubt.

And so Jon knelt there in silence. He felt as if a knife had punctured his stomach. Marys was not of his family, but Jon had thought him a friend. The gods are selfish cunts, he remembered the man saying once. Jon had laughed it off with the rest of them, but now he was not so naïve as he had been.

Marys reached a weak hand up and touched Jon's face. The way his brow creased and his skin wrinkled, it seemed to take all the strength he had left in him. His fingers brushed against Jon's chin, weak and wet with blood, and fell.

His eyes grew still.

Jon did not move. He stared back into the empty black eyes, knowing they would never move again. He did not let it go into his heart. This is the way of the world, he was learning, an hour ago I was talking to him… an hour ago, Daenerys was a khaleesi, and Duncan was a sellsword, nothing more. An hour ago, she was happy…

Now, that was all gone as well.

You could cry, or you could fight on. Jon did not know how much time had passed before Duncan joined him on his knees, but he noticed the crowds had receded, back to their tents and mats and hovels. Good, Jon thought, he did not want to listen to their bickering no longer.

"Here," Duncan said as he took Marys' body from Jon's arms. He laid him back on the dirt, though softly as if he was asleep and Duncan was afraid to wake him. The man's eyes were still open, so Jon closed them with a hand.

"You have blood on your face." Duncan said.

Jon ignored his words. "Your name was never Duncan," he lifted his gaze to look on at the stranger. Spots of blood were scattered about the man's face, his brow and nose and stubbled cheeks stained red. But staring even now, he did not seem at all the same person. "Sword of the Morning, you said. How… how… you're dead."

The last Sword of the Morning had been Ser Arthur Dayne, every boy in the Seven Kingdoms knew his name as well as they knew their own father's. And every boy wanted to grow up to be him. He was the greatest fighter the realm had seen in years, and long dead.

"I am not dead." the stranger said, hauling Jon to his feet. "And Aerar needs to tend to that eye." The flies had already found the bodies, nestling amongst the blood and gore, small and black. Ghost came to Jon's side and nipped lightly at his fingers. It was something he often did. Duncan, or so Jon had known him, looked at Aerar and the others. "Where's Daenerys?" he said.

Aerar's voice was brittle as parchment. "With the bear knight and the others, behind the tent."

"Tell them to gather their horses. We ride now."

Jon looked down at his sword. It felt so heavy. The steel was notched in a dozen places, and he thought of throwing it. But even a broken sword was better than none. He sheathed it at his belt.

"Jon. Now." Aerar was mounted, Duncan already climbing into the saddle. We're running. Jon prodded the sting burning along his face, his right eye most of all. When he brought down his hand, blood stained the end of his fingertips. He did not remember ever taking such a wound.

Then he felt it streaming down his cheek. Jon shook his head, his hand falling back to his side. "Daenerys, she won't go." His words came out as a slur, and his head swam. He nearly fell, but his legs managed to carry him as far as the tent.

"I won't leave him." Jon heard her desperate voice. You must… he's dead. You can't die for him as well. You're too important.

"Take my hand." Duncan said from afar, to him or someone else? Jon nearly staggered to his knees, but then a hand grabbed the back of his tunic. Jon gasped as he was hoisted onto a saddle. All the while, the blood streamed down his face.

Groaning, Jon prodded for the reins, and found them.

"No, I won't… I won't…" Through eyes blurred with blood, he saw Dany's silver. Then she was upon it. Run, he thought, ride. His horse started to move below him. "Ghost." He whispered.

"I'll hold them," a man's voice said.

The last thing Jon Snow glimpsed before his eyes closed, was Khal Drogo's tent bursting aflame.

SWORD OF THE MORNING

Over the shrill shivering of leaves, Rhaego let out a cry.

They had ridden hard from the khalasar for three days and three nights, only ever stopping to water their horses. No camps, no fires, and no rest. Not if they wanted their lives. Whenever Arthur would look to the horizon, he half-expected to see a thousand mounted savages chasing them down. But instead, he saw nothing but empty hills and distant green plains.

If any of the Dothraki were indeed on their tail, then they did a good job of hiding it. A horde of ten thousand travelled slower than ten. Even so, he gave the others no time to stop. They barked and moaned and hated him for it, and even Ser Jorah Mormont had insisted no one had followed them from the camp. They can sleep soundly once we reach Pentos, Arthur told himself, when we are safe.

It would take them moons, no doubt, yet day by day they travelled farther… until on the pale dawn of the fourth day, Daenerys could not mount her horse.

Nor could she stand. When she had fallen to her knees in the stream, crying out, Jon had been the first by her side. Then came the maids. Together, they lifted her from the water and carried her into the trees at their back. "The child is coming," Irri had been quick to announce.

Daenerys had laboured for a full day and night. Each scream that came echoing from her throat spread out across the plains, until Arthur grew so wary he forced them all to retreat inside the small patch of wood they had stopped beside. It was too small to be called a forest, but large enough to hide them.

When the babe was born, Daenerys could not move or speak, and she slipped in and out of her fever dreams as changeable as flame. The mats they had set her down on were soaked red with blood, but Irri had assured him that she would recover. They had wrapped her in furs to keep her warm, swaddled and fed her newborn babe with mare's milk, and could do nothing more but wait.

Arthur listened to the wind sigh through the trees. Another day gone, he thought, and more time lost. He could only be glad for the trees and bramble that shrouded them, for it may have saved their lives. A whole khalasar might've passed them without going through the trees, where the ground was littered with roots too unsteady for their horses and wagons.

The three warriors of her khas were his sentries and scouts, sworn to her by Khal Drogo. They had prattled on about how they meant to take Daenerys to Vaes Dothrak, and Arthur had half-thought he would need to kill them… but eventually they had given in. "You cannot take a khaleesi back to Vaes Dothrak if we're all killed," Jon had told them. The thought of breaking their oath kept them in line, for now.

