Chapter XVI (Part 2)
The Lands of the Lhazareen
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!
"Jorah! Thorongil!" Daenerys had to raise her voice to be heard amidst the noise and the commotion. Defiant of the greater sound, the Dothraki drummers went on.
DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!
"Yes Khaleesi?" answered Jorah.
"Something warns me in my heart against this day. Please, go and bring me back the tidings of the battle! I feel like something horrible is approaching," She looked down at the ground. Suddenly she seemed very small and very frail, despite how great her stomach had grown with her child. Suddenly Valandil saw her not as the strong-willed Khaleesi, but as she truly was: A very young girl, full of uncertainty as her lover rode to war. Her face was a composed mask when she looked up at him, but in her wide eyes he saw the fears.
"As you command, my Queen!" he said, bowing his head.
DOOM-BOOM-DOOM-BOOM-DOOM!
Jorah and Valandil gave the spurs to their horses. Velo sprang away, leaving Daenerys behind. Valandil looked back over his shoulder, and soon he lost sight of her in all the movement and the dust. The old men of the camp were shouting orders, and wagon wheels were groaning, the wains being dragged into barricades.
The swirling cloud of Dothraki riders flowed up the sides of the hills, laughing and singing in their eagerness. From the crest of the hill where they stopped, Valandil and Jorah saw the whole host of the khalasar spread out across the plain, a vast mass of horsemen. Forty thousand horsemen, they stretched out east and west, their hooves raised clouds of dust into the air. They stuck to no formation but rather moved in loose groups, each behind the horsetail banner of their khas. A banner of nine horsetails was carried before the Khal himself, who rode in the very centre of his horde. Despite the apparent lack of order, the Dothraki moved themselves into a huge curved formation, like a bent bow, with the centre drawn back and the flanks further ahead.
The plain that lay to the north of the river valley was broad and flat, covered in bush, scrub and dry grasses. From the hill, Valandil could see for miles. The khalasar shook it itself out into its formation, every man mounted, every warrior with bow or lance in hand, then in unison, as if actors cued upon a great stage, they stopped and waited and stared to the north. The war cries stopped, the drumming stopped, and amongst forty thousand warriors all was silence.
"There go the scouts," said Jorah, pointing to small parties of riders who suddenly galloped away. "They will find the enemy,"
"I think the enemy is coming to us, Jorah," replied Valandil. On the horizon, dust clouds were gathering and growing in size.
"Whoever these people are, they are either very brave or very stupid to attack a khalasar," Jorah said, furrowing his brows.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!
The distant drumming of the foe was growing louder and closer. The dust climbed high into the sky. Then, on the horizon, a thin line of black appeared. It thickened and grew, and the drumming came closer still. Specks and flashes of light appeared in the black line, spearheads and armour catching the dawn light. Then came the noise: Tramping, tramping, tramping; the unmistakeable sound of thousands of marching feet.
The outriders came racing back to the horde with excited yells for their Khal. One of the Dothraki drums beat out three rapid beats, and Valandil watched the right and left flanks spread out even wider.
The enemy came on in company after company, regiment after regiment. This was no ragtag town militia of terrified Lamb-men. These men marched in lockstep, in ordered ranks and columns, spears shouldered, banners fluttering. Broad, oval shields they carried, painted red and yellow, black, green and blue, and amongst them Valandil spotted the glint of mail rings. A forest of pikes glided above their helmeted heads.
"Ghiscari?" Jorah said suddenly, in shock. "What are they doing here?"
"How can you tell they're Ghiscari?" Valandil asked.
"I've seen no other army in Essos of their like, save for the Unsullied, and it is only in Ghis that you could find such numbers,"
In blocks and columns, orderly and perfectly in their geometric lines, the Ghiscari legions tramped forward. In number they were great, yet as their host filed onto the plains Valandil saw that they were far fewer than the Dothraki. He guessed that it was only half the size of the khalasar, twenty thousand men or less.
Everywhere there were banners. Banners and standards, yards and yards of coloured cloth and heraldry, a sea of banners fluttered above the heads of the enemy. Here and there Valandil saw the harpy of New Ghis, yet alongside it and above it was an emblem he had not seen before: An eight-rayed golden star, on a field half of crimson red and half of dark blue. It was the golden star on red and blue that was carried at the forefront of every marching company, and behind it came the harpy of Ghis and innumerable other unrecognizable banners of all colours.
The drum rolled once more.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!
And on the last doom, the whole host halted as one and stood silently. The Ghiscari and the Dothraki stood facing each other in silence, and above them the carrion-birds began to gather, cawing hungrily.
"No cavalry," said Jorah, in confusion. "I see bowmen and foot aplenty, but no horse,"
"Aye, I see the same, just banners and more banners," replied Valandil. There were mounted officers and captains amongst the Ghiscari host, but no great formed body of cavalry to be seen.
"What sort of commander would attack a khalasar with no horse?" Jorah said.
There was a shrill blast of trumpets, and a great band of men rode forward from the host. A hundred banners followed them, coloured cloth and silk all a flutter. They appeared to intend to parlay. Valandil spotted Drogo and his bloodriders riding out to meet them, his nine horsetail standard behind him.
"I wonder," the son of Isildur said. He locked eyes with the Bear Islander and then nodded towards the Khal. They nudged their horses into a canter and headed down towards the plain.
The Dothraki parted ranks for them, and soon they were riding in the broad deserted no-man's land between the armies. Flocks of crows and vultures circled above their heads. They caught up to the Khal, who had stopped halfway between the armies to await their emissary. He glanced over to Jorah and Valandil when they reined up alongside his bloodriders and captains.
From the enemy host, with their hundred banners flying, the other party came riding up. Many were Ghiscari, amber-skinned and wiry-haired, but the captains who led them were not of Ghiscar. A cold fist closed around Valandil's heart as he saw them. He knew their kind. The height, the strength of their limbs, the broadness of their shoulders. Here were men of Numenor.
Eru save us, Valandil prayed silently, desperately. He glanced up but the great eagle was not there.
The Numenoreans reined their mounts up a short distance from the Dothraki. They were bedecked in finery. Their armour was gilt and encrusted with silver and gems. Gems flashed on the hilts of their swords, and gold glittered on brows and fingers and necks. Golden were the fittings on their saddles and reins. Their cloaks and robes were of red and purple. Their faces, though, could not be seen, for each of them wore a mask of a hard silvered iron. Their masks were wrought as the faces of men, yet twisted into expressions of cold and unfeeling contempt and superiority.
