Summary:
Jon denies Khal Drogo the right to claim Daenerys, sparking the Sea of White Fire.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter Five: Dothraki's Bane
Almost two weeks had passed since Aegon had arrived at Pentos.
His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, running his thumb over the steel absently. The manse was full of tension. The servants hurried and bustled around, not daring to say much of anything.
Today was meant to be the day of Dany's wedding to Khal Drogo—now annulled thanks to Aegon. They had not travelled to the agreed meeting spot south of the city where the wedding was meant to take place. The Khal would find nobody there. No bride for him to claim.
They had stood him up. Soon, he would come seeking them out to see what was going on.
He was waiting with Daenerys and Viserys at the manse, and Ser Jorah stood guard near them. Frostfyre was off hunting to the north, and that was fine. He didn't want their guests to see her just yet.
Illyrio came hurrying up the path, his fat jiggling from the rushed pace. "They're coming."
"How many?" Aegon asked.
"Drogo and a half-dozen of his Blood Riders. It's not a fighting force."
He nodded. Glanced over his shoulder. "Ser Jorah, if things get out of hand, your priority to to ensure not one of these savages gets anywhere near the Princess."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Viserys looked at him with aggravation clear in his face. "This is foolishness, nephew. When you see them, you will understand that I was right to arrange a marriage between the Khal and my sister."
Aegon shook his head. "Enough. Let's meet our unhappy guest."
He followed Illyrio out of the manse to the entrance of the lavish estate. As they got closer, he heard the sound of horses snorting and stomping the ground, their hooves clicking on the stone paths.
Aegon glanced over his shoulder at Dany. She looked afraid, but there was some steel in her eyes. She was ready to do this.
They rounded a corner and he set eyes on the Khal.
Drogo had copper-colored skin and black eyes. He was tall and muscular, towering over those around him on a lean, red stallion. He had a long, black beard and mustache, as well as black hair bound in an incredibly long braid, which was hung with tiny bells. His hair hung down to his thighs, which Aegon knew was a symbol of his prestige amongst the Dothraki.
If one was defeated, they were forced to cut their hair—the greatest shame in their culture. Drogo's hair was longer than any person's Aegon had seen in his life. It had been grown throughout his lifetime, and the numerous bells decorating the braid told him of the many battles this warlord had fought and won.
This man had never been defeated in battle. Aegon wasn't stupid enough to think he had even the slightest chance at besting Khal Drogo in single combat. He was good, but this was a man who had lived by the sword in a culture centered around battle and conquest, and he stood above all of them.
Drogo was mighty. There was no other way of putting it. Perhaps the mightiest Khal of his time.
But Aegon would not be fighting on the ground when the battle came to them.
Drogo looked angry. It was a quiet anger so far, but the black eyes were smoldering. The Khal's gaze snapped towards the Targaryens and he paused, frowning at the sight of Aegon who was unfamiliar to him.
He uttered something in a guttural tongue, his agitation clear. One of his Blood Riders spoke for him in the common tongue, and his voice carried a Dothraki accent. "Khal Drogo is displeased. Your people did not appear at the place we agreed upon. He demands his bride."
Aegon stopped directly in front of the Khal, just a few meters from his horse. It was a magnificent beast, he had to admit, with powerful muscles. The stallion snorted and tossed its head, but the boy was unimpressed.
What was a horse to a dragon?
"There is no bride here for Khal Drogo to have," Aegon answered. The Dothraki translator raised an eyebrow. The boy never took his eyes from Drogo, who was leering down at him.
The translator told Drogo what he'd said, and the Khal growled, speaking again in his rough language. "Who denies the Khal what was promised to him?"
"I am Aegon Targaryen, the Head of House Targaryen. I am here to apologize for nullifying the marriage we arranged; it was not Viserys' place to sell Daenerys to you, but I cannot let you have her."
That translation didn't go over well at all.
Well, I am trying to be diplomatic, he thought as Drogo snarled and dismounted his horse, stepping forward until he stood directly in front of Aegon. The boy had to tilt his head back to look at the Khal, who was almost two heads taller than he was.
He spoke again. The translator did his work. "Khal Drogo does not care why. His bride was promised. He will have her. She will bear his children."