Arthur had each one of them riding the borders of the wood, with orders to double back should so they see any sort of danger. "You will be well-rewarded when we reach Pentos," he'd told them. He thought that might help keep their loyalty, but rewards didn't seem to be much in their interests. They'll defect the moment they lay eyes on another khalasar, some part of him worried, yet they could have stayed with the khalasar and never have come at all.

And they were all he had.

But even with men on watch and Dawn beside him, Arthur wrestled sleep. He would sometimes let his eyes close in the saddle, but only for a moment. It was too much of a risk. He had fallen asleep the night Rhaego was born, up against the bark of an elm, and it had been a ghastly dream that shook him awake.

A haunting dream. Not of fire or war or clashing swords, war held no more nightmares for him. In his dream, he woke flat against grey stone. Waves crashed in the distance, and through the cry of seagulls he could hear a girl's sobs wracking the air. When he opened his eyes, Arthur saw all around him pillars in the shape of swords. Home, he recognised. He had not seen Starfall in years, but he would never forget the Palestone Sword.

Sodden wind brushed against his brow, and on his tongue it tasted like salt. Arthur tried to move his arms but he could hardly feel them. He remembered standing on the stone beneath him many years past, spending a night watching the waves crash below. The Palestone Sword was topped by a balcony that spread out on all sides, with no walls or bannister, only a roof and four pillars. It was here that she…

Spit bursting from his lips, Arthur forced himself to his feet. His scream echoed out from the tower and spread across the night, the sound of a man half-dead. He wore nothing but old rags and a blue cloak. His arms were bleeding and marred with dirt, his hair coming in knots over his eyes. He looked around him.

And saw her.

Long robes of purple silk twisted from her dress, flapping in the air like a hundred unfurling banners. Arthur tried to take a step towards her, but was gagged when something pulled at his throat. A collar, bound by rope to the pillar at his back. "Ashara…" his voice was half a cry, half a whisper. Her pale arm clung to the stone at her side, as she looked over the storm raging below.

When he blinked, her saw another beside her. The man's hair flowed down to his shoulders, silvery-grey. Enamelled steel the colour of snow hugged his frame, gorget, greaves, gauntlet and breastplate. From his shoulders fell the white cloak of the Kingsguard. The man joined his sister on the edge of the stone, and with a gentle hand he pushed her.

As she fell, lightning cracked across the sky. "No!" Arthur leapt forward, straining, but the device around his neck let him go no further. Tears fell from his eyes, and his feet bled as they burned against the stone. He would have choked himself to death had his body not broken beneath him. His knees buckled and he fell.

It was only when the man before him turned, did Arthur see who it was. Me. "Look at you," his own reflection told him. When Arthur opened his lips, the wind ran down his throat. This was not Duncan, this was Ser Arthur Dayne. A Sworn Brother, the Sword of the Morning in all earnest… a true knight. "You are not worthy of me. You threw away your honour when you threw away your cloak."

"You killed her." Arthur gasped. Rain started to lash against his skin like a whip, bouncing off stone.

"Yes, you killed her." The knight replied, approaching him. Dawn whistled as it was pulled from the scabbard, and his white plate rattled with each smack of the rain. "You ran and left her."

The knight lifted Dawn high in the air, and through eyes wet with tears and rain Arthur gazed at the sword's edge. He wished for a sword for himself, for a chance.

Then it appeared in his hand. Jon's sword, with the red hilt fashioned into a dragon's head. The steel of the blade burned red with light. Before the knight could cut him down, Arthur was on his feet plunging steel through plate and leather and wool. The knight's eyes grew faint and Dawn fell from his hand. It vanished in an instant, nothing more than mist.

The knight stumbled back and fell. Arthur turned to cut the rope binding him to the pillar, but found it was gone. Standing on his own two feet again, he nearly toppled over. Lighting cut through the sky, thunder shook the foundations of the Palestone Sword, and under it all he heard a man's voice murmur. "Arthur."

His Sworn Brothers were stood all around him, all six of them. One man for every pillar, and another two where his sister had fallen. Even in the storm, their white cloaks hung heavily from their shoulders, unmoving. Somehow that made it worse. Their armour was white and their skin too, pale and dead.

But not the Kingslayer. The boy who he had knighted was still a boy, wearing plate that didn't fit him. "Brother," he said. The word echoed across the ocean. Brother, brother, brother.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave." It was his own voice, Arthur knew, ringing from somewhere distant. His brothers took a step towards him. Their long white shields clanked, their swords rattled in their scabbards. Rain battered against the back of their helms.

"Stay back." Arthur warned them, holding Jon's sword out before him. He felt so weak that any one of them could've took him. "I… I will kill you."

"You won't kill me."

Rhaegar was a pale vision. On his head was a crown made of rubies, and his hair flowed long and languid over his shoulders. He was half a man, half a ghost.

"Rhaegar." Arthur looked into the Prince's violet eyes. "Tell them..."

"Tell them what?" The prince beckoned, smiling. "How you broke your oath and let Stark take my son?"

"Let a boy of King's blood be raised a Snow," said the White Bull.

"Dragon's blood," said the Bold.

"It was safer," Arthur said slowly. The Kingsguard took another step closer to him, but none were so close as Rhaegar Targaryen. "I found him, didn't I? I'm trying…"

"You let my sister be abused and sold," Rhaegar took a step closer. Arthur pressed the point of his sword into the Prince's chest. The wool began to sizzle and burn, but found he did not have the will in him to press it any further. "You let Viserys beat her, and then you let him die."

