Author's Note: Some readers may note the augury of the stakes in the previous chapter. I would like to acknowledge the influence of David Keck's Durand Col books in that concept. I lifted it rather entirely from his books, which are rich in medieval folklore and historical knowledge, and applied it to the world of Westeros. In hindsight I think it may not be an entirely good addition, and indeed is a bit plagiaristic on my part, but for the moment I shall leave that passage unchanged until something better occurs to me. I may just omit it entirely.
Chapter IX
Vaes Dothrak
The incessant beating of the drums was like a deep throbbing ache within Valandil's skull, driving out all other thought from his mind. The voices of the dosh khaleen chanted out in their droning, harsh tongue. The tent was dim, night was falling outside, and Valandil's eyes stung from the thick smoke of wood and incense. Dothraki women were crying out in keening voices, men were raising their own deeper tones in chant. In the center of it all, calm as the eye of the storm, stood Daenerys Targaryen. A stallion's heart was in her hands. She raised the chunk of raw meat to her bloodied lips and ripped off another piece.
"She has to eat the entire heart?" said Viserys.
"She's doing well," said Jorah.
"Why a stallion's heart?" asked Valandil. Daenerys chewed and swallowed, face pale, breathing ragged, and took another bite.
"They believe it will make the child grow strong and brave," replied Jorah.
"Does it?" said Viserys.
"They say that Khal Drogo's mother devoured the heart ravenously, still warm from the stallion's body," Ser Jorah said.
Valandil looked at Drogo. The khal sat on the other side of the ring of chanting Dothraki. He was resting his thickly muscled arms on his knees as he watched his khaleesi eat the heart, his brown eyes unreadable. Even now, Valandil found there to be something unsettling about the barbarian warlord. How many lives had been crushed beneath the hooves of his khalasar? How many innocents had they sold into thralldom? How many men had he slain? How many women had he defiled? How many more would suffer if Viserys unleashed this horde on the Eight Kingdoms to reclaim his throne?
What am I doing here? What would my father say? Valandil thought disquietly. Then he remembered the cold stare of his father when the Greyjoys had been slaughtered, and he forced the thought out of his mind.
He looked at Viserys, Viserys with his gaunt face and sunken eyes, skin burnt and silks ruined from the journey across the steppe. Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, rightful King of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar and the Numenoreans. Viserys with his arrogance, his temper and his refusal to learn or grow. Viserys, the failure of all of Valandil's efforts and hopes. Viserys, a dragon only in his avarice and selfishness.
What sort of king will you be if Drogo gives you your throne? Valandil mused. He turned his eyes back to Daenerys, surrounded by her chanting, frenzied people.
Every step taken on the road to Vaes Dothrak seemed to have strengthened Daenerys. She spoke Dothraki better than Valandil did, rode almost as well as the khal, and in her eyes it was as if an inner fire had been kindled. The riding had left her lean and muscled, yet not in a hard and worn way like the women of the Dothraki, she still had the aching Targaryen beauty she had from the first day Valandil had seen her in Pentos. Now though, her striking violet eyes looked out from a fair face tanned golden by the sun. She was no longer the princess Valandil had seen at her marriage to the khal. No longer was she a frightened, anxious girl, now she carried herself as a proud khaleesi of the Dothraki.
If Tar-Rhaenyra could become Queen over Aegon, why not Daenerys over Viserys? He thought. She had the strength for it, the spirit and force of will, though it was hidden deep within her. Valandil saw the spark within her that could be fanned into a great flame.
He looked around the crowded hall, full of Dothraki, chanting, crying aloud, and stamping their feet in time with the beat of the drum. In their eyes he saw love, and adoration, and worship. He remembered the crack of the whip on the backs of the thralls. He remembered the scream of the girl the night of the wedding, all those months ago.
If her fire is kindled, whom will it consume? He wondered.
"What is the crone saying?" asked Viserys, as one of the dosh khaleen rose her croaking voice above the rest to cry out words in euphoria. Jorah grimaced and translated:
"As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his hordes covers the earth, men in number like the stars, swords shining with fresh blood. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. None shall stand. All shall fall. He shall trample down the world beneath the hooves of his khalasar. The prince is riding! The prince is riding! He is the Stallion Who Mounts The World!"
The old woman was trembling, looking at Daenerys as if she were a god, with awe and terror in equal measure. Valandil felt a chill in his bones.
"She's going to have a son," Jorah said. Viserys seemed taken aback.
"He won't be a real dragon, not a true Targaryen," he said, as if trying to defend himself.
Pale with the effort, Daenerys choked down the last bite of the stallion's heart. She stood up from her knees. The chanting stopped. Drogo sat forward and watched her closely. Even with the little Dothraki he had learned, Valandil understood her words.
"A prince is riding inside me!" she cried out to the crowd "And his name is Rhaego!"
The Dothraki took up the chant in their many voices. "Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!"
The air almost seemed to vibrate with their cries.
The slightest smile tweaked the lips of Khal Drogo's imperturbable face. Daenerys' face glowed with happiness as she looked at her husband. The enormous khal rose from his seat and walked to the center of the tent. The khaleesi stood on the edge of the platform, looking down on her khal. Her eyes shone. He took her in his enormous arms and picked her up, carrying her in a wide circle around the tent as his warriors called out his son's name.
"They love her," said Viserys.