Aegon looked into the black pits of the Dothraki Khal's eyes. "No."
Rage flashed in them and Drogo spoke, almost shouting in Aegon's face. "Then you have promised the city to a raid unlike any before it. Khal Drogo will lead his khalasar to Pentos and we will ride through the streets! We will take all we wish! We will take all the women we wish! He will take the bride who was promised to him, and he will fuck her! Then he will give her to his Blood Riders! And if there is anything left of her afterwards, he will let the horses have a turn!"
The fury in Aegon's blood roared to life. Gone was the quiet wolf, watching and patient.
The dragon glared fearlessly at Khal Drogo, promising death.
"You tell Khal Drogo," Aegon snarled, unafraid of the enraged man before him. "That he will have only fire and blood. And that dragons eat horses."
With that, he turned around and left the Khal behind him, guiding Daenerys away. She was pale and trembling, but he did not let the Dothraki savage have the satisfaction of looking upon her any longer than could be allowed.
Daenerys sipped at her water, slowly allowing the fear she felt to fade away.
The atmosphere was still tense, but beside her, Jon was already sorting out his plan with Illyrio and Ser Jorah. They were discussing how best to handle the Dothraki invasion to come.
Viserys had left for his chambers.
"They'll hit us from the south," Illyrio said, placing his finger upon a marker on the map of Pentos and its surrounding countryside. "It's been a favorite strike point of theirs in past raids. The guard is thinnest there and they'll break through the gates in a matter of minutes. It is also the closest entry to my manse, so Drogo will likely take it to get to us."
"The terrain there is mostly grassland," Jon hummed. "We'll see them coming from a good distance away."
"Far enough away for you to get to the dragon and ride her into battle?"
"I'll be on Frostfyre before we see them coming," he decided. "We'll have someone signal to us that the Dothraki are on their way. When will they strike?"
"It'll be during the day," Jorah said. "Tomorrow, most likely. Drogo won't see a need to wait. Their horses have poor vision at night. They prefer to raid out in the open for all to see, anyways. It is better suited for them when they seek glory amongst the khalasar."
"I know I've asked this before, but are you certain you can best them with your dragon?" Illyrio asked, looking at Jon anxiously. "Drogo has the largest khalasar in the Dothraki Sea—some forty thousand strong."
"Not all of those are Blood Riders," Jon reminded him. "A lot of them are women and children. They won't be fighting."
"Even so."
"I'll cut them off with Frostfyre's dragon-flame," Jon set his finger on the map and drew it in a straight line between Pentos and the perceived direction of the attack. "Their front wave will be forced to stop, then I'll fly over them and burn them to ashes."
"They might charge straight through the flames," Jorah pointed out.
"Even if they do, I'll weaken the charge enough that our archers should be able to pick off any stragglers. I don't plan on being gentle with them. I'll set all of those fields on fire if need be. If Drogo doesn't surrender, he's going to lose a huge portion of his fighting force."
"He doesn't know what surrender is," Illyrio insisted. "He has never been defeated in battle!"
"He has never fought a dragon before," Jon said flatly. "I will make him learn."
They didn't look completely convinced, but they'd already planned for the guards to be at the ready should the Dothraki actually make it to the streets of Pentos. The city wasn't allowed to have an army after Braavos had dominated them long ago. It was unfortunate, but it couldn't be helped now.
All of the Magisters had guards, however, and they would be prepared to fight when the Dothraki screamers came charging. It wouldn't be much. On their own, the city wouldn't stand a chance.
But they had Jon and Frostfyre, now.
Jon dismissed them, sending Illyrio and Ser Jorah to meet with the other Magisters and plan for the attack to come, as well as set up a signaling system.
He turned to Dany, still seated beside him in silence, and hesitantly set his hand on hers. "How are you doing?"
"I'm afraid," she admitted quietly. "I don't want to be passed around like a piece of meat to be raped until I die—"
"I will not let them touch you," he said fiercely.
"But I don't want to see you and Frostfyre get shot out of the sky, either."
"We'll be fine. Frostfyre's scales are thick. Their arrows won't so much as scratch her."
"You don't have dragon armor, J…Aegon," she protested, barely catching herself with his name. "If you're shot, you could fall off of her."