"The Beggar King they called him," said Darry.

"And her his Beggar Bitch," voiced Oswell.

"I trusted you with their lives," Rhaegar's eyes wept molten gold. "With my House."

Arthur dropped Jon's sword. He never heard it clatter against the stone. "I'm just one man…" He said, "I tried, I… I failed."

"Failed." They all uttered together. The world filled with the stomp of their steel boots, the hiss of their swords as they unsheathed them.

Then they would come at him

And he woke.

Sighing, Arthur gave Dawn another run of the cloth. He had not slept since then. The shadows of the trees ran down the fullers as the moon rose above them, and the steel shone grey as granite. A fire would've lit the sword like starlight, Arthur knew, but it could have also meant their death.

In the privacy of his chambers or a tent, he had dared clean it every night. Even torchlight had not held a candle to when the blade glittered in the sun. Never glowing as he knew it could. Over the first few years, when he had been younger and more rash, it had took all his will to hide it away.

But there was no other choice.

Dawn was the most renowned sword of the Seven Kingdoms, crafted from the heart of a falling star, as strong and sure as Valyrian steel. Even in Essos, any man worth his mettle would have recognized it, and word would have spread quickly. It was not a chance he was ever willing to take. Nobody across the Narrow Sea could learn he still lived. There were times when he had stood before a river, holding the sword in his palms, and thought of letting it fall. But he never could.

He had known the consequences, what taking out the sword again would mean. Yet all the same, he had done it. Duncan died in that camp, he thought, but who am I now?

There was no choice, he had reasoned with himself afterwards, and no chance if I had not done it. With a longsword he might have fared, but with Dawn he felt unstoppable. The Dothraki would never know the sword for what it was. Some conjuror's trick, they would say. He could be sure the forty thousand riders they had fled from would not carry tales of Arthur Dayne on their lips.

But even with Dawn in hand, he could not stop Marys from dying. His friend. They had not had the time to mourn him, nor Aerar. He's dead too, Arthur thought. The man had stayed behind to fend off any who would give them chase. Arthur had only ever met a scarce amount of men of such valour, and he would greatly miss them both.

Twigs cracked at his left. Arthur's hand grew still, ready to go for the hill. It was dark as pitch at night, but after a moment Arthur saw the slender shape lumbering towards him. Wind blew open the leaves and moonlight shot against Jon's face. He looked so much older than his years. A fine red line ran from his brow and over his right eye, stopping at his cheek. Arthur had tended to the wound himself, as hastily as he could. It will not scar well, he thought.

They had not spoken properly since that day, only in passing. When Arthur would bark an order, Jon seemed too tired to do anything but obey. The boy sighed and sat across from him, his back against a tree. He's not gone to sleep with the others, Arthur realised. That could only mean one thing.

After a moment of silence, Jon's voice broke the air. "It's about time you told me," he croaked, "about what happened at the tower. With my fa-uncle, and my mother."

Silent, Arthur slid Dawn back into its scabbard. The night seemed to grow a little darker. He had been waiting for this ever since the day they had left the khalasar, in truth, but did not think Jon would ask before they were inside the walls of Pentos.

I had not planned on stopping for so long. Jon was not finished. "You are Ser Arthur? This is not another lie, is it?"

Anger. It was to be expected. I lied to him for so long. "I was born Arthur Dayne, yes, at Starfall. Sworn vassals to House Martell… my mother's name was Casella and my lord father was Bedric Dayne." The wind around them seemed to calm. "They had four children. My brother before me was named Ulrick, for the Sword of the Morning of old, yet I was the one who was granted the title and the sword. My sisters were Ashara, and young Allyria." Arthur still remembered their faces. "I have not seen either of them in years… Allyria was no more than a child, and I am told Ashara threw herself from the Palestone Sword. I will never truly know why."

He had not said their names aloud in years. Only in dreams. "Does my brother still live, and Allyria? Do they know I'm alive? I ask myself these questions. What if Ashara told them before she died? There's a mantle on the wall in Starfall, where Dawn sits when there is no one worthy to wield her… I dream that each day they look and know that, whilst it's still empty, I draw breath."

It was a hopeless dream, Arthur had always known, but he said it anyway.

Through the blackness, he could sense Jon gaping. "Ashara, she knew you were alive?"

It had been a pale day when he had spotted her above the ramparts of Starfall, watching him return. "She did. Before I boarded a ship to Essos, I went home. But Allyria and my brother were not there, only her. Lord Stark came too, and his friend… I forget his name."

"Howland Reed, you mean?" Jon said quickly. He heard the boy shift closer. "But the realm believes that Ned killed you? It's the answer he has given everyone."

"I know," Arthur said, "I thought of the story myself. You must see, before Lord Stark arrived, your mother begged me for her brother's life. When Rhaegar left the tower, he promised to put down the rebellion by whatever means, and to return. He said he would overthrow his father and sit the Iron Throne himself. Not a rebellion, but what the realm needed. He would have a made a better ruler than Aerys or Robert, no doubt… but we all feared that would never come to pass, not with so many joining the rebellion."

Ghost slipped between two trees and sat beside Jon, pure white against the dark. His eyes shone like red as rubies. Arthur went on. "But we remained, me and my sworn brothers. Dutiful. Sworn to an oath to guard your mother and the child she carried, from whatever harm. By then, after months of nothing, though she missed Rhaegar, she missed her home and her brothers more. Blood is blood, after all, and the Stark's roots run deep." He paused. "I would walk in to find her weeping. More than once. She made no effort to hide it."

He could remember the first time, even now. Opening the door, clad in white plate, to find her sat upon her bed cradling her swollen belly, tears running in streams down her cheeks. In those days, Arthur had wrestled with his oath to keep her confided.