"Today she truly is a queen," Jorah replied. Valandil glanced at the Beggar King. A shadow of anger and envy crossed his face. With his mouth set in an unhappy twist, Viserys swiftly left. Valandil did not try to stop him.
Drogo set Dany down on her feet again. His blood riders gathered up around them. Torches were kindled, an orange glare flickering in the evening air. In solemn procession, they filed out of the tent. Daenerys and Drogo, his blood riders, the chief men of Drogo's khalasar, other khals and khalakkas. They would ride to the Womb of the World, the sacred lake of the Dothraki, for the rest of the ceremony. Valandil did not follow, he had no more taste for such profane rituals. Some things were meant for the eyes of the Dothraki only.
It had taken nearly a month to cross the Dothraki Sea. The grasslands had been vast beyond his imagination; it seemed truly endless and the sky above so enormous it could make even a son of Numenor feel small. The khalasar had traveled swiftly, slowed only by the slaves on foot and the sick, and elderly in their carts. Those thralls too weakened by age or the cruelty of their masters to keep up were left behind for the wolves and hrakkar. So the journey had passed, with the horde churning up a great cloud of dust as hooves uncountable pounded across the steppe.
Vaes Dothrak was a city unlike any Valandil had ever seen. It sprawled lazily upon the plains; ancient and imperial. It had not the grandeur of Annuminas or Braavos, nor the bustle of King's Landing or Oldtown. It was a city far vaster and more spacious than any he had ever been in. It's streets of packed earth were broad and breezy. Its halls and mansions were made of wood and hide and woven grass. Jorah told him that Vaes Dothrak was so large so it could accommodate the return of every single roving khalasar at once and have space enough and to spare. In this sacred place, even the usually quarrelsome Dothraki were at peace, for all Dothraki were of one khalasar in Vaes Dothrak, and to carry a sword was forbidden. Yet the road to Vaes Dothrak was lined with statues and monuments of a thousand conquered cities and nations; the broken gods and heroes brought back to Vaes Dothrak to boast of Dothraki victories. Even in this peaceful city, Valandil could not forget the brutality of the people he found himself amongst.
The sun rose early the next morning, a clear horizon that promised another dry, hot day. With pipe in hand, Valandil sat outside of the small earthen hut he had been given. It sat alongside the Khal's enormous hall of earth and logs and canvas, which loomed above all the smaller tents and yurts clustered around it. He opened a small leather wallet, in which he kept a few choice treasures. There was a small engraved portrait of his family that brought a smile to his face, a phial of Numenorean cordial that could sustain a man's strength for many days, flint and steel and a pouch of galenas, his pipeweed. Valandil grimaced as he looked at the contents. His galenas was running out. Sighing, he took a modest pinch of what remained to fill his pipe, then lit it. Leaning back against the side of his hut and stretching out his long legs, he started to blow smoke circles contentedly, and he sat and smoked a while in thought.
A long, piercing cry broke his reverie. It rose and fell mournfully in the high airs. He looked up. A shadow was circling above Vaes Dothrak. Valandil immediately recognized that it was an eagle, a great eagle.
Has it been following us across the whole Dothraki Sea? He thought.
It soared effortlessly with only the occasional stroke of its broad, powerful wings. Again its mournful cry broke the air. It was circling directly above.
Suddenly, with a third cry that was loudest of all, the eagle tucked in its wings and plummeted towards the ground. Valandil shot to his feet. All around the hall, Dothraki were shouting in surprise and fear. The great bird plunged towards the earth like a falling star. It would crash straight through the canvas roof of the khal's palace.
At the last moment, with a final shriek so loud it was deafening, the eagle spread its mighty wings and soared above the hall. Gusts of wind buffeted Valandil's clothing and cloak as those wings carried the eagle easily aloft once more. If bird it truly was, it was greater than all other birds that flew.
With a last long call, the eagle flew swiftly away, disappearing into the west.
Silence reigned over the hall, many Dothraki men and women staring with slack jaws towards the west. Slowly, with much muttering and cursing, they began to return to their own tasks. Valandil exhaled and brought his pipe to his lips again.
"A friend of yours?" said a familiar voice. He turned and saw Ser Jorah standing there. Jorah's eyes flicked towards the eagle-shaped broach that secured his cloak.
"I cannot say. It is a sign I deem, but I know not what it forebodes," replied Valandil.
"It was an eagle the last time as well, and it flew into the west just the same," said Jorah.
"Eagles are sacred to the Powers, and sacred most of all to the Elder King," Valandil mused.
"The gods?" Jorah asked. The Dunadan shook his head.
"Nay, not gods, but great in their own right, and servants of the One God," said Valandil. "I feel that we are called to the west,"
"Perhaps an omen of success?" suggested Jorah. Valandil looked around at the many thralls hurrying to and fro around the khal's palace.
"A Targaryen king indebted to a Dothraki warlord for his crown is not a happy prospect Jorah," he replied. The old knight chuckled.
"Do you truly think Viserys will claim the Iron Throne?" Jorah said. He began to walk towards the forward end of the hall, which opened onto one of the city's wider dirt roads. Valandil followed alongside him.
"He is the heir, lamentably," he replied. Jorah laughed, almost bitterly.
"Was Aegon the Conqueror the heir of any Westerosi throne? Was Robert the heir of Aerys? Men don't take thrones by right, they take them by force," Jorah said.