"I will be fine," he promised. "I give you my word."
"But if you're not."
Jon pursed his lips. "If the worst should happen to me…well, Frostfyre will kill every last Dothraki on the grasslands. I know she will; she won't be satisfied with anything less. But if I die tomorrow, you need to find Frostfyre again and bond to her."
"I can't."
"You can. She likes you, Dany. You've already flown with her before."
"I was with you. She's your dragon."
"She'll accept you when her Rider is gone."
"Don't talk like that. You just promised me not to die."
"Sorry," he murmured. Jon sighed before wrapping an arm around Dany and pulling her into a firm hug. She buried her face in his neck and grasped his tunic tightly between her fingers.
They didn't say anything; just held one another tight and close for as long as they could.
The rest of the day passed. The moon rose and fell. The sun climbed again.
Aegon's heart was already pounding in his chest. He'd barely slept. He was tense and his didn't have much of an appetite, but he was as ready has he'd ever be.
He donned the thick furs he'd brought down from the north. From Winterfell. It didn't suit the climate, but they were the best clothes he had to deflect arrows, or at least mitigate the damage they could do.
"Nervous?" Ser Jorah asked him as they walked to the stables. Jorah would ride Aegon out to Frostfyre, then return to Pentos to man the gates.
"Terrified," Aegon admitted.
"Good. Your instincts will be sharp," Jorah clapped the young man's shoulder. "We have faith in you, Your Grace."
"Some of you."
"Aye, I suppose so."
"You already have my orders," he looked up at the Knight and some of the intensity returned to his eyes. "If the worst should happen to me, you are to get Daenerys as far away from the Dothraki as possible. Seek out Frostfyre and bring Dany to her—she will be able to bond with my dragon if I should die."
He dipped his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
They found Illyrio waiting with Dany and Viserys. His uncle looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here—ideally, racing away from the city at full pelt. Viserys wasn't a fighter, that was for certain. Illyrio seemed anxious, but more steady than Aegon's uncle.
Dany met his eyes and he saw the panic she was trying to keep quiet.
"I'll return with Khal Drogo's braid," he promised them. "Or the ashes of it."
"Your Grace, given the circumstances, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that what you are about to do is completely insane," Illyrio told him with a slight squeak in his voice.
Aegon didn't know why that made him laugh. Maybe he was so high-strung that he was getting a little crazy.
Illyrio smiled, his facial muscles a little twitchy, and Aegon was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing. "You remember the signal?"
"Three tolls of the bells."
"Good luck, Your Grace."
He looked at his uncle. "I know you despise me. Watch my dragon and I conquer the screamers, Viserys, and you will see we never needed them."
Viserys didn't say anything, just glared at him as if this whole mess was Aegon's fault.
He actually wasn't wrong about that.
Jorah was done getting the horse ready and mounted it, looking down at Aegon. "Are you ready, Your Grace?"
"Aye," he turned to the horse. Aegon was silent for a moment, then took a deep, shaky breath. "Fuck."
The boy turned around, took two steps to Daenerys, and kissed her hard. She gasped and held onto his shoulders, fingers digging into the furs of his cloak. He didn't linger and pulled back after just a few moments.
Neither of them said anything, but it took more self-control than he cared to admit to leave her behind and get onto that horse. He didn't bother looking at what was undoubtedly Viserys' outraged expression.
Aegon steeled himself as the horse ran out of Pentos towards the hills to the north, where Frostfyre was waiting. He tasted Dany on his lips and wished he could taste her again.
Khal Drogo led his khalasar's Blood Riders to Pentos. A force of light cavalry some ten thousand strong. Any more and the city would be boring to take.
He still could not fathom where a child had found the arrogance to refuse what was rightfully his. It was one of the worst insults he had ever received; and all who had insulted him before were dead.
He would add the fool boy to the list of those who had challenged him and lost. He was looking forward to fucking the woman he desired—who had been denied to him. Perhaps he'd even keep her around until she bore him a child.
His riders spotted the city ahead of them and they started to chant and yip, eager to raid. It had been quite some time since they'd been able to hit a city with this kind of force. The promise of conquest was a glorious sensation that stirred his blood.