"But still you kept her locked away?" Jon said.

"We were Kingsguard sworn to protect her, to keep her safe from harm and if she ran…" She wouldn't have made it a day on her own. "Rhaegar had not told us to comfort her… and she didn't like me, nor Gerold or Oswell, not even the maids Rhaegar had summoned to suit her every need. I think… you were her only comfort. The only thing she could call her own."

Silence was his own reply. A stillness heavy with the weight of his words. He must know the truth. "I was often the one to check on her, morning, noon, night. Sometimes she would corner me, refuse to let me leave until I told her what was happening. Would that I could have, if I only knew what to tell her… we got no ravens, no word. Once, she even pulled a sword on me. I don't how or where she had found it, but she had grown so desperate with grief that she would fight me for… for what?"

For anything. Her body had been wracking with sobs, but the blade was steady in her hands, scraping his breastplate. "If my brother comes for me, she had said, do not kill him. Let him live, you owe me that… I had sworn to do as my prince commanded. When Stark came riding over the hill to us, with another six men at his heel, I stood and fought with the others. Seven men fell."

Arthur took a moment to swallow deeply, memories flooding him. He squeezed Dawn's hilt between his hands so hard his knuckles turned white. "When they killed two of my brothers… I wanted nothing more than to end Stark's life." Above, a bird took flight. Arthur felt some old unfamiliar anger returning to him. "But Rhaegar, my true friend, was dead, and the king too. From the tower, I could hear Lya screaming. Her promise, her wishes… so I broke my oath. I took Stark and his bannerman to your mother's bedside. You had just been born, squealing and crying. Ned vowed to protect you, claim you as his own son. I insisted I would take you to Starfall, to Essos to find your aunt and uncle… but it was too dangerous."

Jon hunched forward. "And… what then?"

"We rode for Starfall. Where I stayed, and Ned and you and Lord Reed went north again. Stark thought to tell people I was not there when he reached the tower, but valiant Arthur would have never abandoned his oath. I knew it was better to be dead. No one would look for me."

He had crossed the Narrow Sea not long after. Knowing he could not call himself Arthur Dayne no longer, he knew he would have to think of another. Where Duncan came from, he could only think of the old Lord Commander, Duncan the Tall.

It was moments afterward that Ser Jorah Mormont approached. His mail and plate shook with each step. Jon fell silent. "Rakharo says he's seen no one since dawn," the old knight announced, "Aggo speaks of a few dozen riders, though they came nowhere near him. And Jhogo slept most of the day…"

Arthur sighed. "Let him take first watch, then. Bring Rakharo and Aggo back, but inform they are to circle the camp until first light. They can sleep in the saddle when we move on the morrow."

Nodding his head, Jorah disappeared into the darkness. Arthur's words had only been half a lie. If Daenerys could sit a saddle, they would ride, but he doubted she could. It was a long while after that the clink of armour was lost to the sound of gasping wind and wood. By then, Arthur guessed Jon was asleep.

There was little else to do then. Arthur laid down across his cloak, willing that he would stare at the stars until morning came. It was only when he let out a breath that Jon Snow spoke, "You did not break your oath, Arthur." His voice was calm. "You kept it."

Arthur closed his eyes. Though he welcomed the words and what they meant, they made no difference to him. He had spent far too much time with the memories of his past to go back on them now. It was one oath for another. Ser Barristan Selmy still lived, he had heard, serving Robert as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Does he feel the same? Arthur wished he could have known.

With the wind in his ears and dead leaves brushing against his face, Arthur slept. Wrapped in in his cloak, his head upon a saddle, it was almost comfortable, almost warm, and he found his dreams wandering onto days long past, and people long dead.

Harrenhal rose around him, not Starfall. Rhaegar's chambers within the Kingspyre Tower had been dreary with light. The tourney… he could remember more of that day than he expected. The ugly walls of blackened steel, melted like candle wax where Balerion had bathed them in dragonflame. He saw the carpets littered over stone, the dragon banners, the red drapes that adorned Rhaegar's bed - Lord Whent had placed them there to please him – and the resolute look about the prince's face.

"And you are so sure it was her?" The words came from Arthur's mouth unbidden. I'm only watching, he noticed. He was sat upon the windowsill and looking out over the tourney grounds. A dozen banners were flapping in the wind. The three-headed dragon, the direwolf of Stark and stag of House Baratheon.

"I found her myself, stripping off the armour, the shield at her feet, how surer can I be than that?" Rhaegar was sat behind his chamber's table, writing a letter. To who, Arthur could not remember.

But he not forgotten the day the Knight of the Laughing Tree had entered the lists. "And will you tell your father?"

Rhaegar lowered his quill then. "I will not. I asked her if she posed any threat to the crown, and she gave me a smack of her shield in return." The prince laughed. "I like her, I do, she is strong… and beautiful."

If only I'd have known what those words meant then. It seemed a thousand years ago. They're all dead now. Rhaegar, Lyanna, Gerold and Oswell and Lewyn, Jonothor Darry and Brandon Stark, my own sister… Rhaella and Elia, little Rhaenys and Aegon. The names of his time were gone, and he still lived.

An arm shook Arthur from sleep. Through the gaps in the leaves, the moon shone high and bright. Hours had passed. Under the thick canopy, the air was black as soot. "What?" Arthur asked of the darkness, his eyes cracking open.

Jorah Mormont's voice replied. "Hush." The knight knelt so close Arthur could see the white of his eyes. "A khalasar camps beside the wood. Khal Jhaqo. Jhogo says he saw him with his own eyes. Thousands of riders and slaves."