One of their number spurred his white charger a few steps forward. He was tall even amongst Numenoreans. He wore no armour, only fine tunic and surcoat in red, green and gold, as if he were about to attend some ball or feast, but still his face was invisible behind his mask. His long cloak of sable black was fixed about his shoulders by a broach shaped like the same eight-rayed golden star upon his banners. Beside him, a Ghiscari dismounted and seized a banner from one of the riders. This he planted in the dust and held it by his side as he spoke.
"Here is Belzagar son of Aglahad!" the Ghiscari herald said, his voice fair and friendly. "Servant of the Great King of Kings Ar-Azulakhor, Lord Captain of all the Great King's Hosts and Vassals in the East, and bearer of the royal mace of command,"
The herald cast a look around at the Dothraki, and all the vast horde that waited behind their Khal.
"Whom is the chieftain of this tribe?" he asked, looking over the Dothraki captains like a cat eying rats.
"I, Drogo son of Bharbo," the Khal replied.
"Drogo son of Bharbo, most valiant of the Dothraki khals. Our emissary has brought us tales of you," the Herald said, using the voice of a sincere admirer. "Tales of your courage, of your strength, and of the queen at your side,"
Drogo's eyes narrowed dangerously. The Captain of Umbar remained silent behind his mask.
"You speak of my khaleesi? Why?"
"A gem such as her cannot remain hidden on the Dothraki Sea forever, nor can treasures like her dragon eggs," a strange hungry light came into the Herald's eyes as he spoke of the eggs, but his voice remained that of a friendly and polite courtier. "The Great King of Kings summons her to attend him at Umbar, and it is our deepest honour to be here to escort her to his court,"
There was a moment of silence. Drogo's gaze bored into the Numenorean's mask, and the Captain of Umbar sat unmoving. The air seemed to crackle between the two men, and Valandil could feel the contest of wills. His knuckles grew white upon his reins. Two vast hosts of men watched every moment of the Captain and the Khal.
"No," Drogo said at last.
"No?" repeated the Herald.
"No," repeated the Khal, then he spat upon the ground where Belzagar's horse stood. Beyond the unreadable mask of Drogo's face, Valandil saw the rage in his eyes.
"She is a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. Her presence is an honour too great for you. Now begone from here, before I make your Captain her footstool," His words were calm, yet the intent in his eyes was murderous.
The herald did not speak again, for at that moment from behind the unmoving mask of the Captain of Umbar came a booming voice, louder and clearer and more terrible to listen to than any in the khalasar had ever heard before. It echoed across the plain and the young and the old of the horde quailed and covered their faces as they heard it.
"Are there ANY in this rabble with authority to treat with me!? Or with wit enough to understand me!?"
Icy blue eyes flashed from the deep shadows of the mask, and the Captain of Umbar turned his rage upon the Khal. His roar was like an avalanche in the mountains, like the crashing of waters upon a stony shore, like the felling of trees in the forest.
"Not thou, Drogo son of Bharbo. Your blind pride would have you stand in the way of the dark sea and bar the onset of the wrathful waves. What is a Dothraki Khal but a brigand who steals to live, whose children roll amidst the dung, whose wives lay with their horses? Are you even men at all? I wonder? Who art thou to defy the will of the Great King? Thou hast the insolence born of ignorance. Even rats will eat the leftover filth of the Great King's kitchen, but what use is there for Dothraki? Wretched, miserable beasts who wear the shapes of men but haven't a thought to share amongst them, not fit even for thralldom!"
If Drogo quavered before the anger of a Numenorean lord, he did not show it. He simply sat upon his horse and listened, face unchanging, black eyes staring down the Captain of Umbar. There was a twitch of his moustaches and beard and Valandil realized that the Khal was smiling with bemusement.
As Belzagar's awful voice echoed away into the distance, Khal Drogo simply pointed to him with a single finger.
"Before the sun sets, my khaleesi's feet will rest upon your back," he said, with the simple tone of a promise.
"You will not receive the sword, Drogo son of Bharbo. The sword is for men. Slaves receive the lash," Belzagar snarled. Then he reined his snorting white horse about, and in a storm of banners he and his glittering lieutenants galloped back to their lines. Drogo watched them go with an expression of boredom and amusement.
"So be it then. The crows shall eat well today," the Khal remarked. His bloodriders and kos laughed with him, then they turned their mounts around and nudged them into an easy canter. They looked and laughed as relaxed as if they were only out for an afternoon leisure ride and not between two armies arrayed for war.
Jorah turned to Valandil, face pale. He had been struck silent by the Captain, and only now regained his voice.
"Gods," he said, like a horrific realization was dawning upon him. "Those are your people. Drogo is going to charge them,"
The icy hand that laid upon Valandil's heart tightened its grip. He saw Daenerys' frightened eyes in his mind. The drums of Umbar were beating out like the footsteps of a giant once more.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM
"We must stop him!" Valandil cried. He hauled back on Velo's reins. The horse neighed and kicked up a cloud of dirt and galloped after the Khal. Jorah and his brown gelding followed close behind, his green surcoat already turning grey from the dust.
"Drogo! Khal Drogo!" Valandil yelled desperately, squeezing Velo's flanks and urging him to run faster. They tore up the plain, passing over it like the wind.
Behind them they heard the tramping of thousands of Ghiscari in lockstep.
Before them, they saw the Khal stop and turn in the saddle. Confusion and annoyance were written on his face.
"What is it Thorongil? There is a foe to fight," he said.
"Do not do this! You must not do this!" Valandil begged the Khal in growing desperation. He could already see in his mind the carnage that would come. He could already see the growing disaster.
"Why?" Drogo's eyes narrowed.
"If you charge that, you will not survive." Valandil nodded back towards the Ghiscari legions. "Your khalasar will die here. You do not know what manner of men lead that host,"
"No milk-men have ever stopped us. They will run. They all run. And I have a footstool to make for my khaleesi. This is no battle, Thorongil, only carpentry," the Khal smiled and laughed at his wit, and tossed his reins, his red stallion springing away swifter than Velo could follow. Once again his bloodriders and his lieutenants followed him. Soon they lost sight of them amongst the uncountable ranks of Dothraki riders massed for battle.