"Viserys will never sit on the Iron Throne, not with the Dothraki," Valandil agreed.
"The Dothraki respect only strength. Viserys has neither strength of arm nor strength of will," replied Jorah.
The entrance of Drogo's palace loomed to their left. It had no door of wood or iron, but rather a large canvas flap, embroidered with images of rearing red stallions to match Drogo's own red warhorse. The flap was tossed open by a pair of slaves and Daenerys exited, followed by her handmaidens and a pair of Dothraki warriors. The khaleesi stopped and frowned at Valandil's pipe. Quickly, but regretfully, he emptied its contents and put the pipe away.
"Princess," he said, bowing his head.
"Khaleesi," Jorah echoed with a bow of his own. She smiled slightly.
"I shall go to the market today I think, will you accompany me Ser Jorah? Thorongil?" she asked. Her tone was more command than request. The two men looked at each other briefly.
"Of course Khaleesi," Jorah said before Valandil could speak. Jorah fell into step with Daenerys, whilst Valandil followed amongst the guards and handmaidens. The khaleesi's belly was beginning to grow great with child, yet she could still walk as strongly as before, though slower now.
Along the edge of the city was a long, broad agora that served as the western market. Its many sunlit avenues were lined by overhanging trees, whose drooping limbs provided cool shade from the heat of the day. This great market was filled with stalls, occupied by traders and merchants by the hundreds. Any merchant caravan was free to cross the Dothraki Sea to sell their wares in Vaes Dothrak, so long as they kept the peace and did not profane the Dothraki sacred places. Merchants from across the world came to buy and to sell in Vaes Dothrak. They came from Bravos and Volantis, Qohor and Myr, Lys and Pentos, and even as far away as the Eight Kingdoms. The air was filled with the calls of the merchants hawking their wares, calling out in the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, in the Common Tongue of Westeros, and in the harsh, guttural Dothraki tongue.
"I bring the finest silks of Pentos! Only the very best that Pentos has to offer!"
"Volantene wine! Wine of Volantis! I sell the nectar of the gods!"
"Fruits from the Reach! Melons! Plums! Apples! Grapes! Dried! Candied! All the most succulent fruits!"
The sheer diversity of their wares was boggling to Valandil. The merchants came not just to sell goods to the Dothraki, but to exchange goods between each other, for Vaes Dothrak's location in the centre of the Dothraki Sea made it a crossroads of the eastern continent, where merchants of all kinds and of all diverse nations met. There were spices and herbs, furs, wool, cottons, cheeses, smoked fish and meats, wines, brandies, beers and ales. There was gold jewelry and ornaments from as far away as the Westerlands. There were perfumes and carpets, tapestries and musical instruments of all shapes and sizes. And there were animals; goats, sheep, and donkeys.
Above all other things there were slaves, always slaves. It seemed that wherever Valandil traveled in Essos, there were men in thralldom or something like it. The wealth of the Dothraki was not just from the looting of conquered kingdoms, nor were all of the hostages they took held in servitude to the khals. Many of them were brought to Vaes Dothrak to be sold to the slavers of a dozen cities. And slavers brought their own to sell in return to the Dothraki. There were strong slaves for working, to maintain Vaes Dothrak itself. There were civilized, educated slaves, skilled in metalwork, healing, commerce or languages, to offer all those things the Dothraki men were too ignorant or too proud to learn. And there were fair-skinned girls of Lys, to offer those men pleasures beyond that of the marriage-bed.
Children of Iluvatar were not meant for servitude he thought sadly as he watched a girl sold.
At that moment, Valandil heard something he did not expect. A voice, yelling out in the Common Tongue, but with the accents of Gondor in it. The clear, fair voice of a Dunadan. He turned towards it. All he could see were merchants. Then he heard the voice again:
"Goods of the Eight Kingdoms! I bring wares from Gondor! The North! The Riverlands! Dorne! The Vale of Arrryn! Find it all here!" it said.
Valandil quickly excused himself from the Khaleesi and Jorah and, before either of them could ask where he was going, he followed the voice. He crossed beneath the boughs of the trees to another aisle of the market, lined by merchant stalls and overhung with colourful awnings of canvas. A smell of spices and perfumes filled the air. There he found the source of the voice: There was a Dunadan amongst the traders. He stood at a stall of his own, surrounded by Andals who were taking crates of goods from a cart that sat behind it. He was tall and black haired, and skin tanned gold by the sun, but he had the unmistakable look of a Numenorean.
"Hail! A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, countryman!" Valandil cried, greeting him in the Elven tongue. The trader's sun-creased face broke into a sudden smile, teeth shockingly white against his dark tan.
"A fellow Dunadan! In Vaes Dothrak of all the places; here is a happy meeting!" the trader replied.
They clasped forearms and embraced, fellow travelers far from home, caught up in the unexpected joy of finding a kinsman and speaking together in their own tongue.
"I am Galdor son of Baran of Pelargir," the trader introduced himself, releasing Valandil. Valandil dearly wished to tell Galdor who he was, to hear news of home, but he knew it would not be wise to reveal himself.
"Thorongil of Minas Ithil," he said, with some reluctance about the lie.
"How long you been abroad?" asked Galdor.
"Nearly a year and a half now, and yourself? What brings you out here?" replied Valandil.
