Author's Note: Due to length, this chapter has been split into two parts. This is the first. The second will be forthcoming as soon as possible.
Chapter XVI
The Lands of the Lhazareen
Smoke billowed and climbed high into the air. Smoke and the sounds of suffering. Whips cracked. Children wept. Women screamed and wailed. Men cried out only to be silenced by arakh and lariat and swift arrow. All around the town, the fields were strewn with bodies. They were hacked and torn, trampled and choked and pierced. Through the desolation went the young children of Drogo's khalasar, collecting the arrows for their fathers and brothers, and the eunuch-slaves to tend to warriors laying wounded on the field, and the mercy-men stalked with heavy axes to dispatch the foes left unslain.
In the centre of the field, a grisly mound was being raised by the Dothraki. Khal Drogo had the heads of his slain foes piled in a mound to mark that these lands had been lain to waste by his khalasar, and to let all those who passed by know that it was Drogo who was master here.
The buzzing of flies and the hungry cries of circling carrion-birds were heard everywhere. The reek of death was overwhelming.
In the east, the sun was rising, streaking the sky with the red of blood.
This was the third village they had raided this week. When Drogo led the khalasar out of Vaes Dothrak, Valandil had wondered why they were leaving so many of their slaves behind. Now he knew: The khal would harry and burn the lands of Lhazar, taking fresh slaves to be sold in the markets of Slaver's Bay. That was where the real wealth of the Dothraki came from. Not from sacking great jeweled cities, but from slave trading across all the lands of the East. Drogo was a khal great and terrible, and where his khalasar rode, no grass would grow behind them.
Valandil Isildurion was no stranger to the ways of war. Since he was a young man, he had shed blood on the battlefields of the Eight Kingdoms. He had fought the Ninepenny Kings, rode alongside his father at the Trident, and stormed the walls of Pyke. Only too familiar was the site of men hewn and slain, only too familiar was the sound of death and the smell of blood and corpses rotting in the sun. He had seen war on land and on sea.
Riding amongst the fields of dead, he could tell that the Dothraki were something different though.
The Lhazareen were no great warriors. When the horde had come in the small hours of the dawn, the town's militia had scrambled to put up a meagre resistance which Drogo's riders swept aside with contemptuous ease. Their kos would lead them on a wild, headlong charge straight at the huddled ranks of the Lhazareen. They screamed piercing battle cries and brandished bows and arakhs, and lances and lariats. Then when they close enough to see the whites of the terrified eyes of the Lamb-men, they veered aside, in swift unison like a flock of birds in flight. As they did, they let loose a hail of arrows, shot straight into the Lhazareen ranks from only a few yards distance, a shot so close that each dart was all but certain to kill if it found its mark.
It had not been battle, it had been slaughter.
Along the dusty road that led to the south from the town, a long ragged line of slaves was being herded together by the Dothraki. Their eyes were deadened to the world. Their faces were downcast.
Valandil looked upon them from Velo's back, feeling a deep pity for them. He saw hard lives ahead of those poor people, full of the lash and hash blows and the cruel touch of uncaring masters. Dull and miserable lives, with no hope for anything beyond being bought by a rich man who might feed them well. He longed to break their chains, to cut their bonds, to let them go free, but under the glowering stares of the Dothraki he knew he could not.
Trudging past him, the Lhazareen thralls briefly raised their gaze and looked at him as if he was not there.
Ser Jorah Mormont rode up next to Valandil upon his brown gelding. The Bear Islander wore plate and mail harness, its plates battered and scarred and dented by years of hard use, and over that was a green surcoat blazoned with the bear of the Mormonts. He did not wear his helmet, and his balding forehead was beaded with sweat.
Valandil too was clad in steel, for his wore his mail, the rings of Gondorian black steel. His hauberk was long enough to fall to his knees, slit between the legs to make riding easier, and over his shoulders was his grey cloak.
Yet though both rode in the harness of war, no fresh scars nor new marks of battle upon their armour had they received. They were the Khaleesi's men, not the Khal's, and they did not do his killing.
"So similar they are," said Valandil softly.
"Whom?" replied Jorah. He grabbed a water skin from his saddle and took a long drink, then handed it to Valandil. The water was warm, but refreshing upon his parched throat.
"The Dothraki and the Lhazareen" Valandil answered, giving him back the water skin.
"What do you mean?" said Jorah.
"Look at them Jorah. The same copper skin, the same black hair, the same faces and eyes. And if you cut them, do they both not bleed the same blood?" Valandil said, pointing to a Lhazareen man and the Dothraki rider next to him.
"I would not say that too loudly around the Dothraki if I were you," Jorah cautioned him. "There are few people in the world that the Horselords have more contempt for than the Lamb-men,"
"To any stranger's eyes, they would appear to be kin, peoples of the same ancestors. Listen to their speech. Even their tongues are much alike, yet the Dothraki hate the Lhazareen and slay them and take them into thralldom," replied Valandil.