Valandil sat there, struck dumb. He knew in that moment that he had failed his Queen. He knew in that moment that no matter what he said, he could not avert what was about to happen. He knew in that moment that a slaughter was about to ensue, the likes of which the Dothraki had never known before and could not even conceive. He knew it all and he was struck by his powerlessness to stop it. He remembered the Captain's words, and he felt as if he had tried to hold back the sea with his arms only to be dragged by it and dashed onto the cruel, waiting rocks.
DOOM
"Come on," Jorah said, slapping him on the shoulder. The Bear Islander's bearded face was grim and drawn.
"Unless you want to be trampled and shot to pieces, we need to get out of here," Ser Jorah glanced back over his shoulder. The Dothraki drums were beginning to beat again, bravely, defiantly.
Dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!
It was too late for them though.
Dun-dun-dun-DUN-DUN-DUUUUUN!
The khalasar was beginning its charge.
They filled the air with the sound of the war whoops of forty thousand voices, a deafening clamour like none other Valandil had ever heard on the fields of battle. Amidst the shrieks and calls, the eerie jingling of the bells in their braids. Below and above it all, the indescribable thunder of the pounding hooves of a Dothraki khalasar trotting towards the attack.
Valandil cried out for someone, anyone, to stop, but the mass did not listen, could not listen amidst the din. The roaring surf had no ears. Gathering speed, the wave roared and seethed and passed them, the horsetail banners floating in the wind.
"Up there," Jorah said, pointing out a rocky hill back towards the river valley, which rose up from the surrounding plain and would give a good vantage point. "We'll never keep up with Drogo out there, but we can at least watch for his banners from that hill,"
Wordlessly, Valandil followed. They trotted up the steep sides of the hill, whilst in the distance the horns of the khalasar were blowing, blowing, blowing wildly. They reached the crest and pulled their mounts up to survey the whole field of battle, eyes searching for Drogo's nine horsetails upon his standard. In an instant, what hope there remained for them was extinguished by what they saw.
The iron-disciplined Ghiscari had formed up into huge squares, standing and waiting in perfect silence before the onslaught of the khalasar. In massed ranks they stood, shoulder by shoulder, patient and intent. The whole host had formed itself into a massive checkerboard pattern of squares, and above each square fluttered dozens of banners and hundreds of spears, their steel points glinting.
However it was not the foot in their squares that Valandil watched fearfully. It was the long thin line of tall archers which marched out before the Ghiscari host and now stood drawing their arrows in the most perfect calm, as if oblivious of the thundering horde charging down upon them. They wore cloaks of scarlet which covered one shoulder and left the other arm free, and beneath their cloaks were shirts of black mail just as Valandil's own, and upon their heads were tall shining helms, golden-gleaming. Their longbows caught the light and shone, and with a sickening feeling the son of Isildur realized what they were.
"Those are steelbows," he gasped, eyes widening.
"Gods save us," Jorah's face grew even grimmer.
The Numenorean steelbowmen stood, arrows nocked, unmoving as statues carved in stone. The drum of Umbar sounded a deep and resounding beat, echoing across the plain.
They drew the bows, two thousand men in unison pulling their arrows back to their ears and holding them there, waiting.
The khalasar surged across the plain with the speed of a raging river, with the fury of a hurricane, with the force of a firestorm in the forest. Headlong they rode, reckless and headless of the danger, the charge becoming a race, each warrior attempting to outpace the others and be the first to slay a foeman. Their horses stretched out into a swift canter, but at the forefront the Khal could be seen, and his red stallion could not be overtaken, and his braid streamed like the mane of a charging lion.
Then the drum of Umbar struck out a final beat, and its sound was the sound of lightning smiting a mountaintop, and one long, terrible doom echoed across the fields.
Two thousand steelbow strings sang out as the volley was loosed.
No other archers of men would have loosed their shots from such a distance, for the range was thrice and more than thrice a bowshot for any lesser bows. But these were no lesser bows, nor any lesser archers, these were steelbows in the hands of men of Westernesse. The black cloud of their arrows climbed high, darkening the blue sky above. It reached the apex of its flight, hung there for a moment, and then the rain of steel came rushing down.
There were cries of pain as the arrows of the Numenoreans found their marks, buried themselves in the flesh of men and horses alike. Arrows struck in eyes, throats, chests and shoulders, in the necks and flanks of horses. Some fell wounded from the saddle to be trampled to death by the hooves of their comrades, but the charge continued unchecked. These were only the light flight arrows used for the longest ranged harassment. The true execution had not come yet.
Like a beast enraged by stinging flies, the khalasar roared onwards, the hooves of its foremost riders rolling on. Forty thousand riders whooped and shrieked and brandished arakhs and lances, and forty thousand horses neighed and screamed and ripped up the very earth before them. Valandil wondered how the Ghiscari could stand before such an onslaught and not flee. Was it courage? Madness? Or did the very will of the Captain of Umbar pin them in place and hold them enthralled to his design?
The range was closing rapidly, less than twice a normal bowshot, and the steelbowmen drew back for their second volley. Again they held it for a moment, and then the drum rumbled its signal. Again two thousand bow strings sang in unison. Death speeding on swift wings, the arrows of Umbar arced straight into the khalasar.
Warriors cried out and fell. Horses foundered and tumbled. Dead and wounded men and beasts littered the field behind the khalasar's passing, in dozens and hundreds. Valandil recognized the darts: Arrows of mid-weight, longer and heavier than the flight arrows. He had many like them in his own quiver. On the fields of Westeros, they wounded, but amongst the Dothraki there was not a mail shirt to be had amongst them, nor even a shield, nothing more than a vest of hide. The Dothraki were struck without protection and fell senselessly, without even coming to grips with the enemy. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he knew what was coming next. The killing arrows. The Black Arrows.
They were as long as a man's arm, black from tip to nock, fletched with black feathers, tipped with black steel. As calmly as if they were at practice and not in battle, the steelbowmen drew the black arrows to their ears and aimed them flat and straight at the oncoming horde. They waited with the infinite patience of hunters watching their prey. The khalasar hurtled on towards them. Less than a bowshot away they were now, and closing quickly. Their arakhs shone like the stars in the sky. From horseback, they shot a hail of arrows of their own, filling the air and falling amongst the Ghiscari like snow. Cries of pain and fear arose from the squares. The men of Umbar ignored it as if it were the patter of rain. They waited, unperturbed, unbothered, unmoving.