"I departed Pelargir several months ago, been traveling all through the Free Cities, a very profitable venture for my family," said Galdor.
"You must have some news of home then," said Valandil, eagerness barely restrained. Galdor made a thoughtful noise, scratching a bearded chin. Out of a pocket he pulled a wooden pipe. Valandil's eyes lit up. Galdor smiled as he noticed.
"Been a while since your last smoke kinsman?" Galdor said jovially, filling his pipe as he did.
"Nay, but I'm almost out of leaf, I had despaired of finding anymore!" replied Valandil.
"Then you are in luck Master Thorongil! I happen to have some bales from home in the cart. Let us share a few leaves and smoke together, and we will talk of home, you and I!" said Galdor with a broad smile.
Ignoring the dirty looks from his Andal companions, Galdor quickly retrieved a few leaves of galenas from his wagon. Valandil smelled the deep, fragrant aroma as he and the trader filled their pipes. They shared flint and steel to light the leaves.
"Fine leaf, very fine," said Valandil, breathing out a ring of smoke. Galdor smiled with pipe in mouth.
"From the Reach. The finest galenas grows around Goldengrove," he said. "So what can I tell you about Gondor?"
"Anything, anything at all, I just yearn for any tidings of home," replied Valandil.
"When I left, things were much as they have been. The fields are rich, the berries are sweet, and the cattle are fat. Summer's end is coming I deem, they have had some snows around Fornost and Lake Evendim," said Galdor.
"The long summer brings the deep snows they say," said Valandil.
"It shall be a long winter if that is true, but perhaps not a harsh one. Rarely have we ever seen such bounty," said Galdor.
"So what news from Pelargir then?" Valandil asked. Galdor smoked a while and then said:
"Do you know of Hallacar, the Lord of Pelargir? And of his daughter?"
Valandil knew them well. Hallacar was a liegeman of his lord father and Pelargir was the chief city within Ithilien. The broad-shouldered old Lord of Pelargir with his fierce iron-grey beard was the High Captain of the Ships of Gondor and a common guest at Minas Ithil. His long-standing project was to secure the betrothal of his daughter Nessanie to one of Isildur's sons. Nessanie shared her father's ambitions and in particular had always sought after Valandil himself, to the young man's dismay.
"I know of them," Valandil said.
"Before I left, the word in Pelargir was that the poor Lady Nessanie had locked herself in her tower and cannot be made to come out," said Galdor.
"What? But-but why?" asked Valandil, dismayed, swallowing hard. An uncomfortable feeling of guilt was creeping up his neck.
"No one knows, some say that some fell mood is upon her. The whole city was whispering of it when I left," replied the merchant.
"Surely there is something other than that?" said Valandil, wishing to change the topic.
"Well," said Galdor, smiling round his pipe. He seemed to be enjoying the chance for gossip "The King was on the road to Annuminas"
"The King? Truly?" said Valandil sharply.
"Truly. I ran into them myself on the road to White Harbour. Banners flying the royal stag, and Tar-Robert himself on a great black horse leading them,"
"What was his errand in Annuminas?"
"I cannot say for I did not ask, nor did the King deign to speak to a humble trader like myself. Some royal visit to the Lords of Gondor I would guess. They say that the King had a close friendship with Lord Isildur from the war," said Galdor.
Valandil knew that much to be true. He had ridden at his father's side in the war. Though the forces they brought to Robert's side were small, just Isildur and his sons and a small band of housecarls, Valandil's father rose high in Robert's esteem. A ghost of a smile drifted across his lips. Those had been good times, when he had fought at his family's side to overthrow a wicked king and avenge good men unjustly murdered. That had been before everything changed, before the Fall of Pyke. Valandil's smile died quickly.
"And the word on the road after the King passed was that his Steward had died of a sudden sickness,"
This came as a surprise. Old even during the war, Lord Arryn had always been hale and hearty. He had been a good man, loyal and honourable, and Valandil prayed that Eru had taken him quickly and painlessly.
"Plague?" was all Valandil managed to say.
"Perhaps, or something of the sort. But if I were to guess, I would reckon that the King was coming to Gondor to find a new Steward," said Galdor.
"There's never been a Steward from of our people in all the years since my grandsire landed from the Downfall" said Valandil. It was only half a lie. His grandsire was Elendil himself, but Galdor need not know that.
Galdor shrugged and blew out a smoke ring.
"Perhaps it is time that a King come seeking our counsel then," the trader said.
"Who do you think he would choose?" asked Valandil, though he well knew the answer.
"Lord Anarion would be my choice, if I were the King, but then I am not," said Galdor.
"Or perhaps he only wants the counsel of our lords in the selection of a new Steward. There is no wiser man in the Eight Kingdoms than Lord Elendil," said Valandil.
"You'll get no argument from me on that account," Galdor agreed.
Valandil could not say how long he spoke to the trader from Pelargir. The sun had passed its zenith and begun to sink when finally Jorah came to fetch him, for the Khaleesi wished to move on to the Eastern Market. It had been an unexpected and welcome pleasure to once again hear the voice of a fellow Numenorean and converse in the familiar tongue of his homeland and his people. They embraced again when Valandil departed, and Galdor gave him a great gift: A small bag of galenas, for which Galdor earned profuse thanks and deep gratitude.