"Do you think that the Lhazareen would not do the same to the Dothraki if they could? When they capture Dothraki riders, which is not often but neither is it unknown, they are known to torture and enslave as much as the Dothraki do. This is the way of the east, my friend. A bleak business, but its like things are in the world," said Jorah, voice resigned.
The chains of the slaves rattled in time with each step they took, trudging past Valandil and Jorah with blank faces and eyes that stared at nothing.
"It is how things are, but they need not be. Once it was not like this," said Valandil bitterly. His eyes were full of pity for each Lhazareen who walked past.
"It has always been like this, for as long as men can remember," replied Jorah.
"The memories of men are short. My people have a story about why the world has come to wickedness. Men were not always this way, but pride and envy brought us to this," Valandil paused; He remembered and nearly heard the deep voice of his father, chanting the old tales. He began to speak, with a slow and soft voice, in almost a solemn chant:
"In the Elder Days, when the grandfathers of the fathers of the Edain dwelt in the farthest east, two brothers rose to great stature amongst the people. The elder was the stronger but the younger was the wiser. Renowned they were, for together no one could best them in feats of arms or knowledge. They took wives and had many sons and gathered strong households about them and their herds multiplied and their fields were fruitful. They grew so great that in their hearts each began to suspect the other, and they knew that the lands were not wide enough for them both. Then the Black Enemy came unto the elder brother; He whispered in his ear and sought to fan the ember of mistrust into the fire of hate, but the love of brothers was too strong. Yet they knew their houses would come to blows if nothing was done and so they made a pact and embraced one last time as brothers. The elder and all his people stayed in the east, and the younger and all who would go with him journeyed to the west for a new homeland. The elder brother grew old and died; his heirs fell in war and strife, and the shadow of the Black Enemy fell upon them, and they feared it and worshiped it. Ever after the kindreds of Men were sundered,"
Jorah regarded Valandil silently. Far above them, the carrion-fowl were crying out hungrily.
"My father told me that tale when I was young. He told me that the people of the elder brother became the fathers of Easterlings, worshipers of the Shadow. The people of the younger brother became the fathers of the Edain, my people. Though they warred against us and in the Dark Years served the Great Enemy and burnt our lands and took us as thralls, they are our kin, estranged by all the tides of the ages and the waters of the sea," he said. Jorah grimaced with a humourless chuckle.
"If all men are kin, then I shall tell you this: Never have I seen fighting more bitter than when brother turns on brother,"
Behind them they heard the sounds of hooves on the blood-sodden grass. Daenerys Targaryen rode across the battlefield, her silver walking with the suppleness of moonlight in water. To Valandil, she looked out of place, too delicate and too beautiful for this place, as if the carnage that surrounded them somehow made even more profane by its contrast with her. Yet she held her head high and proud, like the Khaleesi of the Dothraki that she was becoming more and more with each day. Valandil perceived something in her beneath that strength, something like sadness as she looked at the dead all around her and the slaves being marched out of their homes.
Behind her came her handmaidens, noses crinkled at the stench of the dead, and behind them the callow young warriors of her khas, tossing jokes and laughter amongst themselves. Aggo carried one of the powerful double-curved bows of the Dothraki, with a quiver of arrows upon his saddle. A long lance was balanced in Jhogo's fist. Rakharo's whip was in hand, and on his saddle there was a lariat rolled up. Despite the death all around them, they looked as relaxed as if they were riding in green fields with the sun on their faces. Rakharo met Valandil's eyes and raised a hand in greeting, smiling easily. Valandil forced a smile to his face and nodded in reply.
"Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said, bowing his head respectfully.
"Greetings Ser Jorah, and to you Thorongil," Daenerys replied. They nudged their horses into a walk alongside the Princess' silver.
Daenerys was staring at the line of slaves. The Dothraki riders sat hunched upon their horses like birds of prey upon a branch, with watchful eyes and their arms at the ready. The threat of violence was barely veiled, and the Lhazareen were unwilling to look up to meet their captor's eyes. Occasionally a whip would crack and a cry of pain would break the air as some old woman or young child did not move as quickly as the riders wanted.
There was no quaver in Daenerys' eyes, she did not quail or look away, but Valandil still noticed the tightness with which she gripped her reins. Her knuckles were almost white.
"It has been like this at the last two towns as well," she said softly, then turned her head towards Jorah. "Is this what it shall be like in Westeros?"
"It is the way of the Dothraki. You will see much more of this if you convince them to cross the sea," replied Jorah.
In the distance, Dothraki riders were galloping in a wide circle around the mound of heads, kicking up dust as they did. They brandished their weapons and cried out a victory-song in harsh, keening voices. The bells in their braids jingled as they rode. Heads and scalps decorated their saddles as grisly trophies.
Fire and Blood Valandil thought coldly.
Daenerys' face was unreadable while she listened to the victory-song. She looked lost in her own thoughts, looking from the riders to the slaves and back again.
"How many slaves?" she asked.