The drum rolled a final time.
Again the steelbows sang.
Smote down as if by lightning, the front ranks were struck dead. Black arrows bored through hide and flesh and bone alike. Galloping too swiftly to swerve aside, the horses of the warriors behind them tripped and fell over the carcasses of the leaders, tossing their riders to ruin. In the blink of an eye, in a grisly instant, a mound of dead horses and men appeared, yet through it all Valandil still saw Drogo ride, untouchable it seemed, upon his red stallion. For a moment he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps the Numenoreans would not be enough. Perhaps the Ghiscari could not withstand the Khal's coming. Perhaps they would run. The Dothraki's horses were leaping over the mound, still charging, the strings of their warrior's double-curved bows were humming as they filled the air with missiles of their own, the bright blades of their arakhs and tips of their lances were thirsty for blood.
The steelbowmen, as one, turned and fled from the charge. Valandil sat up in his saddle, and glanced over at Jorah, who grinned back at him. Hope, wild and unlikely hope, flared for them.
It was not to last. The squares stood, unfought and unbroken still. The men of Umbar retreated, they did not rout, and the icy hand closed around Valandil's chest once more.
The Numenoreans fled to the squares, seeking shelter from the flood in the closest bastions they could find. The Dothraki were on their heels, hissing and roaring victoriously. As the last steelbowman slipped into a square, suddenly the Ghiscari roared out in return. They lapped their broad shields and the outer ranks dropped to a knee with a war cry, butting their spears into the ground. Spears which had been shouldered were now pointed and braced, a phalanx of iron and steel pointing out in every direction like the spines of a porcupine.
The flood seethed and crashed around the bastions, rocks amongst a raging river, as horses screamed, shied away, flowing between the squares like the current gushing into the dikes and ditches that watered a farmer's fields. Huddled behind their shields, the Ghiscari left no mark for arrow to find.
More men stood up behind the spearmen. Bowmen, javelineers, slingers. Ghiscari and Numenorean alike. From every square came a murderous hail of darts and missiles. Forty thousand riders had poured in between the squares. The teeming mass of them was too tightly packed and too close for any missile to miss a mark. The slain began to pile up, struck dead by stone or arrow, run through by spear or javelin. Dark blood of man and horse alike ran freely in the dirt, pooling on the ground.
Yet though ten men would fall to his left and a hundred to his right, Drogo rode through unharmed and undaunted. His standard stood still, unchallenged and unfought. Though dart and stone fell thick around him, he was unwounded still, the lord of a fierce warrior people, and he came clear through the ranks of the Ghiscari without a mark upon him.
Now the khas of the khalasar were pulling back, away from the slaying, dispersing in all directions. The Dothraki turned around in the saddle to loose parting shots backwards at the foe. The Dothraki drum was beating out the rally.
DUN-dun-dun-DUN-dun-dun-DUN!
The khas flowed together in the manner of a flock of birds in flight, or like a school of fish in the water, and Valandil made out Drogo and his red stallion once more, riding with raised fist, shouting for his warriors to rally to him. As suddenly as they had charged, they pulled free of the corridors of death, leaving behind them the wreckage of the attack: Horses and men lying together in mounds; man and beast pierced, hacked, hewn and slain.
Yet even as they retreated and reformed, the ranks of the Ghiscari squares opened and the scarlet cloaks of the steelbowmen of Umbar were seen. They poured out, reforming their thin line. Quickly they drew wounding arrows and loosed a volley, which hissed viciously as it flew through the air. Into the backs of the Dothraki, the arrows buried themselves. More men tumbled from the saddle, more horses screamed and founded or bucked their riders in shock from the sudden pain of an arrow in their haunch or flank.
"They cannot charge that again. They cannot," said Jorah, slamming his fist against his leg in frustration.
The khalasar wheeled around. The blowing of the horns echoed across the field above the rumble of the hooves. The Dothraki drum beat up a rapid roll. With fresh war whoops, the horde surged forward again.
"They are," Valandil replied, despairing, and he covered his face with his hands. The bows of Umbar were humming from use.
Again and again and again the khalasar charged. The sun climbed into the sky, morning wearing away towards the noon. It stared down, uncaring, upon scenes of horror and slaughter. With fresh fury and seemingly endless reserves of courage, the Dothraki storm boiled and raged around the tight ranks of the Ghiscari. As besieged castles amidst hosts of foes, the squares stood unyielding, shield walls and hedgehog-arrays of spears unbroken. Again and again the steelbows shot into the khalasar, slaying some and wounding others. Again and again the khalasar poured into the channels, seeking in vain to find some way to break the legions that barred them. Some brave young men urged their horses even to jump over the shield walls and down amongst the men behind them, where arakh would flash and slay two or three, but never was it enough to break a square, for every man who did so was pulled from his horse and slain in turn.
The dead piled up in mounds round each square. The ground grew dank with blood and slick with the viscera. In all the carnage, the viscera of Dothraki and their horses grew indistinguishable from each other. Their numbers dwindled slowly. The khalasar's line became thinner and thinner with each charge, and still the Ghiscari stood defiant and unbroken. Still the archers of Umbar shot their black arrows and slew rider and mount alike.
Horses heaved and panted in exhaustion, sweat-streaked. Riders slumped in the saddle. Their quivers were nearly empty of arrows. Weariness pressed upon them. They leaned upon their saddle horns and stared down at the hated foe. The legions of Umbar still stood in their checkerboard squares, the thousands of banners flapping in the breeze, as if to mock the Dothraki for their impotence. Valandil spotted Drogo and his bloodriders in the centre beneath the Khal's standard, unwounded somehow still. All morning he had led his khalasar into battle. All morning he had searched in vain for some means, any means, of breaking the squares before him. They had charged them, showered them with arrows, tried to draw their men out of formation with faked retreats, tried to flank them, they had ridden and attacked ceaselessly and fruitlessly.
"Any other host, in Westeros or the east or anywhere, would have broken and run by now after such a ceaseless onslaught," said Jorah after a long silence. His fist was clenched on his sword hilt. His eyes were troubled. He turned to Valandil.
"What devilry is at work here? Ghiscari do not fight like this, they have never fought like this. They should have broken ranks a dozen times today before the khalasar. What keeps them standing there in such silence?"