He drew his blade and his riders followed suit, the din of their war cries rising to a fever pitch. Drogo heard, just faintly, the sound of the city's bells ringing in the distance.
And suddenly, a sound unlike anything he'd heard before thundered across the land.
Khal Drogo's blood froze as a monster flew over Pentos from the north; a beast of white scales, with wings so vast they cast a shadow over the earth. It roared, shaking the air as it blazed towards them with the promise of death in its glare. On its back, his keen eyes spotted the unmistakeable shape of a human Rider.
A Dragon Rider.
The horses screamed in panic, briefly resisting their masters before they continued charging. Even his own stallion faltered in the face of aerial death. The dragon's teeth flashed, its wings pounded as it dove for them, and it shrieked a war cry that made his Blood Riders pale in comparison.
There was a brief moment where the dragon's bellow silenced the grasslands, and Khal Drogo heard a voice—the fool boy—roar at the top of his lungs.
"DRACARYS!"
Frostfyre's maw parted and a white inferno bathed the Dothraki's ranks. Aegon heard the screams of dying men and horses already piercing the air.
The savages had been caught completely off-guard. He wheeled Frostfyre to the west in a circle, and she spat more dragonfire at the Dothraki beneath them. She curved until she was ahead of the horde, then unleashed another torrent of flame directly in their path, cutting the horses off from Pentos.
He watched as the front line of horses scrambled to a stop in the face of that wall of fire. Several of them were pushed into the flames by the riders behind them, and he heard their screams join the song of death already filling the grasslands.
Frostfyre soared over them and drowned the stalling Dothraki in an ocean of fire. The plains were set aflame and the inferno spread rapidly, quickly trapping all those caught near the attack.
Arrows started flying at them and Aegon snarled, eyes darting further south. Whatever parts of the massive Dothraki horde hadn't yet been struck had rallied and begun to shoot at them. Their pointed sticks bounced off of Frostfyre's hide, causing her to growl with annoyance.
He pressed her to fly around the back of the Dothraki horde, gaining some altitude in the process. As they descended, he saw a number of the screamers turning to draw their bows. As one, they unleashed a hail of arrows.
Frostfyre snorted and reared back, flapping her wings with a powerful beat. The wind she kicked up stopped the arrows dead in the air, causing them to fall uselessly. Aegon urged her to descend further.
His dragon flew directly over the horde, claws snatching some of the Riders from their horses and impaling them. Her jaws snapped down to grab a Blood Rider and when she threw him aside, his body violently split apart with a spray of blood.
The arrows were flying past him closer than he was happy about. Aegon pulled back on her spines to climb a bit, and then she blasted the horde with dragonfire. The stream travelled from the very back of the Dothraki and they flew all the way to the front of the khalasar, driving the horde into two halves.
By now, those who had been screaming for a raid moments before were now screaming in agony.
He hit the front of the horde again, reigniting the wall of flames. A few Dothraki had actually gotten past it by forcing their horses to jump through the wall, but the numbers were pitifully small. They weren't even trying to charge the city now, instead stopping to shoot at the dragon dousing their ranks in dragonfire.
Aegon felt an arrow shallowly pierce his right arm, having managed to punch through his furs. But it was a mild wound at best. He snapped his gaze onto the Blood Riders closest to the sea and shouted a battle cry, which Frostfyre answered with her deafening roar.
The dragon let loose another blast of fire. By now, the whole front half of the Dothraki khalasar was nearly consumed by the inferno. Only the easternmost Blood Riders were somewhat intact. The back of the horde was trying to regroup since the front of their khalasar had completely halted.
He wondered if Khal Drogo was already dead.
Frostfyre dove close to the screamers again, incinerating more and more horses with her tongues of purging white fire. The smell of burning flesh was filling the air such that Aegon had to fight the urge to gag.
He guided Frostfyre towards the sea and wheeled her back around to hit the Dothraki from the west. This time, he pulled back on her spines and she shrieked, flapping her wings and feeding air into the inferno she'd ignited. The flames ate the oxygen greedily and were fanned into a storm of heat and death, sweeping over the dying screamers.
They flew onwards, splitting the khalasar once again with another stream of dragonfire all the way from its western flank to the eastern edge. By now, he could barely see the Blood Riders in the northernmost section of the attack, there was so much fire.