Arthur heard it then, and his heart quickened in his chest. The distant whistle of voices that carried through the wind, the crack of fires and whiny of horses. He knew what it meant. We have to go. Jhaqo had been one of Drogo's riders, and a khal now, it seemed. "Are the others awake?"

"No. I came to you at once."

Good, Arthur thought. But he would need to wake them. "Ready the horses."

"Aye." Jorah said. He turned, but Arthur caught his arm.

"Tell the khas to get back. Now."

The knight disappeared behind the trees. Arthur threw back the cover of his cloak and leapt to his feet. The voices seemed louder now, or perhaps he was more alert. It did not matter. What if they ride through here… Moonlight glittered against Dawn's hilt. Arthur grabbed the sword and slung it across his back. He prayed he would not have to use it.

They were only ten of them, in truth, and they had travelled light. "Jon." Arthur whispered to the tree where Jon had been sat, a great black bark. No one answered but the wind. Damn him. Arthur began to duck through the trees, stepping over roots and leaves and fallen logs. Where is he?

The others were laid beneath a small outcrop, the moon shining down on them brightly. With no leaves blocking its light, grey misty fingers danced over Dany's hair as she laid sleeping on her side, each strand glowing silver. Arthur stepped towards her, guiding his feet over arms and legs. It was only when he was close that he saw Jon Snow.

Instinctively, he leant down to wake them… but stopped; his hand an inch from Jon's shoulder, and stared for a moment to take it in.

They were the last. The last of the dragon's blood. And the babe too, I mustn't forget. Tired and weak and lost, but they had been brought together for a reason. It was no mere chance; how could it have been? Arthur brought his hand back to his side. The three dragon's eggs were nestled between their bodies, black and green and gold. Dany had her hand resting against one of them, and in Jon's grasp was a bundle of furs that could've only been Rhaego. A Baratheon sits the Iron Throne, Arthur thought with a grimace, but that seat was built by dragon blood. It belongs to them.

In that moment, no matter what was to come, Arthur Dayne vowed he would see them to their rightful place.

Then, remembering himself, he shook them awake. Jon's eyes were open in an instant. He seemed to sense Arthur's worry, as he leant forward and said. "What's wrong?"

"Jhaqo." Dany spoke before he could. Arthur stared at her, speechless. How could she know? Had Jorah gone to her? "I dreamt about him…" she said, clutching the black-and-crimson dragon's egg close to her breast.

Daenerys had spoken little to him since they had fled. As they rode, her thoughts lingered only on Drogo and the fire that consumed his tent the moment they were gone. They had all seen it, and Arthur had watched her staring the flames from afar. Then when the labour took her, nothing came from her mouth but cries of pain.

Since then, she had not spoken.

A shift went over Jon's eyes, his breathing picking up. "How close?"

"On the edge of the trees. We'll ride west until nightfall. With the wood between us and a good few leagues, by the time they break camp we'll be long gone." Arthur hoped.

Jon got to his feet, carrying a mewling Rhaego with him. Arthur heard him rousing the handmaidens from sleep, telling them to stay quiet. Arthur turned to Daenerys. "Can you ride?"

A pained look washed over her face. "I'll… I'll have to."

Arthur wished he could've offered a wagon for her to lay in, but they had never brought one. He would've forgotten even the dragon eggs had one of the handmaids not thrown them together in a sack. He stood as the others began to roll up their sleeping skins, hushed words going between them.

Jorah returned with the khas, and all their readied horses. Arthur found Dany's silver and lead it to her. "Grab me," he said as he leant down towards her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held with all her strength. Her lifted her onto the saddle with ease.

Then every trace of them was packed and gone, and they were ready. Arthur found his horse, mounted and cantered to the head of them. "No talking." He said in a quiet voice, "not until we're out of the trees."

Though the wood was small, it seemed an eternity before they finally came past the last sentinel. A bird had circled above them most of the way, black against the stars. It had cawed and cawed, following them in wide circles, until Arthur had ordered Aggo to bring it down. He heard the shrill cries of distant elk, and some others he could not put a name to. Every little sound seemed to spread around them, darting past the trees. First left, then right. He felt as if they were surrounded.

But they emerged unscathed, and all the more importantly, unseen.

"They never saw us." Doreah was shaking atop her palfrey. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. Before them, a vast plain of grass stretched out to the far distance. All steady hills and banks. Arthur spotted a stream running over a pass, the moon lighting up the ripples. They did not have time to stop.

Rhaego was wrapped in a sling that hung from Irri's chest. If he wakes… Arthur dug his heels and steered down the hill. The others followed.

They had ridden slow through the forest, where the ground was uneven and dangerous. But over windswept hills and grass, there was little risk of their mounts breaking a foot. So Arthur Dayne dug his heels and set the pace. Now was the time to make haste.

His teeth and arse was numb by the time the sun rose, but he did not stop. If Daenerys was in pain, she did not show it. He thanked her for that. The land around them was unchanging, an endless stream of lush green. Mountains loomed to the north, growing as they rode, then shrinking and falling behind the grass. Arthur pressed on.

The only time they stopped was to feed Rhaego his mother's milk. Even then, they stayed at a trot. Arthur endlessly looked over his shoulder. He ordered Jhogo to ride at their rear, and Rakharo and Aggo were the outriders. He had to keep his wits about him. Avoiding Khal Jhaqo was good enough, but Arthur did not want to run from the jaws of one khalasar only to fall into another.

We need only get behind some city walls, he thought. Pentos never strayed far from his mind, but any port city that would not enslave them at first sight would've have been enough to get them there. Selhorys or Volantis are the closest… and I still have some coin left to me. As nightfall came, their horses started to moan and trot to a slow. They needed rest.