"I do not know. I fear it is some power, some force of their Captain's will overpowering their own and holding them under his sway," Valandil replied darkly, staring hard at the endless sea of flapping banners. He was troubled still. There was something off about all this. Even in Westeros, armies did not carry so many banners.
"Drogo must stop this. He must retreat. There can be no victory in this," said Valandil. Jorah shook his head sadly, as if resigned to the doom before them.
"They are Dothraki, and he is Khal Drogo. For Khal Drogo and his warriors to retreat before milk-men on foot, that is unthinkable for them. They would die rather than live with such shame," said Jorah. The carrion-fowl were crying out eagerly for the meal laid before them on the plains below.
The flight-arrows of the steelbowmen were falling amongst the khalasar again. Drogo was heedless of them, and still he remained unwounded and undaunted. His arrows were long spent, yet his lance was in his hand still and he still had his arakh at his side. Around him rallied his bloodriders and the bravest and strongest of the Dothraki left unwounded and unslain. The Khal brandished his lance bravely.
With a final flourish of horns and drums, the khalasar began to charge again. Its ranks were thinner now, its onset hindered by the dead bodies that littered the field, yet still they cantered into the fray shrieking their war whoops and battle cries defiantly. Again the field echoed with the clamour of their coming.
Then, as if in answer, there came another horn. Long, shrill and powerful, it drowned out all other noise upon the plain. The drums of Umbar beat out a rapid roll. Suddenly the ranks of the inner squares parted, and the banners that floated above them parted, and Valandil saw horses and men swinging up into the saddle. There was the enemy's cavalry, dismounted and long-hidden amongst the infantry and the forest of banners, now revealing itself. For Valandil, any hope he still had drained out of him.
From every square in the Ghiscari checkerboard streamed a company of horsemen. Bitter spears they carried in hand, and broad shields, and they wore helms and shirts of scales or mail. No great horsemen were the Ghiscari, but they were fresh and unbloodied. A thousand of such horsemen formed up on the left, and another thousand on the right.
Yet in the centre there formed a company, the sight of which made hearts quail and despair. There Valandil saw tall men on tall horses, and he knew that there formed the Numenoreans, the King's Men. They were not great in number, perhaps only five hundred strong, but each man of the five hundred was sheathed in steel. Their arms and shoulders and legs covered by overlapping scales and bands of metal, their necks protected by mail coifs, tall-crested helms upon their heads, and every man's face concealed by a polished mask, wrought in an image of cold contempt. Their chests, however, could not be seen, for every man was wrapped in a cloak of the richest purple. Even their horses were encased in metal, for they were caparisoned with scale armour of their own, covering faces and necks and flanks. Gold and silver and gems glinted in the sun. Crests of feathers and horse hair stood up upon every helm. Splendid and awful they were to look upon. They formed in cold, gleaming, silent ranks, knee to knee, rows of lances resting on their shoulders, their razor-edged tips poised above their heads.
Long and thin, but well-ordered, the line of Umbar's cavalry trotted to meet the khalasar. There were no war cries, they met the shrieks of the Dothraki with only silence. Behind them came tramping the scarlet-cloaked steelbowmen, and behind them the squares advanced in perfect order to the reverberating dooms of the drum.
Seeing his foes advance at last, Khal Drogo cried out in gladness, then he let loose a bestial war shout that rose across the plains even above the shrieks of his people. The ground soared away beneath his red and he and his bloodriders outpaced all the Dothraki about them. Again the flood of horsemen came seething up the plain, filling the air with their din, an immense and irresistible onset. The arrows of the Numenoreans fell thick amongst them, wounding and killing at will.
The voice of Belzagar, Captain of Umbar, cried out in a strange tongue which sounded, clear and terrible, all the way to the hills where Jorah and Valandil watched. The sound of it, and the cruelty in that voice, sent a shiver down Valandil's neck.
At the Captain's command, the King's Men stopped their advance. The Dothraki hurtled down upon them, as wolves glad to find their prey. In one swift movement in unison, the Numenoreans cast back their purple cloaks. The black rings of their mail gleamed suddenly, cold and bright.
Rows of lances snapped down, leveled. So long were their lances that even the men of Numenor had to hold them in both hands.
The Dothraki charged, and in silent order the men of the Sea charged to meet them.
All along the plain, the horsemen of Ghis met the riders of the Dothraki, clashing with spear and sword in bitter and bloody combats. The Ghiscari were well armed and courageous, but they were not born to ride and fight like the Dothraki, and soon many of them lay hewn on the field, but amongst them the dead of the horselords were scattered.
But it was in the centre that the Great Khal had chosen to fight, and it was in the centre that he met the men of Umbar. Like a speeding falcon in flight, he raced to meet his foe, the bells in his hair ringing, his long lance outstretched. The horsemen of Umbar charged, rolling on in a closed fist of iron and men, knee to knee, not a single war cry from behind their arrogant masks.
Too swift was Drogo's charge to be stopped. He bent like a willow in the wind around the long lance of the leading Numenorean. With a single sure thrust he stabbed his lance into the eyes of his enemy. The foe fell, tumbled from his mount, dead in an instant, the lance buried in his masked face. Drogo's arakh shone, hungry for blood, and his red stallion leapt amongst the ranks of the King's Men. His standard-bearer and his bloodriders followed their Khal, whooping for the kill, and the ranks of the Numenoreans closed up around them as if they had been swallowed whole. Valandil could see them no more.
Unchallenged, the rest of the Numenorean horsemen rode through the field, killing as they willed. Their lances, eager for blood, struck down horse and rider all the same. Few could withstand their coming, and by the hundreds the Dothraki fled before their terrible masked faces. No swords were drawn, but with lances, maces and axes, lariats and whips cruelly cracking, they drove through the khalasar, a scythe through a field of wheat.
"Valandil," Jorah said in a hoarse voice "We have to warn Daenerys,"
Casting his gaze across the field, Valandil saw only slaughter now. Though the Dothraki fought fiercely, it was in desperation and increasingly in vain. Wherever the Ghiscari horsemen were driven back, they fled to a square which sheltered them behind their warding shields and spears, and wherever the Dothraki pursued them they were met with a killing hail of arrows, stones and darts. The Khal was nowhere to be seen. Dothraki were fleeing, Dothraki were casting away their arms, Dothraki were being cut down. Wherever the Numenoreans rode, none would bar their coming. Everywhere the sea of banners was rushing forward, and the tide of the Dothraki drew back before them.