The back group was faltering. Frostfyre roared at them, outraged that they had not yet submitted to her terrible wrath, and Aegon led her on to strike again.
Another arrow barely missed his head, grazing past his left cheekbone. Warm blood started running down his face. Aegon hissed in pain and yelled angrily. His dragon answered his fury.
She flew low again, snatching more Blood Riders in her claws and ripping yet more apart with her teeth. Her jaws clamped down on the head of a horse and the beast crumpled uselessly to the ground as she decapitated it viciously.
They climbed to avoid more arrows. The mass of Dothraki was huge, but they were decimating the ranks of Blood Riders.
Aegon's eyes trained back on the front of the horde and he saw them scrambling to turn around, to get the hell out of the flames that promised only death. Frostfyre climbed so he could survey the damage they'd done, well out of range of the arrows. His dragon snarled, belching fire as if eager for more.
The horde was struggling to get out of the dragonfire. Stray horses ran screaming in all directions; some of them were on fire, dying as they fled.
Aegon watched as the screamers began to retreat south. A sizable group of survivors from the head of the raid, which had been hit the worst, found a passage between the flames and poured through it in an attempt to get free. He held his breath, ready to bring Frostfyre back down if they tried to wheel around back to the city.
They had annihilated the horde. Thousands were dead or dying, and the Dothraki had not so much as touched the gates to Pentos.
Would Drogo keep trying? Or whoever was in charge of the khalasar at this point?
He watched carefully as the horses worked their way through and around the fire to the south—and kept riding.
They were falling back.
Aegon flew after them.
Drogo urged the black stallion beneath him onwards as they rode south. His favorite red had been consumed in flames he'd only just avoided by leaping from the horse. He'd found the black devoid of its Blood Rider and mounted it himself.
He was covered in the ashes of his dead men and horses. Everyone who was still alive from the head of the charge was marred with what little remained of their roasted allies.
This wasn't a battle anymore. It was a slaughter.
For the first time in his life, Drogo ordered a retreat.
His men didn't even question it. The Blood Riders scrambled to ride away from the winged death soaring over them. It had stopped its rain of fire, but for how long, he could not say. If they lost too many more men, his khalasar would be crippled—they'd lost too much as it was already.
Khal Drogo was a prideful man, but he wasn't an idiot.
He finally tasted fresh air, free of smoke and ash and death as they got clear of the field of fire, and led his Blood Riders south. As long as that beast was in the area, they could not touch Pentos—he knew this. Their arrows were doing absolutely nothing to its thick hide, and it could unleash fire endlessly as far as he could tell.
It didn't even seem tired.
No Dothraki, Khal or otherwise, could hope to match it.
The monster of a dragon suddenly flew ahead of them, bellowing, and wheeled around until it was coming at them head-on again. The Khal opened his mouth, ready to shout and order the survivors to split off and get around the dragon, but he faltered when it flapped its wings, lowering itself, and landed with a series of heavy thuds.
The white dragon lifted its regal head high and roared, the blood streaming from its mouth belonging to his riders and their horses. It was crouched, prepared to attack on the ground or fly again to douse them in yet more dragonfire.
Drogo slowed his horse down and his khalasar followed suit. The beast wasn't attacking—yet.
He spotted movement on the back of the white terror and watched in astonishment with his Blood Riders as the fool boy appeared on top of the dragon. His disbelief grew more pronounced when the dragon all but knelt, lowering itself to the ground so the boy could climb down its wing and touch down on the plains.
The boy stood before the dragon—a slip of a child, short of stature with an arrow in his arm, blood on his face, and several more arrows stuck in the thick furs he wore, which had never pierced his flesh. He was nowhere near manhood yet, but when Drogo met his eyes, he was not looking at a child.
He was looking at a warlord who had challenged ten thousand of Drogo's Blood Riders astride but a single beast and won.
A stray horse, devoid of its rider, suddenly raced past the ranks of Dothraki. The dragon locked onto it and lunged in a quick step, snapping its jaws into the screaming animal. It shook the stallion violently with guttural snarls, nearly ripping the horse in half before dropping the dying shape onto the ground. The dragon loosed a breath of flame, cooking the horse, and began to feast with teeth as sharp as swords.