Under a rock and surrounded by reeds six feet high, they begrudgingly made camp. Dany, Jon and the others laid atop the grass and slept. Arthur did not. He decided to give Dawn a clean, steadying his mind to the slow slither of steel on leather. By the end, Jorah Mormont joined him.

"We fought on separate sides of the rebellion." The old knight thought it fit to mention, eating a hardened piece of bread.

Arthur bristled at his words and sheathed Dawn. "I never stepped foot on a battlefield during the war. My duties were elsewhere." The blade slid into the scabbard with ease.

Jorah looked up at the moon. "It was a long time ago. And here we both are, serving another. The gods have their jests, don't they? I fought for Robert and the Stark's, and it was Ned Stark who drove me out of my home."

"After you broke his laws," Arthur said, watching the knight's face.

"Aye," the man returned, and that was the last they spoke to each other. Arthur crossed through the brush and found a small puddle of water flowing between some rocks. He took each horse for a drink. He is a good follower, Arthur thought, Mormont. But not a man I would ever choose to lead. He had seen the way the man looked at Daenerys, how he hung by her side and was first to offer his counsel.

Once we get to Pentos, I'll demand the truth from him. Until then, Arthur knew he best keep the man close.

When sun rose, he did not have to tell the others what to do. One by one they gathered their rushes, mounted their horses and started through the bramble of tall stalks.

Arthur had heard of devilgrass before, but he was not sure if this was it. Either way, he cursed it to seven hells. It slowed them down greatly, only ever clearing for a several yards. They rode in silence, slept only in the saddle, and suddenly three days had passed before the grass finally faded. By then, they were all exhausted.

"We need to stop." Daenerys said as they came at the top of a ridge. The sun was hiding beneath distant hills, and the sky an all too familiar red. Arthur rode up beside her.

"Stop? We can't stop." He looked around at the others, who all seemed to be agreeing with her. He saw eyes that were half-shut, shoulders slumped. They're giving up. He ran a hand through his hair. "Listen. I know you're tired, but-"

Daenerys shook her heard. "No. Listen to me." Her eyes were wide and full. There was no doubt in her words. "We ran from Jhaqo's khalasar, but another one follows. They'll be upon us by nightfall, no matter what we do."

Had she lost her mind? "How can you know that?" The wind had grown as a faint as a kiss.

Dany lifted her chin, glanced at Jon Snow, then looked back at Arthur with eyes full of pity. "I have seen it. I know it will happen. We can't stop it… and Jon has seen it too."

Arthur was stunned into silence. He almost laughed, but his throat was too dry for that. He looked at Jon for answers. The boy only nodded his head, but did not meet his eyes.

"You saw- what did you see?" Arthur scoffed, looking around at the others. The maids seemed half asleep, Rakharo and Aggo were pretending to understand, and Ser Jorah watched silently from his horse.

"Riders," Jon said, his voice was hesitant. He doesn't believe himself, either. "Another khalasar on our heels."

Arthur shook his head. "You've never left my side, how could you have-"

"I didn't see it, Ghost did… and I saw it through his eyes. Like a dream. I wouldn't lie to you." Jon inched forward. Arthur could feel the boy's grey eyes searching his own, looking for some recognition.

"Like a dream," Arthur sighed. "A dream. That is all it is."

"He thought the same." Dany's words rang with truth. "It sounds ridiculous, I know. But last night… he saw Jhogo die. And tell me, where is he now? The others returned to get their orders, but Jhogo has not. He saw them kill him."

It was true. Arthur searched for the words, to tell them they were wrong, but could not find them. He had sent Rakharo and Aggo to look for their lost rider, and they had come back with nothing. A croak was all that came through Arthur's lips. What if they're right? "If this is the truth, why should we stop? If we carry on, we give ourselves a chance to escape them."

"He's right, Khaleesi." Jorah Mormont leant forward, finally deciding to make himself useful. "We must keep going."

Dany shook her head. "We could keep running, but it would not be long before they catch us. They'd kill you all, but it's me they want the most. And Rhaego… you all need to hide."

Arthur shook his head and leant over to put his hand on her shoulder. "No." he said. How could she ever think I would leave her? "You think any one of us would leave you to die? It will not happen."

And she smiled. A terrible smile. "Die? I would not die. Not if we do as I say. If not, then the khalasar will kill us or enslave us all, it makes no matter which. This is how it must be. I command it."

"You speak as if you have seen it," Arthur felt as if a dagger was turning in his heart. "If you mean to follow your husband to the grave, then think of your son."

"I am." Dany said. "I'm saving him."

It was an hour later that they came upon the hill. A great piece of rock and grass that jutted out from the mud. Dany rode at the head of them, and stopped to look at it. "There." She said, riding forward. It was hard to remember that only days ago she had laid still in a fever, unable to speak or move.

The climb was too unsteady, so they dismounted and led their horses up the path by foot. I'm saving him. Arthur went over the words in his head. How could she save her child by falling into the hands of butchers? Save all of us? Aerar had died as a distraction to give them time to get away, did Dany mean to do the same? Aerar had been no more than a sellsword, but she was the blood of the dragon. Die. I wouldn't die. It all made no sense to him. He found Jon at the front of their trail, and grabbed the boy hard by the shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Arthur spat. The scar over Jon's right eye was red and scabbed. "You'd let her die?"

Jon shoved his arm away. "I wouldn't!" He gasped, looking over his shoulder. "I trust her. And I know what I saw… she isn't wrong."

It was hopeless, but Arthur went on. I can't fail both of you again. "Your wolf dreams? She's mad with grief," Arthur said. And are you? Jon had been fond of Marys, as the man had been of him. "Her words… she doesn't know what she's saying."

Jon took him by the shoulder. "It sounds that way, I know. But why would she ever try to lead us astray? You know she wouldn't, not her. Trust her, Arthur. I said I would, and between us here, who is the Kingsguard?"