The khalasar was shattering apart before their eyes. Against the hosts of Umbar, it had broken itself.
Valandil searched the field for the Khal's standard. He could not see it.
"Valandil," Jorah's urgency was growing. "We have to get Daenerys out of here,"
"Let's go," Valandil said, a hard edge in his voice. He seized his own steelbow and nocked an arrow.
The Ghiscari cavalry were breaking ranks, shouting gleeful cries of victory as they pursued their hated foe. A long ragged line of them was headed for the camp, and Valandil knew well the greed and depravity of victorious soldiers after battle.
"You find her. I will cover you," Valandil said. Jorah nodded grimly. Steel whispered against leather as he drew his sword.
"Noro lim, Velo, noro lim!" the son of Isildur whispered. Immediately the horse sprang away into a gallop, the wind of his speed stinging Valandil's eyes. Jorah cried aloud and set the spurs to his own mount and followed.
The rout, with eddies and pools of ferocious bloodletting, was flowing in its chaos past the hill. Down, down, down from the rocks sprang Valandil and Jorah, their horses kicking up a cloud of dirt. At the base of the hill, they saw a band of Ghiscari. Without even breaking Velo's stride, Valandil drew his arrow back to his ear and aimed his shot. He loosed it and with a strangled cry a Ghiscari fell from the saddle, fingers clutching at his throat, gushing up dark blood around the dart buried there.
They passed amidst the shocked enemy like a wind in the grasses. There were cries of outrage, hooves pounding behind them in pursuit. Turning around in the saddle, Valandil drew a second arrow. He counted five Ghiscari riders behind them, brandishing spears and swords. Another shot sent a horse tumbling to death, and then there were four.
All around them they raced through bloodshed and carnage. The Dothraki were brave still, they were a grim and fell-handed people even in despair and they did not ask for quarter, nor did their enemy offer it. Horses were neighing and screaming, men were shouting, and behind them they heard the endless tramping of the approaching host. Hacking and stabbing and slaying, the horsemen of Umbar were everywhere.
Valandil cast a glance over his shoulder again. Their pursuers had joined the Ghiscari cavalry headed for the camp, and Jorah and Valandil raced before them like animals seeking shelter from the forest fire. He turned around again and loosed another arrow. This time a horse fell stricken, and the riders following it were tripped and fell. It was not enough though. There was a murderous cry of rage and the foe spurred their mounts to even greater speed.
"Fly Jorah! Fly! I will hold them here!" Valandil cried. The valley yawned before them. The son of Isildur seized a fistful of arrows with one hand and, steelbow in the other, he vaulted down from the saddle, hitting the ground at a run beside his galloping steed. Jorah disappeared down towards the camp, and Velo followed.
The horsemen of Ghis were just about a bowshot distant from Valandil. His heart was pounding, yet his mind was strangely calm. He skidded to a halt, turning to face them and shoving his arrows point down into the ground. He drew back, picked his target, and loosed. The arrow sped unerring and a man fell from the saddle.
He drew again and loosed. Another Ghiscari fell.
He drew and shot, and drew and shot, as automatically as a smith beating on steel. Foe after foe fell, struck by his arrows in throats and chests and faces. The line swept down upon him, hooves pounding, riders shouting. He grasped for another arrow, but only air filled his hand.
Valandil turned and hurled himself down the slope of the valley. Dirt swirled around him as he slid down, rolling and tumbling. The world spun. Above him he saw the bellies and hooves of leaping horses. Down the slopes the Ghiscari leapt, swords glinting as they turned in air. Below them stretched the camp, blockaded on all sides by walls and barricades of circled wagons. With the glee of wild dogs glad to find a carcass, the Ghiscari cavalry swept down towards the encampment, eager for plunder and women.
Gritting his teeth, Valandil slid to a stop against a thicket of brambles. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword forth as he did. With steelbow in one hand and blade in the other, he ran down the hill after the Ghiscari. His legs burned, his lungs felt like they would burst, but still he ran after them in growing desperation.
Every galloping stride of the Ghiscari cavalry carried them farther from him and closer to the camp. It was too late. Even the wagon barricade would not hold them back for long.
Images of Pyke burning flashed in his mind. Valandil pushed himself even harder. There were hundreds of Ghiscari horsemen charging the camp. He would kill every one of them if he had too.
Then there appeared a pale figure standing atop the wall. Short and slender, unarmoured, with long silver-gold hair that blew in the breeze like the flame of a candle flickering. Heedless of the howling band of horsemen hurtling towards her intent on depravity, heedless of the slaughter upon the plains, heedless of all the world, Daenerys Targaryen stood with fist raised defiantly.
"NOW!" she cried out in a voice fair and clear and strong, slashing her arm downards. Then another figure jumped up upon the cart next to her, with drawn sword and battered armour and a bear blazoned on his shield.
"Loose!" roared Ser Jorah Mormont, brandishing blade above his head.
All along the wagon-wall, people were leaping onto the wains. Some were cowards who had fled the slaughter. There were callow youths who had seen no battles, old men who had seen too many, weathered old Dothraki wives, even slave-girls and eunuchs. A motley and ragtag assortment of camp-dwellers and hangers-on, yet in every hand was a bow, a fistful of javelins, a sling, even just stones and cooking knives.
Valandil threw himself face down in the dirt just as he saw them. At their Khaleesi's word, they poured forth a hail of missiles upon the Ghiscari. It was too late for the cavalry to swerve aside, they were too close; their charge had betrayed them.
Men cried out in pain, horses screamed, and arrows hissed. Valandil heard the sound of pounding hooves passing on either side of him. When he looked up again, the sounds of cheering filled the air. Stung and bloodied by the sudden volley, the Ghiscari recoiled. In the very moment of their triumph, they had been cut down. Those few who pressed their charge home found themselves trapped fruitlessly against the wagon-wall, whilst the defenders hacked them down with arakh and axe and stabbed from above with lances and spears.
The Ghiscari horsemen turned their faces from the impassable wall, turned away from the unlikely but grim band of defenders, turned away from the slender Khaleesi standing there indefatigable. They wheeled around and fled back for the hills as swiftly as their mounts could carry them.
"Thorongil! There is Thorongil!" cried one of the defenders. Valandil spotted Rakharo standing by Daenerys and Jorah, pointing at him and gesturing wildly. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the wagon-wall.