The boy only spared his dragon a glance, then looked back at Khal Drogo. He spoke in the common tongue Drogo was not familiar with. The Khal turned to his khalasar and shouted for a translator.
He was tempted to just order a charge and skewer the child for slaughtering his Blood Riders, but the dragon was currently chewing on a horse skull and watching him with dangerous, violet eyes.
He knew the fight was over. Khal Drogo dismounted the black stallion and walked towards the child with a translator behind him.
The dragon growled when they got too close and they halted, several paces away from the boy. The sound of the dragon crunching through horse bones was enough to keep him on-edge. At any moment, with a single wrong move, the beast would kill everyone that was left from the attack.
The boy spoke. His translator did his work.
"I'm sorry."
Drogo's brow furrowed deeply as he watched the child speak, heard his words in a tongue he understood.
"This was not fair for you or your people. You were promised something that was not meant to be given, and I understand that was insulting. I tried to apologize for the failure of my uncle. I know that was impossible for you to accept."
He felt annoyed. What was the child getting at?
"I will not bring further harm to you or your people," the boy said. "My dragon will not rain fire upon your khalasar again."
Drogo tilted his head. He intended to let them leave alive.
"But understand this," and now the boy took slow steps forward, coming closer and speaking until he stood directly before the Khal. The dragon followed him, remaining just behind her Rider. "If you threaten Daenerys Targaryen again, I will come for you and I will kill you. If you ever harm her, I will kill every last one of your khalasar."
His grey eyes were blazing; a match for the vicious fervor of the dragons purple orbs behind him. "And should any of your people ever kill Daenerys, I will set the Dothraki Sea aflame from the westernmost plains, to Vaes Dothrak and beyond. Your lands will be reduced to ashes. I will burn every last khalasar, I will kill every Khal that remains, and not a trace of your people will survive. That is what Daenerys Targaryen means to me."
Drogo had never been so tempted to kill someone in his life.
The child stood before him, tiny compared to the Khal, bleeding from a wound on his face, and glared up at him with intensity that did not suit a boy so young. The dragon growled behind him, but Drogo was blind to the bestial threat at the moment.
Aegon Targaryen did not fear him. Had never feared him—he remembered first setting eyes on the boy in the Magister's manse, and remembered how this brat had still possessed the audacity to look him in the eye and deny Drogo what was his, dragon or no dragon. The child was fearless. Absolute in his position.
Drogo wanted to kill him, but he also had to wonder where the hell this slip of a boy was keeping the massive fucking balls needed to ride that damned dragon and tell him—the greatest Khal of his time—what to do.
The Khal looked from the boy to his dragon, who watched the conversation with unsettling intelligence in its eyes. The beast was quiet for now—it had ceased to feed on the horse, and Drogo knew now the boy's threat the day before was no mere boast.
Dragons did indeed eat horses.
The Great Stallion had looked upon this child and given him a mount no horse could match. Even Drogo's finest steed, now dead in the inferno that had baked his Blood Riders alive, would have never compared.
Drogo slowly reached for the thick hunting knife he kept. The boy's eyes flickered to the blade briefly, but he seemed unperturbed. His own hand reached for a knife within his cloak. The dragon hissed threateningly behind him, frills flaring out on its neck in a menacing display.
He held the knife tight in his hand, wanting nothing more than to drive it forward into the boy's throat. But doing so would guarantee the death of his khalasar—the dragon's mercy would cease to exist.
He could not do that.
So it was that Khal Drogo fell to his knees before the Dragon Rider, staring up at him. Even now, the child was barely taller than he was. He reached up, trembling, and took his braid in-hand. The knife came back behind his head.
The boy watched him, eyes dark, and Drogo felt like he was staring at a wolf.
With a jerking slash, he cut his braid.
He heard the Blood Riders behind him dismount as Drogo held the length of his severed hair—longer than any other, for he had never cut it before in his life—between his hands. The bells attached to it rang quietly, and the Khal bowed, offering it to the Dragon Rider.
His Blood Riders fell to their knees behind him and bowed as well.
Aegon Targaryen waited until the entire khalasar submitted and then took the incredibly long braid from Drogo. He wrapped the length of it tightly around his left arm.