"From this town? Another thousand or so, men, women and children. By the time we leave the lands of Lhazar, we might have ten thousand all told," answered Jorah. "We ought to make for the cities on Slaver's Bay, Meereen perhaps. There we will get a fine price, enough for all the ships and men we will need,"
Daenerys said nothing. She just stared ahead, unwavering. Ahead of them, the Great Khal himself and his bloodriders galloped out of the gates of the town with, their warriors following behind them with songs and war-whoops. Their work was done and the khalasar was preparing to move on. Daenerys nudged her silver to a smooth trot and headed to join her husband, sparing no glance to the death on her left or the slaves on her right.
Ten thousand thralls thought Valandil, guilt welling up inside him. Eru have mercy on them.
A whip cracked out, even amongst the noises of the battlefield it rent the air like a crash of lightning. It was followed by a mournful cry of pain, much nearer than the others.
Valandil glanced over his shoulder. He saw a boy, no older than twelve, bolting away from the line of slaves. In an instant, the riders were after him, whips cracking in the air, shouting harsh obscenities in their harsh tongue. They lashed the boy, leaving red gashes upon his back and thighs, blood running down his legs as he struggled to run. The boy stumbled and fell hard, blood mingling with the dirt on the ground, but the Dothraki did not stop. They whipped him again and again, and he cried out in pain again and again.
The son of Isildur gripped his reins till his knuckles were white. Wrath, long-smouldering within him, was beginning to blaze forth.
"Thorongil…" Jorah said cautiously, glancing from Valandil to the boy and back. "That is not your fight,"
Valandil turned to Jorah with a sharp look.
"Am I not my brother's keeper?" he asked.
Before the Bear Islander could reply, he whirled Velo around and cantered over towards the ring of Dothraki warriors. They were laughing at the slave's weeping, cackling in harsh, cruel voices whilst one of their number lashed the boy every time he tried to stand up again.
"STOP!" bellowed Valandil in the Dothraki tongue "Stop this at once!"
The Dothraki turned to him with surprised eyes. He burst through their circle, grey eyes flashing with anger, one hand upon his sword hilt. He reined Velo up beside the slave and vaulted down from the saddle. The Lhazareen boy looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Valandil leaned down, reaching out. He only meant to examine the boy's wounds, but the slave was half-mad with fear and he scrambled away frantically. Suddenly another whip cracked around and flicked along the boy's shoulder, stopping him in place with another anguished scream.
"I said stop!" Valandil snarled at them. "Are you men or beasts that you would beat a child?"
"Thorngil," said one of the riders, sitting on his horse forward from the rest. He was tall, lean and grizzled, with the scar of an arakh slash along his collar bone and long moustaches drooping from this lips. He seemed to be the leader.
"This boy, he is nothing. A Lamb-boy, and a slave. I slew the father, I took the mother, this slave is mine by right. He tried to run, he must be taught better before he is sold," the warrior said, gesturing with his whip.
"What is your name?" Valandil demanded, standing up and squaring off with the rider, hands in tight fists at his sides.
"I am Dharbo, son of Argaro," replied the Dothraki. Valandil nodded and glanced down at the slave. The boy's face was wild with fear, looking back and forth between the Dunedan and the Dothraki.
"Thorongil!" cried Jorah. He had coming riding up behind. His hand was on his sword hilt and he looked around at the warriors all around. They were two against seven. "Get back on your horse and come with me. This is not wise,"
Valandil did not listen, he kept his eyes locked on Dharbo.
"Dharbo, son of Argaro, I am Thorongil. I will take this slave. I claim him as my own,"
"By what right? That slave is mine to sell!" Dharbo snarled in response.
"Dharbo, I will pay for the slave, I promise you," Jorah said, raising his hands diplomatically.
In three quick strides, before any more could be said, Valandil was upon the Dothraki. He seized Dharbo, one hand on his breeches and the other on his braid and hauled him off his horse, tossing him down onto the ground hard. The horse whinnied and shied away. Before the rider could recover, the son of Isildur drove a boot into his stomach, knocking the air out of him with a grunt of pain. A hand went for a dagger, but Valandil was too fast and he pinned the hand beneath his foot and then, swift as a lion on its prey, he had his knee on Dharbo's throat. The rider struggled and gasped for air, clawing at Valandil futilely.
"That slave is mine, if you lay a hand on him then we shall have words once more," Valandil said, an edge like cold steel in his voice.
"The slave is yours," Dharbo choked out, gritting his teeth and twisting his lip in a snarl.
Valandil stood up, releasing him. Dharbo gasped in air, looking up at Valandil. In his black eyes was a glint of hate.
Steel whispered against leather and he found himself in a circle of gleaming arakhs. Valandil set a hand upon the hilt of his longsword, sliding his feet back. He gritted his teeth and said nothing, staring at the warriors all around him. Velo snorted in protest, rearing on his hindlegs and kicking the air with his hooves.
"Now, let us not do anything foolish," said Jorah, tapping the tip of own sword against the back of the nearest Dothraki's neck.