Rakharo and Jorah offered their hands and hauled him up the side of the wagon when he reached it. All around them the defenders teemed, laughing and jeering at the retreating horsemen, patting each other on the back heartily.
"I saw you on the heights Thorongil! Standing alone against the foe, that was bravely done!" Rakharo said, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Do not congratulate me yet, the day is not over," Valandil replied darkly, sheathing his sword and slinging his bow over his back.
Daenerys stepped forward, pushing Rakharo aside gently. In her eyes was a desperation and a fear that her face did not show.
"What tidings of the battle? Where is Drogo?" she asked, looking back and forth between Valandil and Jorah. The old Bear Islander shook his head.
"It went ill, Khaleesi," Jorah said sadly.
"You need to flee this place, my Queen, while time remains to us," Valandil told her. He glanced over his shoulders back at the hills. The distant sounds of the battle were dying away. The tramping still remained.
"What are you saying?" Daenerys asked. Though her face was still a composed mask of courage, the fear was growing clearly in her eyes.
"I am saying we have to take the swiftest horses we can find and fly as quickly as we can ride. Now, Khaleesi, before it's too late," replied Valandil in growing desperation.
"What of Drogo?" she asked insistently, a hand upon her pregnant stomach with the same protective air she wore when the Khal had ridden to battle.
"We-We lost sight of him, Khaleesi. He charged into the enemy's ranks and disappeared. I know not if he lives," said Jorah.
For a long moment, Daenerys was silent, staring at the ground, looking unsteady. Then she looked up again, her face fair and proud, a fire burning in her eyes.
"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. My khal has gone to battle. I will not abandon his camp to be plundered. I will not abandon my people to be slain and enslaved. I stay here,"
She turned and walked away, chin raised, and disappeared amongst the crowds of old men and young boys and eunuch-slaves.
"Truly she is a Targaryen," said Jorah, shaking his head again.
"We can't hold this wall against the host that approaches Jorah, you know that," Valandil replied, turning to watch the valley walls with searching grey eyes.
"Aye, we cannot," Jorah sighed in resignation. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, looking like a great weariness weighed him down. He reopened them with a steely look on his face.
"When that host comes down upon us, this barricade will not hold long. In the confusion though, we just might be able to take Daenerys and slip away," Ser Jorah said. "Make for the coast, take a ship to the Free Cities. It is the only hope I can see,"
"A fool's hope," said Valandil with a cold hard glint in his eyes "But a hope nevertheless,"
"But what if the Khal returns?" asked Rakharo suddenly. The young warrior stood with crossed arms, brows furrowed with uncertainty.
"Rakharo," Jorah said gently "I do not think Drogo is coming back from that battle,"
"How can you know? The Khal is a great warrior, he has cut his way free of many foes before," Rakharo replied.
"Not foes like this Rakharo, not foes like this," said Valandil.
"Look there," said Rakharo, pointing away to the hillside. They looked and saw bands of Dothraki riders streaming down towards the camp. "Our warriors return. Defeated on the field, perhaps, but the Khal could rally them. And the drum has stopped! Our foes are up there, looting and celebrating as we speak. We could fall upon them and turn a defeat into victory! This place may yet be marked by a mound of their skulls!"
"There's nothing to loot," Jorah grumbled underneath his breath.
Trickling back, the warriors of the khalasar returned in dozens and hundreds. Though they carried with them a tale of defeat and ruin, the sight of riders returning kindled hope in the hearts of the camp-dwellers. With our warriors with us, women and children said, the khalasar might still escape, bloodied perhaps but unbowed.
Then the heights and the hills were crowned by the sea of banners and all hope left them.
There flew the winged harpy of Ghis. There shone the golden star on red and blue that was for Umbar. There fluttered the alien standards of wild tribes from half the world away. Beneath them were seen the painted shields of the Ghiscari legions, and the scarlet cloaks of the steelbowmen of Numenor, and the purple cloaks of the Numenorean knights. A glitter of arms and armour stretched across the horizon. The whole host, in all its power, stood and stared down silently. Women wept and children wailed and the old covered their faces in despair.
"Jorah, my friend," said Valandil.
"Aye?" the old knight replied.
"If we do not leave this valley, then let us make a stand here which men shall sing songs of in years to come," said the son of Isildur, setting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Valandil, my brother, between us we shall make this a place which those bastards remember in their nightmares," Jorah said, smiling grimly.
Forth from the lines of the host of Umbar came the hundred streaming banners of the Captain once more. Still in finery and robes, followed by all his shining lieutenants, Belzagar came riding down upon his white charger. His bearing was that of a jovial prince returning from a successful hunt. They reined up before the wagon-wall and arrogant masked faces stared up at the defenders. The herald dismounted again and planted his banner in the ground beside the Captain.
"Belzagar son of Aglahad, Servant of the Great King of Kings Ar-Azulakhor, Lord Captain of all the Great King's Hosts and Vassals in the East, and bearer of the royal mace of command, would treat with Daenerys daughter of Aerys of House Targaryen, Princess of the Eight Kingdoms!" shouted the herald.
"I am Daenerys Targaryen," she replied loudly, no quiver in her voice, standing forward from the huddled mass of men and women upon the barricade.
The Captain of Umbar stared at her from horseback, then he reached up to his face and pulled away the mask. Hair of red-gold fell down around his shoulders, alongside a short trimmed beard. Keen eyes like chips of blue eye were set in a pale face of perfect symmetry. Only a scar near his right ear marred him. A stern lord he was, a master of lesser men.
"Hail Daenerys daughter of Aerys. It is my most absolute pleasure and honour to meet you this day," Belzagar said warmly, bowing in the saddle with a courtly flourish. He used the voice of one who had long admired someone from afar and never expected to speak with them face to face. He cast a brief back over his shoulder at the host waiting behind him, and the Ghiscari cavalry amongst them.
"You have my apologies, Princess, for the difficulties today. Particularly for the men who attacked your camp, not knowing that one of royal blood was amongst it. You have my oath that the men responsible shall be flogged and beheaded," Belzagar smiled, with all the benevolence and friendliness of a beloved and dear companion.
"Speak what you came here to say, Umbarian," Daenerys said, her strong voice cutting through the courtesies of the Captain. Belzagar laughed, the sound like the tinkling waters of a mirthful fountain in some sunlit courtyard.