"Return to the rest of your khalasar," the boy told him. "My dragon and I will not attack you again, as I said before."
He turned away and the dragon knelt, allowing the boy to climb upon its back. Drogo watched, feeling the terrible sting of defeat in his heart, as the Rider mounted his dragon, the braided hair wrapped around his arm a sign of his victory.
A reminder of Drogo's first loss in battle.
"Farewell, Khal Drogo," Aegon Targaryen called down to him. "I do not think we will meet again."
The dragon roared at the survivors of the field of fire and launched itself into the air, pummeling them with powerful winds whipped up by the vast, white wings. Drogo turned and watched it fly back to Pentos.
He stumbled to his feet, as did the rest of his Blood Riders, who stared at their Khal with shock. There was no insult in their eyes—yet, for his hair was now short and freshly cut. He had no braid; no bells to display for his victories.
Drogo watched the dragon fly and knew they had never stood a chance. He mounted his horse and gruffly ordered the Blood Riders to return to the khalasar. They would ride back to the Dothraki Sea.
He hoped never to see Aegon Targaryen and his dragon again.
Daenerys walked to the walls of Pentos with Master Illyrio and Ser Jorah. The morning air was crisp and clear; the western winds fresh from the sea.
Yesterday, it had smelled of death.
She still remembered watching Jon and Frostfyre flying over the horde of Dothraki screamers, remembered her disbelief and awe as the dragon set the whole of the southern fields on fire to devastate the would-be raiders. She had lost sight of much of the horde as they were burned to ashes behind a wall of dragonfire that cut them off from Pentos.
Two guards had minor injuries from stray Dothraki arrows, from Blood Riders who had run through the flames and tried to attack before they realized the rest of their khalasar would never make it through the fire.
Jon had suffered an arrow in one arm and a thin, but deep cut on his left cheek. It would scar. Other than that, he was virtually unharmed.
Frostfyre's only wounds were small punctures in her wing membrane, where arrows that had not been blown away had struck her. They were already healing. She didn't even seem to notice them. As soon as the fight was over, she'd groomed herself of her wounds, then flown to the scene of carnage to pick over the bodies for her meals.
The city had celebrated massively; for the first time, the Dothraki had been repelled from Pentos without anyone suffering major wounds. No property had been damaged. The Free City was intact. Khal Drogo, perhaps the most powerful Khal of his time, had been soundly crushed in battle.
It was unheard of.
They found Jon looking over the ruins of the southern plains from the walls.
Dany looked out over them as well. The plains were scorched black, and some small fires still burned. They had glowed more in the night, lighting up the fields as the heat slowly dimmed and died.
She could see Frostfyre roaming around the devastation, sniffing at the charred bodies of Dothraki and their horses, and occasionally biting into them. It seemed she would not need to hunt for some time.
Dany's eyes trailed back to Jon. He'd been unusually quiet since the battle had ended.
"Your Grace?" Illyrio prompted.
Jon stirred and glanced at them. He was wearing a thin, white tunic and dark breeches, as well as boots better suited to the climate of Pentos. His furs were being cleaned of the ashes he'd picked up through the battle.
She remembered how he'd returned with Khal Drogo's braid wrapped around his arm. Illyrio had immediately seen to it that the braid was put into a small chest for safekeeping; a priceless trophy of Jon's first major victory in battle.
He didn't look all that thrilled about it.
"I've killed men before," Jon said suddenly, his voice quiet. "I've ordered Frostfyre to kill men before. I've always only killed when it was necessary."
His eyes fell back to the burnt fields. They were utterly devoid of life, save the dragon who now scavenged her countless kills. It was a stark contrast—that snowy-white creature on a wasted, black plain.
"I know this was a necessary battle. I know I had to kill them, and yet…"
"You take no pleasure in it," Jorah finished for him. "I understand how you feel. Killing is never a pleasant course of action. Only fools and warmongers find joy in death."
Jon nodded absently. "Aye."
"It is wise of you to feel so, Your Grace," Illyrio told the boy. "Tyrants long for blood. Kings shed it only when it must be done."
The boy snorted. "I'm not much of a King right now, am I?"
"An issue that can be improved with time and patience. You have the goodwill of the people of Pentos. Already, our bards write songs of your victory, and our artists paint the Sea of White Fire."