Jorah and Valandil rejoined the Khaleesi and her guards as they crossed a broad, dusty road that ran down the centre of Vaes Dothrak and separated the two markets. Jorah threw a heavy leather purse into Valandil's hands. It jingled as he caught it.
"Payment from Illyrio, for our services rendered," Jorah said. "And a handsome one at that. That's your share,"
Valandil opened the bag and peered inside. The faces of gods and rulers looked back at him from silver coins. He closed it and tossed it back to Jorah.
"Hold on to it for me for now, I have no taste for silver today," said Valandil.
Jorah gave him a wry grin as he tied the purse to his belt.
"A great swordsman you may be, but you're terrible at this sellsword business," Jorah said. "A real sellsword would slit your throat if you gave him a chance to take your share,"
"Then I am fortunate neither of us are good sellswords," Valandil said with a grin of his own.
The western market had been bustling and busy, but its sights and smells had been familiar to Valandil. He had traveled in Westeros and the Free Cities, there was nothing there to surprise him. The eastern market was something far different, a place that dealt in things dark, strange and exotic. As Valandil followed Daenerys' khas into the market plaza, suddenly a loud trumpeting echoed in the air. He looked up towards the ear-splitting noise and saw a strange sight. A man with the bronzed skin of Qarth seemed to be floating in the air behind the tops of one of the trees. The ground itself shook and trembled beneath Valandil's feet. Then what seemed like a long grey sinuous serpent emerged from behind the tree, headless and yet moving in the air. With rumbling steps, the rest of a vast beast stepped into Daenerys' path. Valandil's eyes widened at the strange sight. It was huge, like a great grey hill with four legs as thick as tree trunks. What looked like a snake was a long snout that swung as the creature walked. Vast ivory tusks shone in the sun, and a pair of large ears flapped on either side of a massive, proud head. And behind the enormous beast came two smaller ones in single file, identical except in size, each holding on to the tail of the one leading them with their strange snout. A man sat in a sort of wooden tower atop the great animal's back.
"An elephant!" Daenerys said, delighted. "I've only seen them in books before!"
The elephant was just the first of the wonders of the eastern market. Merchants came from the most distant lands of the east and brought with them goods both marvelous and dangerous. There were silver cages full of manticores. There were men who could charm serpents with music. There were odd birds of colourful plumage. There was no Common Tongue here, nor even the Valyrian of the Free Cities. Here the air was alive with the strange tongues of Qarth, Ghiscar, Asshai, and even more distant lands. Valandil saw men who contorted their bodies into impossible shapes, men who swallowed swords and breathed fire for the delight of the passing crowds. There were spices so hot the smell of them made Valandil's nose burn, there were silks so fine a man could see right through them. The animals for sale here were strange and foreign: Elephants, camels, black and white zorses of Jogos Nhai, apes and monkeys, scaled basilisks from the jungles of Yi Ti. Yet, for all that the eastern market was foreign and different from the western market, it still bought and sold slaves in great numbers.
There was magic in this market too, or those who claimed to possess it. Alchemists sold smoky potions and elixirs and tonics they claimed would bring wisdom, good fortune, transmute lead into gold, restore virility or any other effect a man with gold desired. Apothecaries sold bear liver and dragon teeth, rhino horn and wolf paw. In some stalls there were sold heavy leather-bound tomes, written in unknown languages, which promised all the secrets of sorcery to those who could decipher them. The Dothraki looked on these things with lips curled in disgust and disdain.
Valandil found himself falling further and further behind the others, surrounded by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the eastern market. He was looking at an animal dealer's cage full of monkeys when someone called out to him.
"Isildur's Son," said the voice, old, old and dry like a dead tree in a desert.
He looked down and saw that it belonged to an old man, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. His skin had the look of old parchment. His eyes were large, milky-white, they stared without seeing right into Valandil. He had only a sparse few white strands of hair around his ears. His thin, fragile arms grasped at a huge, dark tome that sat in his lap.
"Isildur's Son," the old man repeated, his voice like the cracking of stones.
"I am… How do you know that old man?" Valandil replied, glancing towards Daenerys and Jorah, who browsed further up the aisle. They did not appear to have heard him. The old man smiled; an ugly thing full of yellowed teeth and cracked lips.
"A blind man can see many things, Isildur's Son, if he knows how to look," he said.
"I see the line of your fathers and your fathers' fathers, back, back all the way to Huor and Tuor and Hurin and Turin and the Edain of old. I see the line of your sons and your sons' sons, or perhaps your daughters' and your daughters' daughters. I see the strands, weaving forth and back, together and apart, and who can say whose is whose?" the old man laughed, cawing like a crow.
"You're mad," said Valandil, and he turned to leave, but he felt something hold him there.
"Perhaps I am, or perhaps you are, or perhaps we both are, or neither of us are, or maybe we all are," said the old man, smiling his awful smile again.
"I must be mad to still be listening to you," said Valandil.
"Or wise enough to know when to listen, yes Isildur's Son must be, but perhaps you need to know how to listen," said the old man. Valandil furrowed his brows.
"How to listen?" he said.
"It starts when you stop," said the old man.
"Stop what?" replied Valandil.
"Talking!" and the old man cackled his crow's laugh again. Valandil narrowed his eyes. He was beginning to tire of the madman.