"If there is blood here, I will have to tell the Khaleesi, and then Khal Drogo will know the reason why his warriors are attacking his wife's men," he said, punctuating his words with a harder tap.
Dharbo was struggling to his feet. He glared hard at Valandil, then whistled sharply. His bay gelding returned obediently, and the Dothraki vaulted up into the saddle with practiced ease. He spat upon the ground at Valandil's feet, then reined around and galloped towards the rest of the khalasar, gathering upon the road.
"If I weren't your friend, the Dothraki would have killed you a dozen times already," said Jorah, shaking his head ruefully and sheathing his blade.
"If you were not my friend Jorah, I would not be amongst the Dothraki," said Valandil. "You have my thanks though, truly"
"Aye I know, consider this payment of my debt for Braavos," Jorah replied with a chuckle.
Valandil turned and looked to the boy who he had rescued. The Lhazareen stood on unsteady legs, trembling still. He was a slight lad, lanky and thin, with short black hair and almond-shaped black eyes. He could not have seen much more than twelve years. All along his back and thighs and shoulders, the whips of the Dothraki had left gashes through his thin shirt, bloody though not too deep. Valandil sighed, feeling a deep pity for the poor lad. He knew he would have to examine the wounds later.
In the distance, shrill horns were blowing and drums were beating. Hooves were thundering and victory-songs were filling the air as forty thousand Dothraki warriors made ready to depart.
"What shall we do with him?" said Jorah.
"Do you speak the Common Tongue?" Valandil asked the boy. Dumb-struck silence was the only answer.
"Do you speak Lhazareen?" he asked Jorah. The knight shook his head.
"Can you walk?" Valandil said to the boy in the Dothraki tongue, hoping that they would be similar enough to be understood. The Lhazareen nodded his head tentatively, seemingly confused still.
"You follow me," he said slowly, pointing to the boy and then himself. The Lhazareen nodded again.
"We'll be left behind if we do not hurry," said Jorah, glancing over his shoulder. Clouds of dust were rising, the warriors were riding away.
"Aye, I just need to get something on his wounds so he does not bleed anymore," replied Valandil, opening the saddlebag sitting on Velo's back.
He found a light linen shirt that was fairly clean and tore it into broad strips. These he secured firmly around the boy's chest and waist and legs, the bandages covering the wounds on his back and stemming the bleeding. The Lhazareen nodded gratefully though he still looked shocked and confused.
"Thorongil," Valandil said to the slave, pointing to himself. The child seemed to understand.
"Kevah, Kevahram," he replied in a weak voice, tapping against his chest with his hand. Valandil nodded.
Grabbing the saddle horn, the son of Isildur swung himself back up onto Velo's back smoothly.
"Follow" he said to Kevah, and the child nodded. As Valandil and Jorah rode back across the fields of the dead, Kevah followed closely behind. He stared ahead intently, not stopping to look at the corpses of his people all around him. He seemed focused only on putting one foot in front of the other. Valandil kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure the boy was still following. Though he swayed back and forth while he walked, he did not stumble.
"There will be trouble with that Dharbo. A Dothraki family does not suffer a slight to one of its own easily," said Jorah, shaking his head.
"And I do not suffer seeing the beating of a child easily. If they wish to avenge themselves, I await them," Valandil replied with a hard glint in his eyes.
"Dothraki notions of justice and retribution are… Dothraki," said Jorah "Just watch your back, my friend, please. I can't always be watching it for you,"
"Very well Jorah, I will try to be more careful. It just maddens me to see what these creatures would do to a child like that," said Valandil sadly.
"Aye, it is cruel and brutal in these lands, but it is like things are in the world. You have been to war yourself, you know its ways," Jorah said with a grimace.
"I have been to war and I know its ways, but I never harmed a child," Valandil paused, remembering for a moment all he had seen and all he had done. "Not even at Pyke,"
The faces of the Greyjoy children swam up before his face, clear as the day he saw them. Wide terrified eyes, as dark as those of Kevah. He remembered a small boy clutched in the arms of an older sister, looking at him with the most utter fear and despair he had ever seen. He remembered the relief when he took his helmet off and offered them his hand. Not joy, not happiness, just relief.
Above Valandil and Jorah, a vast flock of carrion-fowl cried hungrily, filling the air with a cacophony of noise and descending upon the ruins of the town and the bodies of the dead. With blast of horns and roll of drums, Drogo's khalasar rode away in a rumble of hooves and cart-wheels, like a sated hrakkar leaving the bones of its prey to the vultures.
The land of Lhazar was a strip of pasture-land between the vast steppes of the Dothraki Sea to the north and the blasted desert of the Red Waste to the south and east. It was a dry land, and the grass was yellow-green and brittle to the touch. Amongst the hills flowed shallow slow rivers of brown water, and the khalasar rode down the valley of one of these rivers, sending parties of outriders and scouts ranging far amongst the hills on either bank in search of further prey.