The mount of the hill was even smaller than he anticipated. You couldn't have fit no more than a single tent upon the grass, he realised, but it was enough for their ragged bunch. Arthur led his horse to a fallen log. The bark was bare and splintered, but as good as any to keep wrap his reins around. What is she planning? He sighed and looked at the sun falling to the west. That's where we should be going, he thought, to the safety of stone walls. Not some dream.

Half the sky had turned black by the time Daenerys ordered them to gather wood. "Wood, and grass, anything you can find that will burn." She said. Arthur had gone to her once the others descended the hill. She means to make a fire. "Please," Arthur pleaded, "you must see sense."

"I have seen it." Rhaego was cradled in her arms. The boy's soft silver hair drifted in the wind. Targaryen hair, Arthur thought, but when stared at the babe's eyes they were black as coals. "When the khalasar arrives, I mean to break them."

Aggo used a heavy double-sided axe to chop the fallen log to bits, as the others returned hauling bags of gnarled grass and bark shavings between their furs. Arthur watched them scatter the pale brambles in wide arcs around the ground. On Dany's word, the handmaids took their horses back down the hill, leading three at a time. By the time they were done, darkness clouded them.

The order came in a loud voice, as Dany lit a torch and passed it to Irri. She told them gather around her and listen to her words, and so they did. It was Rakharo she approached first. She gave him the arakh chased in gold that had hung from her saddle, and asked if he would be blood of her blood, but kindly he refused. "Khaleesi, "he said, "this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman." Next came Aggo. To him she offered gifts as well, a bow of dragonbone and a silver-handled whip, and to be blood of her blood. Still, they refused. Yet their words did not seem to unnerve her.

She came upon Arthur with a smile, one he could not bring himself to return. In her eyes, he saw nothing but calmness. How? She placed a hand on his cheek, and only then did Ser Arthur Dayne notice he was trembling. "The man who raised me, who kept me safe from the Usurper's knives, taught me how to walk and smile and laugh. I would name you my father… yet even that would not be enough. To me you were Duncan, my blue knight, my protector, but the Seven Kingdoms know you different. Over the Narrow Sea, you are Arthur Dayne, I can remember… who served my father before me. Ser, you are free to do as you please, but I would name you the first and Lord Commander of my Queensguard, to hold an oath and forever stay by my side, whatever may come."

I failed you, he thought, and here I stand again doing nothing. Arthur slipped to one knee. "Daenerys… Your Grace… you honour me, to be your Queensguard is more than I deserve. You have my oath, from now until my last day. But please…"

The Queen smiled and bid him rise, ignoring his attempts. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. Afterwards, it was Ser Jorah Mormont she approached. The knight still looked frightened at what was occurring before his eyes, apprehensive, and weak. Yet a few words were spoken, and suddenly Jorah Mormont was his sworn brother for evermore.

Jon Snow was next. Does she mean for him to take an oath? She stopped before him, looking up at him in the eyes. "Take out your sword," she said. Without hesitation, Jon slowly unfurled his tattered blade from its scabbard. She took it from his hands, the hilt and the flat of the steel resting across her palms.

"It's beautiful," she said slowly, her eyes gazing at the dragon's head pommel, the red eyes. The light of the fire danced along the steel and shot silvery-red patterns across their faces. "But it is no true dragon's blade. When it is in my power, I would gift you the finest longsword of Valyrian steel. Dragonsteel, they call it, forged from our ancestors of Old Valyria. A sword made for a prince."

Arthur found his breath caught in his throat. She gave him back his sword. "You and my son are the only blood left to me in this world, and together we make the last of House Targaryen… if you would take it, then I offer you this. Let the name Snow be forgotten, your bastardy cast aside. Forget those who ever shunned you or doubted you. Kneel, swear that you will stay by my side, and rise again as Jon Targaryen."

The boy knelt. Any ruler can legitimize a bastard in a single stroke, and she is a queen in her own right. Silent, Dany turned from them and walked towards the edge of the hill. It was in that moment Arthur spotted it. A red comet, a falling star like the sigil of his own House, cutting through the night sky. An omen, but for what? The others stared and rose their voices, and when they brought back their eyes to the queen, she was not looking at them.

"Go. You shall return at dawn." She said.

It was heavy walk down from the hill, turning his back on her. Trust her. Arthur did not dare take his eyes from his feet. I failed her and she gives me honour's, he grimaced, nearly laughing at the thought of it, or slipping into tears. The memories of his dreams rose up in his mind. When he returned at dawn, would he find her corpse? I was blind. I still am.

DAENERYS

Her torch burned brightly, throwing back the shadows of the night. From the edge of the hill, Daenerys Targaryen watched her small khalasar make their way through the grass. It was dark and they carried no torch, but it was the only way they could go unseen. Arthur doesn't trust me, she thought, but he will.

Only when the khalasar arrived could she show him, show them all. None of them truly believed her, only Jon. And he was not the first person she had told. Her handmaids stayed beside her day and night, but they had only brushed her words away when she spoke of fire and blood and dragons.

But Jon had listened. She had found him awake one night as they crossed through the grass, after Rhaego had woke her from sleep. He said his dreams were keeping him awake, wolf dreams. He claimed to see through the eyes of Ghost, and for once Dany had not doubted him. She felt as if magic was returning to the world, in both of them. When she pressed her palms to the shell of her dragon eggs, she felt the heat stirring inside.

Dany had dreamed of Khal Pono and his khalasar riding at their heels, and had seen the black dragon that flew over them and burnt them all to ash. She saw the fire swallow his bloodriders, red bouts of flame scorch his sons and leave his khalasar wild and broken. I am the dragon in my dreams, she thought, feeling the fire within her blood. She turned from the cliffside and walked back into the center, the wind brushing at her face.