"Now you've begun to listen. When you lose your sight you may begin to see," the old man said before Valandil had a chance to say anything. The elder stretched out one of his arms, leaning forward as if he were a tree trying to move one of its branches, and he pointed a long, bony finger at Valandil, chanting out loud:
"What is gold does not always glitter
What is over is not always past
What is old may not wither
What is young may not last"
He leaned back again, grasping his huge book with talon-like hands, smiling yellow once more.
"Not everything is as it seems. What you scorn may be perilous. What you fear may not be your enemy. The dangerous road you may need to tread. What you desire you may need to forget. Remember these things Isildur's Son, and remember to listen,"
He sat there and spoke no more.
"Who are you?" Valandil said at last. The old man said nothing, just stared with those pale, unsettling eyes. Eyes that saw nothing and yet seemed to see everything.
"Who are you?" Valandil demanded again, more forcefully this time.
"He is madman Thorngil, he speaks nonsense to vex men, waste not your time with him," said a Dothraki. It was Rakharo, one of Daenerys' bodyguards. He looked down on the old man with undisguised contempt, then spat upon the ground at the old man's feet. The old man said nothing, he just kept staring straight ahead as Rakharo led Valandil away.
"Who is that man?" asked Valandil.
"I know not. He came to Vaes Dothrak in the time of my grandfather's father. He sits there every day and every night, never moving, speaking only nonsense" said Rakharo.
When they found Daenerys and Jorah once more, the khaleesi was frowning. One of her guards was speaking to an ashen-faced Asshai'i. The man was shaking his head.
"Even in the Shadowlands?" Dany said, almost in disbelief.
"Dragons are all dead Khaleesi, it is known," said the Dothraki, Jhogo. Daenerys sighed as if disappointed.
"Your ancestor Aegon brought the last of the dragons to Westeros when he conquered it. When the Targaryen dragons died, so too did dragonkind," said Jorah. They were following one of the shaded lanes of trees in the eastern market, heading back towards the godsway that divided the western agora from the eastern.
"It is very sad, isn't it?" Daenerys said, melancholy.
"Sad Khaleesi? But dragons wicked, evil beasts. It is good they are dead," said Jhogo.
"My brother told me stories about dragons when I was just a little girl. I knew our dragons had died long ago, but somehow I always thought that maybe somewhere dragons still lived, wild, free, and maybe some day I would see one. Viserys always said that nothing could be more wondrous than seeing a dragon," she replied.
"Forgive me my Princess, but your brother knows nothing about dragons," said Valandil. He thought back upon every dragon his father had ever told him tales about. Glaurung, Worm of Angband, that laid low the fair Nargothrond. The nameless wyrm that broke the gates of Gondolin and set that fair city ablaze. The great Ancalagon the Black, terrible foe of Earendil and the Black Enemy's last and most awful wwapon. A world without such destructive beasts seemed a better one to him.
A faint smile graced Daenerys' lips.
"I had hoped that maybe he wasn't wrong about dragons. I suppose I will never know. It is yet one more thing about which my brother knows nothing," she said. Anyone else might have sounded bitter saying such words about their kin, but Daenerys Targaryen simply stated it, a fact and nothing more.
"One of Illyrio's trade caravans is in the western market, perhaps we ought to send His Grace back to Pentos?" Jorah suggested.
"He'll never go without his army, and he couldn't lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one," said Dany. She was silent for a moment.
"Thorongil, Ser Jorah, could the Dothraki conquer the Eight Kingdoms?" she asked suddenly, as if it were a question that had been on her mind for a long time.
"With your brother leading them?" asked Valandil.
"With Khal Drogo leading them," she said, very firmly. The implication was clear.
"The Dothraki have never crossed the sea, they fear any water their horses cannot drink," said Jorah.
"But if they did," she said insistently. Valandil looked at her and in her purple Targaryen eyes there was something hard and fierce gleaming.
"With a horde like this and a khal like Drogo… It is possible, Khaleesi," he said. How he wished in that moment that Daenerys was not a khaleesi of the Dothraki.
It would be hard to notice for the unobservant, but Daenerys Targaryen carried her head a little higher and walked with a little more purpose that day.
Night came swiftly on the Dothraki Sea. The sun descended over Vaes Dothrak in a reddish blaze. As the evening fell and the sky darkened, Khal Drogo's slaves fed great bonfires outside of the Khal's palace, burning bright and hot and sending shadows dancing in the night. Within the hall, the air was thick with smoke and laughter. The khal had ordered that a great feast be held to honour the conception of his son.
The khal's great hall was long and broad, and barely furnished. Its roof was canvas, open in places to the night sky, and it walls were woven grass. Stools and benches were the only things of wood in his hall, the cooking pots and spits the only things of metal. Fires burned in pits in the middle of the hall, from which came a savoury smell of stews and soups and roasting meat. The slender bodies of dancers were silhouetted in the firelight as they moved in tune with beating drums.
All this Valandil watched from a seat of honour at the end of the hall. He was amongst khals and khalakkas and kos, the guests of Drogo. Jorah sat to his left, and far to his right was Viserys, sullenly quiet and swaying like a man half in his cups. Valandil glanced further to his left. Daenerys sat at the very end of the hall, beside an empty chair that belonged to the Khal. She was laughing at some joke of one of her handmaidens, her smile bright and warm even in the smoky darkness. She looked happy, she looked at home. He smiled at that as he filled his pipe for a smoke.