For three days after the plundering of Kevahram's home, Valandil rode with the khalasar along the river valley, under a scorching sun. He saw neither sight nor heard sound of the Lhazareen, though on the slopes of distant hills he spotted herds of sheep or goats left untended. He wondered whether it was Drogo's horde that had slain the herders or another. He often rode with Jorah and Daenerys, listening to the Bear Islander tell the Princess what he knew of Lhazar and the other lands of the East and their ways. The young Kevah walked behind Valandil's horse doggedly, with eyes that stared but saw nothing. He ate the food that Valandil set before him at the end of every day, and slept where Valandil told him to sleep, and he did not resist when Valandil washed his wounds and changed his bandages, but he spoke no more.
On the fourth day, the stream that they followed joined a large river that meandered in wide loops across the flatlands. This, Jorah told Valandil, was the great River Skahazadhan, which divided the heartlands of Lhazar to its south from the endless Dothraki Sea further north. It was broad, over a hundred yards from the north shore to the southern banks, but at its deepest point it only came up to the bellies of the horses and its brown, silt-filled waters flowed very slowly.
At the Skahazadhan, Drogo turned the khalasar westwards, and every day his kos led their khas out on far-ranging raids to the surrounding villages and towns. Every night the raiders returned laden with what plunder they could take from the Lhazareen, but the real treasure of their raids were the long columns of thralls they added to the khalasar. Some were men, beaten and broken in spirit, but most were women and children by the hundreds and thousands. The khalasar went swiftly across the Dothraki Sea, but now its progress was slowed more and more every day by the warriors burdened with loot and by the trains of walking slaves that they drove before them.
"Drogo will drive these slaves down to the Bay, to Meereen most likely," said Ser Jorah Mormont, watching one of the khas return, whips cracking in the air above the heads of two hundred slaves.
They were riding beneath a blazing hot sun, the sky an arresting blue free of any clouds, and the lazy waters of the Skahazadhan on their left. The heat of the day was intense, and Valandil wore his lightest clothes, his shirt open at the throat, and still his forehead was beaded with sweat.
"Slaves for gold, gold for ships, and ships to cross to Westeros," Jorah finished, with a humourless smile.
"If Daenerys convinces the Khal," Valandil splashed some water from his skin on his hand and rubbed his face. The water was tepid, but a slight breeze cooled him.
"No Dothraki has ever crossed the sea, but our Drogo is an ambitious man," replied the Bear Islander.
"Our Daenerys is an ambitious woman, but there is a warning in my heart against bringing this horde to the Eight Kingdoms," said Valandil darkly. He glanced over his shoulder to see Kevah still following behind his horse.
"Warning?" asked Jorah.
"Say we cross the sea, we defeat Robert, rally the loyalists, restore Daenerys to her father's throne, all her hopes and yours come true and she is crowned in splendour in the Red Keep of King's Landing. What happens after? We will be left with a horde of forty thousand Dothraki in our lands, and their Khal married to our Queen," Valandil stared off to the west. In his mind he could see the devastation that Dothraki would wreak upon the countryside of Westeros, not just during the struggle for the throne but afterwards too. He turned back to Jorah.
"How would we make them leave?"
Jorah grimaced and nodded.
"Aye. Will Daenerys even wish for them to leave? I think not. I have seen the sparkle in her eye when she sees Drogo. I do not know if she will understand,"
Behind them, there was a sudden crunch of someone falling against the ground.
Valandil twisted around in the saddle at the sudden commotion, only to see that Kevah had collapsed upon the ground and lay very still in the dust. He cursed and slid down from the saddle, grabbing his water skin while he did.
"Damn this heat," Valandil swore, kneeling down by Kevah's side. All around him, the thralls shot him curious or confused looks. The Dothraki simply rode on, uncaring.
Kevah lay face down, unmoving, eyes lidded, breathing shallow. Valandil splashed water from his skin on the boy's face and he barely stirred. Cursing again, he felt the boy's forehead. His skin was burning up, and a sheen of sweat lay upon him. Behind him, Valandil heard murmurs from the Dothraki, followed by laughter.
"Thorongil," Jorah said, frowning "You've done much for that boy already, but I do not think he can be saved,"
Valandil picked up Kevah; the boy was light and lay limply, head lolling back. He frowned and gritted his teeth in his mouth and then turned back to his horse.
Of all the slaves and all the thralls who suffer from the Dothraki, I will do whatever is in my power to save this one at least he told himself. All around him were curious, confused or disgusted looks from the Dothraki warriors on their horses. Valandil's glare had an edge like an iron blade to it.
Velo stood, swishing his tail against the buzzing flies. The horse nickered softly and stood quietly. In the distance, a vulture was crying out hungrily above some dying animal. The Dothraki were silent, and they watched while Valandil carried young Kevah over to his horse and placed him on the saddle. He grasped Velo's reins and walked on, leading his horse whilst the slave-boy slumped in the saddle and leaned against the horse's strong neck.