They had placed the logs and shavings in three great circles, covering the face of the hill. The light from her torch danced along the wood and sent shadows writhing whenever she moved. I am the light in the darkness. When Pono saw her upon her high hill, he would have no second thoughts of coming to retrieve her himself.

Daenerys looked up at the stars, at her comet. The gods could not have sent her a stronger sign. A dragon's tail, a red sword piercing the night. Justice, she thought, yesterday I was a girl, today I am a woman, and tomorrow I will be old.

The face of her child swam before her, etched in the grass. Rhaego, she had named him, for Rhaegar. He had his mother's hair and his father's eyes. Will he be a warrior like my brother? In that instant, she saw her child grow old, and tough and strong. Like his mother, she thought as she watched him swing an arakh made of wind. When she blinked, he was gone. Dany looked down at the dragon eggs at her feet. Green and black and gold, drinking in the light. By the time she finally took her eyes off them, she could hear horses.

Khal Pono had arrived with his ten thousand riders. The grass beneath her feet shivered as the smash of hooves filled the air. They had all been her husband's, every man that followed Pono or Jhaqo, any man they called blood of their blood had sulked beneath Drogo's gaze. They all feared him when he lived, she thought, and they shall fear me now. Drogo was strong, but she was blood of the dragon. Before the night was done, Pono would beg for the mercy they showed her the moment her sun-and-stars fell from his horse.

Daenerys closed her eyes and listened to them surrounding her. Her only hope was that they had not come upon Jon and the others. Her khalasar could not fall… they must see. As her eyes crept to the flames burning at the end of her torch, and the wide circles of kindling at her feet, she knew in her heart that they would.

A thousand years ago, the scared girl she had been had feared Pono and his frightful black eyes. As she had feared her sun-and-stars most of all, and Haggo and Qotho and her brother Viserys. When she saw Khal Pono rise over the crest of the hill, ahorse with arakh in hand, Daenerys felt nothing but a dragon's fury.

Behind him were his bloodriders, bells chinking in their braids as they rode, and then came his sons. Dany remembered the dragon in her dreams as they spread out before her. Engulfing them, defeating them.

"Maegi," Khal Pono said, as if that was all she ever was, all she had ever been. Torchlight swam along the black of his eyes. "You killed Drogo, I saw it. I have found you for this, woman. You will die, but only when we are done with you."

Dany held the torch steady in her hands, watching as they cantered around her. "Bitch!" they growled all at once, and more calls of maegi and lamb woman took the air.

"Where are those who followed you?" Pono demanded, standing ten feet away from her.

Not yet. "They are watching." Dany said. She lifted her chin high, beckoning the khal to come closer.

"Watching? I will find them. They will watch my men have you, and my horses and my dogs before the crows eat out their eyes."

"You will not leave this hill." Dany said, so quiet he could not hear her words, but even the mere moving of her lips angered him. He cantered forward.

Wake the dragon.

Daenerys let as many as she could climb up on the hill, until she felt the heat overcome her, and dropped the torch.

The grass and wood burst asunder as the oil surged with red light. Embers leapt up into the air. Dany heard a swoosh dance across her ears as she watched the flames spread. When the first line of kindling was alight, the second was not long to join it. Everywhere horse's scarpered, throwing their riders from the saddle, their tails and manes alight. Those who tried to flee fell from the hill, hurling to their deaths. Dany heard their bones crack. Chaos reigned. Great red-orange robes began to flicker up at the stars, and swallowed up her enemies in one great gush.

Screams cracked through the flames. The wails of dying men and horses. Dany felt the ground turn warm beneath her feet. The burning remains of her clothes tickled against her skin. The fire rose higher and higher, licking at the sky, great plumes of smoke shadowing the moon.

In the blaze, she saw the shape of dragons made from smoke. Three great beasts that swam through the flames, raining fire down upon her. She smiled and opened her arms as her hair began to sear. A great crack shook the ground beneath her. She closed her eyes and let the heat embrace her, swallow her whole. Arthur was wrong to fear, for she had never been so alive as she was now.

Cinders showered her, and when the second crack came as loud as thunder, Dany looked down at her dragon eggs. The pale egg veined with gold was broken and smoldering, smoke rising into her face. The screams of men burnt to an end. The fire is mine. Her eyes came upon the largest egg, black as night and glowing red. The only one left.

As the egg split in two and the firestorm kissed her face, she saw ghostly wisps writhing in the flames. She saw Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons. Beside her was a man with a face of shadows, wielding a sword of light against the coming darkness. Men and woman and kings and queens rose and fell, until the fire consumed them all and she was the last woman standing.

When dawn came, the air smelt of smoke. Birds circled overhead, black crows signaling her coming. Dany looked to the red sword cutting through the pale blue sky, and through the ash falling around her, she saw her khalasar on their knees. Knelt amongst the charred and blackened remains of Pono and his men, her bloodriders laid their arakh's at her feet. "Blood of my blood," they murmured together.

Arthur, her Lord Commander, drew forth his pale sword and laid it before him. The white blade burned against the black grass. He has seen. "Your Grace," he made the word an oath, "my Queen."

"My Queen," echoed Jorah.

"My blood," Jon said. He unsheathed his sword, then plunged it through the dirt at his feet. "My Queen."

When her black dragon hissed, the air seared from its breath. His two brothers rose to join the call, smoke venting from their mouths and nostrils as they sucked in the air.

Daenerys Targaryen breathed with them.

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We can call this chapter the end of the beginning! Things will be picking up from now on for our small bunch, as they make their way back towards some civilisation.