"Your brother spoke highly of your will. You have not failed the test. My Lord sent me hence, Princess, to wait upon your person with all the grandeur accorded to your station and bear to you his invitation,"
"An invitation?" Daenerys repeated, as if unbelieving. Then the fire that burned in her eyes came into her voice as well: "You come here with force of arms, you attack my husband and my people, your men try to plunder our camp and carry off the women and the children, and you tell me you come here with an invitation!?"
As if he hadn't heard her, the Captain of Umbar went on in the same courteous voice.
"The Great King of Kings expects that you would attend him at his court in Umbar. He greatly desires to see the beauty of the last dragon eggs, and the greater beauty still of the Princess of the Eight Kingdoms," he smiled again, but there was a strange hungry light in his eyes. "He has called often, but received no answer, for which cause I have been sent with great pomp to wait upon your reply and escort you to his side,"
"I am not a helpless Princess at your beck and call, Umbarian. I am a Khaleesi, I am wife to the Great Khal Drogo and I carry his son inside me. My place is at his side, with my people, and I wait here for my lord husband to return," In Daenerys' voice, Valandil heard the dragon awakening, uncoiling, the fires of its furnaces growing.
"Well then, my Princess, here I may shorten your wait," Belzagar said, still smiling. He turned around in the saddle and shouted out something in the same unknown language he had spoken before.
In the forest of a hundred banners behind him, two men dismounted and stepped forth. They were Numenoreans. They pulled something from the backs of one of their horses. Amidst the flapping coloured silk and cloth, Valandil could not make it out. Between them they dragged it forward and threw it down without ceremony upon the dirt. Then he recognized that it was a man. Slowly, the man struggled to his feet.
"Drogo," Daenerys gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
From a dozen wounds on his chest and sides, the Khal bled dark blood freely. His face, once so proud, was blood-stained and worn. As if to mock him, the bells in his braid rang with his every step as he walked forward beneath the banners of Umbar, beneath the eyes of his khalasar and his khaleesi, and beneath the uninterested gaze of the Captain of Umbar. His black eyes stared into the air, looking but not seeing. Slowly he trudged towards Daenerys, as unsteady as if he had never walked with his own legs before. In all the khalasar, there was not a sound heard, not even the crying of a babe.
Finally the Khal came and stood between the Captain of Umbar and the Khaleesi atop the wagon barricade. A light seemed to come into his blank eyes when he saw Daenerys. He mumbled something that Valandil could not here, and then reached out an arm towards her, as the man dying in the desert reaches towards a mirage of water.
Belzagar nodded at one of his men. With purple cloak cast back, a Numenorean man-at-arms in mask and mail strode forward. He drove a steel boot brutally into the back of Drogo's leg. Without even a cry, the Khal collapsed to his knees. In utter nonchalance, the Numenorean drew a dagger from his belt. He grabbed Drogo's braid and pulled it taut above his head. With two quick slashes it was cut off. Black hair fell loosely around the Khal's hanging head. The man of Umbar held the black braid aloft for a moment, displaying it for all to see, then he threw it unceremoniously into the dirt before them. One swift push sent the Khal falling face-down onto the ground. His work done, the knight turned and returned to the ranks.
No one spoke. Unshed tears shone wetly in Daenerys' eyes. She stood, rooted to the spot as if she had been struck down by a sudden bolt of lightning from a clear sky. All Valandil could think of was getting her away from here, shielding her from this, turning her eyes away from the horrid sight of her husband and lover bleeding his life's blood on the cold ground.
"Your husband is returned, my Princess," said Belzagar, smiling amiably. "Now will you not come down and go to the Great King's call? In Umbar, you shall shine as the jewel you are meant to be,"
"Umbar," Daenerys repeated quietly. Tears were falling from her face, but her purple eyes were flashing with enmity. Her voice was quiet, there was no quiver or grief in it, only the anger of a roused dragon. She did not threaten or bluster, her words were a promise.
"My son shall be the Stallion that Mounts the World. His is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Drogo, Tamer of Horses. I swear, by all the gods known and unknown, with fire and blood he and I shall tear Umbar down stone by stone and cast it into the sea, and you, you Belzagar son of Aglahad, you will die screaming,"
If Belzagar understood these words, if he even heard them, he did not show it. His easy smile remained fixed, unchanging.
"Truly, my Princess, it would be a great tragedy if these primitive barbarians you have…" he paused as if in search of the right word "Befriended would try to bar you from answering the invitation of the Great King of Kings. As the Great King's servant, we would be obliged to cut you free with force of arms. It would be unfortunate indeed if all these brave savages perished so that you may escape their ignorant clutches,"
Behind his warm smile, the host of Umbar stood, poised in all its silent power, upon the heights above them. Steelbows and spearheads caught the light. Banners snapped and flew in the wind.
As if she had been under a spell suddenly broken, Daenerys looked back at her people behind her. Weary faces of warriors who had tried and failed all day to break the host before them. Wide-eyed women. Frightened children. All eyes were upon her, wondering upon the choice she would make. Their lives were held in her hands. Valandil could see the choice she was making.
"No, no," He pushed his way through the ranks of the Dothraki to her side. Uncaring of her rank or station, Valandil grabbed her by her arm.
"Do not do this Daenerys, I beg you," he whispered urgently.
"Look at the children's faces Thorongil," she said. The sorrow and fear in her eyes was too deep for any words.
"There is a warning in my heart against this. Daenerys, if you go to Umbar, you will find only pain awaiting you there. Do not do this!" he said, in growing desperation. Again he felt the onrushing sea dragging him towards the cruel rocks, heedless of all his words and deeds.
She looked away from him and tore her arm out of his grip.
"Belzagar, Captain of Umbar, if I go with you, will these people be spared?" she called out loudly.
"On my honour as a servant of the Great King of Kings, I swear to you that none shall be harmed if you accompany us," Belzagar replied, speaking loud enough that all could hear, his hand over his heart, his head bowed solemnly.
All was silence again. Daenerys' eyes were fixed upon Drogo. The Khal lay unmoving, his shorn hair matted with blood. She wiped away a tear from her cheek. The world seemed poised on a scale, about to fall one way or another. Valandil grabbed her by the arm again.
"Daenerys, no," he whispered. She spoke as if she had not heard him.
"Then I shall go with you to Umbar,"
Above them, the circling clouds of carrion fowl filled the airs with a hungry chorus.