Wide, black Dothraki eyes stared at him on every side. On every face was a different emotion. There was shock, in some there was anger, but most of all he saw confusion. The Dothraki looked at him as if he was something bizarre and unnatural. Behind him, Valandil heard fervent murmurings, Dothraki voices asking confused questions, Dothraki voices laughing at him. He did not listen. He just walked on, keeping his gaze steadily ahead. Next to him, Kevah lay limply in the saddle.
The mumbled some word weakly in the Lhazareen tongue, then he mumbled it again. Leaning closer, to Valandil's ears it sounded like the Dothraki word for "Why?"
"You needed help," Valandil replied simply. Kevah said no more.
"Drink," the son of Isildur commanded, pressing his water skin towards Kevah. Grasping it in both hands, the child drank deeply, greedily.
Upon his own horse, Jorah came trotting up behind Valandil. The commotion was settling down now, though passing Dothraki still shot confused looks or angry glares in Valandil's direction as they rode past. Jorah was shaking his head with a chuckle.
"You sure know how to stir up a fuss," Jorah said "I've never seen so many utterly baffled Dothraki,"
Valandil glanced around at the riders passing them by on either side. Amongst the warriors he saw some very dark looks shot at him from beneath glowering brows.
"Does this anger them?" he asked.
"Confuses them more than anything I'd think. A fighting man walking whilst his slave rides, I don't think any of them have ever seen anything like that," replied Jorah.
The day wore away, the khalasar driving slowly along the river towards the west. They left a vast swathe of trampled earth along the river's banks behind them. With the sun sinking into dusk, they finally came to stop at a point where round hills arose on either side of them to form a valley with a broad flat floor through which the Skahazadhan flowed. The valley floor was wide enough for the whole khalasar to make its vast, noisy camp. All amongst its meadows were copses of small trees and dry bushes, which the Dothraki slaves went to work upon with small hatchets for firewood. They gathered the firewood and caught what game there was to be had, and pitched the tents, and built the fires, whilst their Dothraki masters laughed and drank and passed the evening in games of wrestling.
In the twilight and the gathering gloom, a fair distance from the noise of the camp, Valandil knelt by a flickering fire. The flames licked at dry wood and crackled and shot sparks into the evening air. A pair of skinned coneys he turned on a spit above the cooking fire, their juices sizzling in the heat. Looking up from his work, he saw the firelight reflected in the dark eyes of Kevahram, staring at him. The boy said nothing, he just watched the son of Isildur steadily and hugged his knees to his chest.
"Hungry?" Valandil asked. Slowly Kevah nodded. Valandil drew forth a knife from his belt and quickly cut off a joint of meat. He held it out towards Kevah.
The boy snatched it from his hand and set into it hungrily, grease running down his chin and along his fingers.
Behind him, there was the sharp crack of a twig snapping underfoot. Remembering the hateful look of Dharbo the day in the village, Valandil stood and whirled around, hand upon the hilt of his sword. From out of the dark stepped a Dothraki warrior, bells in his hair ringing softly.
"You Thorngil, yes?" the man said, his Common Tongue rough and unpolished.
"I am,"
"The Khal will speak with you Thorngil," replied the man "You come, come now,"
The look on the Dothraki's face did not brook any disagreement. Reluctantly Valandil pulled on his cloak.
The messenger said nothing more as he led Valandil through the camp. The evening was filled with the playing of drums, the crackling of fires, and the sounds of laughing, lovemaking and squabbling Dothraki. The dark clouds peeled back and unveiled the stars. To the west, the Star of Earendil glimmered brightly and bravely and Valandil smiled to see it.
Then suddenly the tent of Khal Drogo loomed before him. The messenger pulled back the flap and jerked his head towards the door.
The inside was full of firelight and dark shadows, and the air was thick with a smoke that stung the eyes. A sweat rose on Valandil's neck. The blazing fire in the centre of the tent cast off oppressive waves of heat. The glinting eyes of the bloodriders followed his every moment. Lean and muscled, they lazed about the tent like hunting dogs waiting at their master's feet. Half-dressed Dothraki women were draped over them or sat upon their laps, running fingers in every warrior's hair, planting kisses on his neck, but the bloodriders seemed only half-interested in their attentions.
Despite the sun-tan of her skin, Daenerys Targaryen looked as pale as a wisp in the gloom. She sat at the right hand of the Khal, a small white hand resting upon his forearm. The Khal sat slouched, his long braid laying across his lap, his thickly muscled arms resting upon his knees.
"My Khal, my Queen," Valandil said in greeting, stopping and bowing before them. To his surprise, Drogo greeted him in the common tongue.
"Greetings, Thorongil of the North," he said slowly, his accent rough and uncouth but his words sure.
"I am sorry we disturbed you, Thorongil, but my Great Khal and I were having a… Discussion that I thought you might settle for us," said Daenerys, smiling.
"Of course, my Queen. What is it you wish to ask of me?" replied Valandil.