The only one absent from the feast was the Khal himself, but that was not for long. The slaves tossed the cloth doors open and in from the night strode Khal Drogo. The bells in his hair tinkled softly with each step he took. His almond-shaped eyes gleamed darkly. The music stopped as the Khal walked up the hall, followed by his bloodriders. The pelt of some large white animal was tossed over his shoulders. He came before Daenerys with it and knelt before his khaleesi. He laid the pelt across her lap. Valandil recognized it now: The skin of a hrakkar, one of the white lions of the Dothraki Sea. A magnificent gift.
"A silver cloak like your silver hair, o moon of my life," the Khal said. His hand caressed Daenerys' face affectionately, and he kissed her forehead, then took his seat beside her. With a clap of his hands, the dancing and the music resumed.
Wine flowed that night like rivers. They were fed hearty stews and thick soups and good black bread, and roasted meats, pork and beef, mutton and goat. The night seemed to wear on and on, and Viserys drank more and more as it did.
Drogo held court at his feast that night. A broad space before his seat was cleared away and to it came many men. He called his friends before him, his most honoured warriors, his fellow khals, and gave them rich gifts. To each of his bloodriders he gave an arm-ring of heavy red-gold. To his favoured kos he gave arakhs of good steel and double-curved bows. To Khal Jommo, who had proclaimed Rhaego the Stallion That Mounts The World alongside the dosh khaleen, Drogo gifted a bridle of rich leather, decorated with gems. His generosity seemed unlimited that night. Yet for all the gifts that were offered and received, Viserys remained in his seat, uncalled for and unacknowledged, and his mood grew blacker with each passing moment.
Emissaries too came before Drogo at the feast. Fellow khals came to promise Drogo their help or ask for his aid against their enemies. Messengers came from cities and nations far and wide, seeking the Khal's friendship. There were Pentosi with forked beards, bringing chests of tribute in gold and silver. There were envoys from Braavos and Volantis, Qohor and Myr, richly dressed but still bowing and scraping before the Khal. They were all offering him tribute in wealth or slaves or both, and all asking him to spare their cities and instead attack their enemies. If Drogo was amused by his, his imperceptible face did not show it. He merely thanked them for their generous gifts and courteous words, and said nothing about where his horde would ride next.
The night wore on, and the fires grew dim, and the moonlight shone through the roof of the hall. Drunk on wine and happiness, finally even the raucuous Dothraki grew tired. Valandil was about to rise to stretch his legs and head back to his hut when one last messenger entered Drogo's hall.
He was tall, taller than the tallest. His hair shone like burnished gold. His eyes were clear, bright and blue. A noble brow and a nobler face. His head was held high. He did not bow, he did not scrape, he did not prostrate himself before the Khal. His gaze bored straight into Drogo. Jewels flashed in the firelight on his neck, on his fingers, on his arms. His clothes were alive with colours, rich purples and deep golds, bright greens and fiery reds. He walked up the length of the hall with long strides and a hush fell over those who watched him. Suddenly, amidst all their celebration, a feeling came upon them, and they felt like misbehaving servants whose master had come home. Here was no ordinary emissary. Here was a lord amongst men, and the shining of his eyes and the twist of his lips and the lift of his chin held a wordless power of command, and none that sat there could not help but feel its potency.
"Hail Drogo, son of Bharbo, mightiest of all Khals" the messenger said, and his voice was as rich and melodious as music made for gods. He bowed courteously to Drogo, though any who looked upon them would think that Drogo should have bowed to this man. Drogo nodded for him to continue. A hushed silence fell over the crowds, even the fiercest of Dothraki warriors were held entranced by this man.
"I am the Mouth of Umbar," he said and he smiled. His smile was like that of a benevolent master for a foolish but beloved servant.
"I bring greetings from my master, Ar-Azulakhor, the King of Umbar, the Great King of Kings, anointed by Melkor, the Lord of Men, Master of the Seas and Lord of the Earth," he said. Valandil's eyes widened. He sat bolt upright, stiff as a deer that has seen a tiger. He recognized that tongue. His breath caught in his throat and he felt like icy daggers had plunged into his stomach.
Khal Drogo nodded again for the Mouth of Umbar to continue.
"The Great King of Kings has heard many tales and many songs of your strength and bravery, mighty Drogo," the Mouth of Umbar said, and his voice was sweet with admiration.
"But even the strongest warrior must have friends upon the battlefield, and even the strongest tree may fall before the storm. So let us speak together, you and I, Dothraki and Umbar, and we shall speak as friends,"
He smiled again, as one who has seen a dear friend whom had not been seen in many years.
"Umbar is the heir of Numenor, the greatest kingdom that ever was, and like Numenor of old, Umbar is fated for greatness. Melkor Himself has bequeathed unto us His dominion, for we are His chosen people, and we shall have dominion over all lands and all kingdoms, and all the races of men. Out of the downfall of Numenor has come Umbar, and we have set our feet upon the earth and we will take it as our rightful possession,"
He spoke now as a lord, as a master, invincible and irresistible. What courage and defiance dwelt in the hearts of each Dothraki in that hall seemed to die away. Just the previous day the dosh khaleen had proclaimed the Stallion That Mounts The World, but now their prophecies seemed to ring hollow and false in the face of Umbar. Valandil dug his fingers into his leg.