"Is that what they're calling this battle?"
"Yes! You and your dragon have gained the title of 'Dothraki's Bane' throughout Pentos. That is no meager feat, Your Grace."
"It doesn't make me happy," Jon admitted. "I don't think killing ever will."
Illyrio only beamed. "You might just make a great King one day, after all, Your Grace."
The boy managed a small smile. "I appreciate your kindness, Magister."
"And I appreciate you ensuring that my beloved city is still in one piece! The kindness of Pentos is all yours, Your Grace," the fat man responded. "Now, I know you have been out here for quite some time already. My servants will have food prepared soon. Will you return to the manse to break your fast with us?"
"I think I'll be here for a short while longer," Jon murmured. "But aye, I'll be there."
"Splendid. We shall eagerly await your return, Your Grace."
The fat man turned and left. Ser Jorah began to leave as well, but paused when Dany did not follow. "Princess?"
"Could you give me a moment with my nephew, Ser Jorah? I will walk back with him to the manse, I think."
Jorah looked from the Princess to Jon and back again, then nodded. He turned away and followed Illyrio—as well as the Magister's guards—back to the estate.
Once they were out of sight, and the only people around them were the citizens going about their morning routines, Daenerys stepped closer to Jon and slipped her hand into his. "How are you?"
"I will survive, Dany," he murmured. She lifted her other hand to cup his cheek, turning him to look at her. Delicately, her fingers traced around the thin cut from the arrow that could have very easily killed him had it shifted a few inches.
"Have you even slept?"
"No," he admitted. She could tell from the dark spots beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted.
"Talk to me, Jon," she told him quietly. "I want to help you however I can."
He was silent for a time. Then he lifted a hand to hold hers close to his face, turning to press his lips against her skin. She shivered at the sensation. Her wrist still donned the seashell bracelet he'd bought for her.
"I'm trying to decide what we should do now," he whispered. "We can't stay in Pentos much longer."
Dany frowned. "Why not?"
"As soon as King Robert hears about what's happened here, he is going to buy the most dangerous assassins he can afford," Jon murmured, looking into her eyes. He had protected her and the city from the Dothraki attack, but the fear was still there. Fear for her. "If we stay, we are asking to be attacked. You and Viserys have been lucky as it is."
She pursed her lips. "Where should we go?"
"I don't know. We could go south, to Myr or Tyrosh, but I don't know if I could stand the slavery. Lys is out of the question—the citizens killed whatever dragonlords and dragons resided there after the Doom of Valyria. I don't know if they could kill Frostfyre now, but I have no desire to find out. They would certainly kill us for being associated with her.
"I've always wanted to visit Old Valyria, but it's just a ruin, or so I've heard. We can hardly stay there for long. I don't want to go anywhere near Slaver's Bay. For however much bigger Essos is compared to Westeros, it doesn't have nearly as many cities for us to reside in."
Dany thought for a few moments. "Let's go to Braavos. It does not tolerate slavery and it is further away from King's Landing, anyways. We could stay there for a time and figure out what to do from there. If we took a ship, we'd have plenty of time to think about our next course of action."
"I don't think I can afford a ship," Jon scoffed.
"You know as well as I do Illyrio will give us one if we but ask. You could ask Pentos for almost anything at this point and they'd give it to you."
He was quiet for a time. "Do you think you remember where your old house is? The one with the red door and the lemon tree?"
Dany's lips curved upwards. "Maybe."
Jon thought for a few more minutes, then nodded. "Braavos it is."
She nodded with him. Jon looked at her for a few more moments before he sighed, then shifted closer to kiss her brow. "I'm glad this is all over."
"I am, too," she murmured. Dany squeezed his hand. "Come on—I need to eat. And you need to rest."
Jon's mouth curved into a lopsided smile, and he allowed Daenerys to tug him away from the wall and the field of ashes beyond it. He glanced back only once, then stepped a bit faster to walk beside her as they returned to Illyrio's estate.
Notes:
Trying to keep Jon and Dany's romance a bit steady. Don't want to jump the gun too quickly, but we'll get there pretty soon. They're going to start figuring out how to hatch the three dragon eggs before too long.
As ever, please review and thanks for reading!