"The slave boy who follows you, why?" Drogo cut in before Daenerys could speak again. The son of Isildur found himself clenching a fist, but his face betrayed nothing.
"His name is Kevah. He has no other home now," he said.
"Why you take him? To sell? To work? To mount?" Drogo asked insistently, black eyes narrowed.
"My lord husband is merely curious, Thorongil. He has never seen something like what you did today," said Dany, smiling diplomatically. Valandil breathed in deeply and then slowly unclenched his fist.
"I have my own purpose to give him whatever help is within my power. That is enough for me," he said, locking eyes with the Khal. Drogo smirked and chuckled.
"You are an odd man, Thorngil. You have the power to take, but you do not do what you wish with what you take. What do you owe the boy? He is Lamb-man, not a rider," said Drogo.
"He is a man. My father taught me that all men are brothers. Am I not my brother's keeper? Am I not my brother's protector?" Valandil replied.
"False. My father taught me that the Great Stallion blesses Dothraki first and most of all men. The Great Stallion is the strongest god, it is known," said the Khal, as if it were the simplest truth of all.
"Your father was not my father. Your god is not my god," Valandil answered.
"You are strange to me, your ways are strange to my ways, your fathers are strange to my fathers," Drogo paused, his unreadable face showing something almost like thoughtfulness.
For a moment, to all in the tent it was as if there was a line of fire drawn between the eyes of the Khal and Valandil. Black eyes bored into grey. He felt as if the Khal was measuring him, testing him, and he did not look away. Valandil met Drogo's gaze and held it, and if Drogo were measuring him, he too was measuring the Khal. There was courage in those deep black eyes, and pride, and an intelligence belied by Drogo's barbaric appearance. For a moment the air seemed to crackle with tension, and the line of fire smouldered between them.
"But you honour the ways of your fathers, just as we do, and you have sworn to defend my Khaleesi. Your strangeness can be... Looked past. There are many things beneath the endless sky," Drogo said at last, and the tension was broken
"Leave me to my own customs and I will always do as I swore to do. My word is my bond," Valandil told him.
Drogo stood. He was nearly eye to eye with Isildur's son. He clapped a hand like a bear's paw on Valandil's right shoulder.
"So let it be. Keep the boy, do with him as you will," Drogo said.
"Thank you, Great Khal," Valandil said, and bowed his head courteously.
"You are a man of, how you Andals say it? Mettle," the Khal went on, sitting back down and resting his thick arms upon his knees.
"I have not fought in your battles, Great Khal, how would you know?"
At this a flicker of a smile twitched at the edges of the Khal's mouth.
"The lion recognizes its own," Drogo said laconically. "You will ride with me tomorrow. I would speak to you again,"
"Of course, Great Khal," said Valandil, wincing only slightly in discomfort at the notion. The heat of the fire beat heavily upon the back of his head and neck. He glanced at Daenerys. She smiled reassuringly, and laid her pale hand upon her husband's arm.
"I am tired from the ride, my Khaleesi. I will retire for the night. It was an honour to speak with you, Great Khal" Valandil said, bowing his head to them both again. Quickly he backed away, and then turned and strode for the tent flap. The eyes of the bloodriders followed his every step.
The night air was fresh outside the heat and smoke of the tent. Valandil breathed in deeply, his chest filling with coolness. He craned his neck back and looked up at the stars and the moon gleaming brightly against the blue-black of the sky.
The lion recognizes its own. Drogo's words echoed in his head. He clenched a fist again, shaking his head.
I am nothing like him Valandil told himself, angrily stalking off towards his tent once again. Though the night grew late, the khalasar's camp was still full of the crackling of fires, the laughter of men, the sounds of carousing and lovemaking and fighting, all the sounds of an encamped army supplied with drink aplenty. To Valandil's ears, the laugher of the Dothraki as they watched their comrades fight and wrestle or take slave-girls as they pleased sounded like the cruel cackling of hyenas. He passed amongst it, seeing it in the firelight and in the shadows alike, and saying nothing. His mind was full of stormy thoughts.
The lion recognizes its own. Again the phrase came back to him when he broke away from the main camp and crossed the cold, dark fields towards his own fire. His grey cloak blended with the dark, so that the eyes of any onlooker would barely have made out his passage. A veil of clouds had fallen over the moon and stars.
His fire had burned low, to embers and coals that crackled and glowed in the blackness. They cast a dull red light upon the ground around the firepit. Kevah lay on the ground, curled up next to the coals, fast asleep. The bones of the rabbit were cast to the side. A chill breeze past through the camp, and the boy shivered on the ground. Valandil unclasped his cloak and pulled it off his shoulders, then gently laid it over Kevahram. The boy did not waken, but he stopped shivering with a sigh.
The lion does not recognize its own the son of Isildur thought. He laid himself upon the ground on the other side of the fire, pulling his blanket over him. Valandil stared up at the sky. The clouds were moving off, and the stars were coming out again in their twinkling brightness. He began to hum a song lightly to himself. Before long sleep took him, deep and dreamless.