"Those who stand before us will be swept away, like sand in the wind. We are terrible to our enemies, mighty Khal, but we are generous to our friends,"
His voice was a promise, a promise of mercy, kindness, gifts, friendship. Hope was kindled in those who listened.
"Your armies are great and your arm is long indeed, you could be an honoured friend of Ar-Azulakhor, mighty Drogo. Swear yourself as our ally and you will be made into the greatest Khal that ever was, a Khal that will rule over all Khals. You will ride alongside Ar-Azulakhor himself, and your standards will be seen and the thunder of your hooves will be heard on fields of battles at the ends of the earth. You will ride with us to lands in the farthest east and distant west where no khal has ever ridden before. With us you will lay waste to jeweled cities and great kingdoms, and the choicest of the plunder and most beautiful of the women will be yours. This we promise, and this shall be yours, if you but swear yourself as our friend and ally,"
He paused. All eyes turned to the Khal.
"What say you?"
A strange thing happened then. Laughter. Khal Drogo was laughing, a deep and mirthful laugh. The spell was broken. Soon the Khal's bloodriders began to laugh, then the other khals and kos, and soon every Dothraki in the hall was laughing with them. Drogo said something in the Dothraki tongue too quickly for Valandil to follow, and a slave-girl translated it.
"The Khal says: The Stallion That Mounts The World can do all these things, so what need have we of your Khal? None, we think," said the slave.
A shadow passed over the Mouth of Umbar's features, a look of the most hateful contempt. It lasted only a moment but Valandil saw it all the same. It was quickly replaced by a friendly look of amusement, the look of a parent towards a child's foolish words.
"Think hard on this offer, Khal Drogo. Not all are offered the friendship of the King of Kings. Ar-Azulakhor has much to offer, for he can bring low even the mightiest lord, or give crowns to even the meekest," the Mouth of Umbar said. He cast his piercing blue eyes around the room and they seemed to rest, just for a moment, on Daenerys, and again on Viserys.
With another courtly bow, the Mouth of Umbar took his leave.
Valandil exhaled sharply and looked at Jorah. The old knight's eyes were full of questions.
"Who was he?" asked Ser Jorah.
"I don't know Jorah. That which is over but is not past," Valandil said, and he remembered the words of the old man of the market. The air inside the hall felt stifling. He needed to clear his head. Excusing himself, Valandil quickly rose and left.
The air outside was cool and a breeze was blowing. In the sky above, a tapestry of stars shone palely. The moon seemed very white and very clear. Valandil leaned against the wall of his hut, breathing hard, the earthen mound cold through his clothes. His legs felt weak and there was a pounding in his chest, as if he had seen some wraith of the dead.
"You are no Dothraki," said a voice, cold and cruel.
Valandil turned around slowly. The Mouth of Umbar stepped out of the shadows of Drogo's hall. The two Numenoreans stood facing each other in the moonlight, hands empty, shoulders squared. The Mouth of Umbar's eyes were two cold chips of blue-ice.
"Nor are you," Valandil replied.
"Of course not, you and I are of a higher breed. I had not thought to meet any of my kin in this barbaric place," said the Mouth of Umbar.
"We are not kin, King's Man," said Valandil.
The Mouth of Umbar laughed. It was a hollow, mirthless sound.
"You must be an Elf-friend. Truly this is the last place I expected to find one such as you," the Mouth said. "We did not think we would find you anywhere outside of the Eight Kingdoms. What errand has brought you to this miserable place?"
"No errand. I am a friend of the Khaleesi," Valandil said.
"You seek their service then as well? Perhaps that Elendil is not as much as naive I thought he was. It is a fool's errand though, these savages are good only for fighting each other. There are other, more useful servants to be had," the Mouth replied.
Valandil closed his hands into tight fists.
"You are surprised that I am here? I suppose your fathers were so arrogant to assume that they were the only ones to survive?" said the Mouth.
"Eru should have banished you to the Void itself for what you did to our home," Valandil snarled.
"What we did!?" the Mouth snarled in return. "Remember, kinsman, if the lies of Elf-friends have not clouded your mind too much, who was it that destroyed Numenor?"
"The wretched creature that whispered lies in the ears of our King and brought the ruin upon us," said Valandil.
"It matters not what you believe, kinsman. Melkor delivered us up out of that dark day. A new land he has given to us. It was His mercy that brought you here. All the lands of the earth have been promised to us, we have only to reach out our hands and take it," said the Mouth of Umbar.
"You will find, King's Man, that the promises of the Black Enemy are faithless and hollow. They will turn to ash in your fingers," Valandil shot back. The knuckles on his fists were white.
"Ash is what Gondor shall be by the end of this, Elf-friend, and you will see if the Valar will save you then. I spoke truth to the Khal, though he was too stupid to hear it. The day draws near where we shall declare our dominion. To those who defy us, we shall bring death and ruin such as these savages have never imagined. Think hard on whose side you wish to stand," said the Mouth of Umbar. His eyes gleamed with a hunger as he spoke and his lips were twisted in a sneer of cruel command.
He melted back into the shadows and was gone.
When dawn broke over Vaes Dothrak the next day, the Mouth of Umbar was nowhere to be found. Nor was Viserys Targaryen.