Valandil awoke in a chill. The ground beneath him was damp with morning dew. All was silence. Above him, dawn was stretching long fingers of red and yellow and pink across the clouds that dotted a sky of the palest blue. The stillness was absolute. Nothing stirred, even the birds did not sing. Valandil sat up, stretching his neck.
Suddenly the air was rent by the high keening cries of Dothraki riders, shrieking like birds of prey upon the hunt. Valandil tossed his blanket aside and leapt to his feet, grabbing his belt and sword from where he had lain them on the ground. The cry came from the north, where hills lined the river valley.
In a cloud of dust, Valandil spotted a party of riders galloping at breakneck speed down into the camp, crying alarums. The camp's sleep was broken in a moment. Cries filled the air, men were shouting, commands were being bellowed, women and children were crying out. In the Dothraki tongue, Valandil just made out what was being shouted above all:
"TO ARMS! TO ARMS! FOES! FOES APPROACH! AN ARMY UPON THE PLAINS!"
Valandil glanced down. Kevah was sitting cross legged. His face betrayed no emotion when he looked back at him.
"Stay here," Valandil commanded. The boy nodded.
A strange calmness always came upon Valandil when he donned the harness of war. A feeling like he knew exactly what needed to be done, and there was nothing to be done but that. He donned his hauberk, pulling it over his head he felt the familiar weight fall upon his shoulders. He cinched his belt tightly around his waist, sword at his side. He saddled Velo and strapped his bow case and quiver to either side of the saddle.
Kevahram watched, wordlessly, while Valandil readied himself. There were no questions in his eyes.
"I will return, do not stray from here, and let none take you away," Valandil spoke to him, using Dothraki again. He drew his dagger and held it, hilt-first, towards the boy. Kevah took it and nodded grimly.
Too young for the horrors he has seen, too young to act like this Valandil thought sadly, but he had no time now for melancholy. In the khalasar's camp, the shouting was getting louder, and horses were neighing and whinnying as they were saddled for battle. The Numenorean swung up onto Velo's back and nudged him into a trot. Kevah stared after him as he went. Glancing back over his shoulder, Valandil saw the boy raise a hand in farewell.
All in the camp was now movement, haste. The captains and the chieftains of Drogo's horde were everywhere, gathering up their warriors and the fighting men of their houses around them. The horses were whinnying to each other and pawing the ground, flaring their nostrils with eagerness for battle, as if they knew their riders' eagerness. Wolf-like smiles were on every face, for the Dothraki reveled in the chance for glory though they knew not the foe. Lances and bows were in hands, lariats and whips at the sides of their saddles, and arakhs, axes, and maces were at every man's hip.
Amongst the chaos, Valandil spotted Jorah mounting his horse, already in fighting harness and surcoat.
"What news?" Valandil cried out, pulling Velo up next to the old knight.
"I know not, I was just coming back from my morning piss when the scouts returned," replied Jorah.
They reined their horses around and trotted off towards the Khal's tent, where they knew Daenerys would be.
"More Lhazareens perhaps?" suggested Valandil, raising his voice amongst the cacophony of battle preparations.
"Nay, they would never be so bold," Jorah shook his head. "I have a strange feeling about this,"
Drogo stalked out of his tent like a wolf glad for the hunt. His great arakh was at the side of his belt of bronze medallions. Behind him was Daenerys in the doorway of the tent, one hand around her stomach protectively. The Khal's bloodriders awaited him, already on horseback. His red stallion stood, snorting and pawing the ground impatiently. With practiced ease, the Khal vaulted up onto his horse's back.
A hide-bound drum, great in size, was set outside the Khal's tent. So large it was that two horses had to carry it between them on the march. Now it was set on the ground and surrounded by four Dothraki with mallets in hand. The Khal nodded to them and, in pairs, they began to beat out the rallying call of the khalasar.
DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!
The drums of the Dothraki sounded like the roar of angry beasts. Bellowing their war cries, the Khal and his bloodriders galloped off, braids flying in their speed, towards the hills. Soon the whole horde had taken up their warlord's cry. The drums rolled on, like a heartbeat, amidst the storm of war cries and the sounds of wild horses. The air filled with dust and noise. Forty thousand Dothraki screamers, shrilly shrieking in eagerness for blood, were covering the sides of the hills like so many ants as they scrambled to the north to meet the foe. The drums went on, unending. To its martial sound, those of the khalasar too old or too young to fight began to circle the wagons into barricades, to defend the camp and the women and children.
Then suddenly there was a deep, reverberating roll of thunder that seemed to come out of the very ground itself.
DOOM!
And the thunder crashed again.
DOOM-BOOM-DOOM!
Cold fingers crept up Valandil's neck as he realized the sound was not thunder, but drumming. Distant, yet the force of it drowned out the Dothraki drum with every beat. It was like the footsteps of a giant, like the sound of dragon's wings in flight, like great rocks crashing in a mountain chasm, and it went on and drew nearer and nearer with each echoing beat.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!