Elphaba818:
Yes, you read your inbox notification correctly! Howl of the Dragonwolves has another new chapter! Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter finished, but it's online at last for all of you to read! I don't wanna bore you all with a long author's note before you finally enjoy this newest update, so I'll keep this short and to the point regarding where I've been these past few months! To put it simply, my time in the Disney College Program finally finished… and now I'm working for Disney as a full time cast member in Magic Kingdom! I'm really happy!
Anyway, that's all from me! I'm gonna turn the mic over to Longclaw now. He's got his own exciting news to share!
We hope you enjoy the latest chapter! Please leave a nice review when you're done!
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Longclaw 1-6:
Hey everyone! Big stuff happening for me. Got started with medical school and found out my new baby's gonna be a boy. Very excited! :D
Also, just published a new story called Three Heads. Be sure to check it out!
Chapter Twenty-Five: Change is Inevitable
"I can't believe it's you…"
"I can… but only cause I knew you were here, Jon."
Jon chuckled before hugging Sansa tighter. The first he had seen of his family since uncle Benjen disappeared. So much had happened, so much — gods, where had the time gone. "How did you get here?"
He felt her tense, only to pull back and look at him. Relaxing slightly at catching a glimpse of him. "Later, I promise I'll tell you then," she insisted, smiling softly. "For now… can I get a bath? And some food for my companions."
"Aye." He motioned to the black brothers. "Get their horses squared away." Not their commander anymore, the men still deferred to him — out of respect for the most part, he figured. "Come, sister," he said, wrapping an arm about her shoulder. "I'll take you to my quarters."
"Thank you… brother."
The first time she called him 'brother' since they were young. Not 'half-brother' or 'Jon' — unlike Lady Catelyn or Theon she hadn't stooped so low as to call him 'snow' or 'bastard' — but 'brother.' They were all older, wiser… more experienced in good and bad.
Such childish things seemed silly now.
With what had happened, Jon wished silly had been their fate.
Approaching his former solar, the door suddenly opened and they were confronted with Lyaella and Shireen. Shireen blinked repeatedly at them, but Lyaella froze, her eyes as wide as saucers before scrambling for her friends' hand and trying to rush away to her quarters. "Lyaella," he called out, stilling her.
Sansa looked confused. "Jon… who are they?"
"Well, one is young Shireen Baratheon."
"Princess Shireen?" Sansa bit her lip. "My condolences, for your father. He was a brave man to fight the Boltons."
Shireen shifted on her feet. "Thank you."
Lyaella seemed desperate to sneak away, so Jon called to her again. "Lya, I'd like you to meet Sansa, my sister. Sansa, this is Lyaella Snow."
"You have Targaryen hair," Sansa murmured, studying Lyaella closely. Peering at her, while Lyaella tensed and averted her gaze. Why was she so shy again?
Finally, she croaked. "Y-Yes… I am a baseborn Targaryen."
A euphemism for… "A Targaryen bastard…!" Sansa reacted in shock. "Jon! You've been hiding a Targaryen bastard here?! After what they've done to our family?!"
Seeing Lyaella flinch, Jon reacted. "Sansa, that's enough—"
But it was too late. Lyaella disappeared.
That… had not gone as he'd wished.
Jon told Sansa everything about Lyaella — about how she arrived, the dragon, her difficulties, and her loyalty to him and his oath to Maester Aemon. Through it all, his sister was quiet, not interrupting once except for clarifying questions.
And here they were now. Sitting together in his former quarters that Edd had gracefully let him keep for now until he could be officially elected as Lord Commander. The laws of the Watch still need to be followed. In the wake of Lyaella's… surprising reaction, the shocking joy at their reunion had melted into a sense of awkwardness.
Still pleasant, but awkward nonetheless. Much as Jon was willing to deny it out of love and familial devotion, Sansa was not Arya. She was not Robb. They were never truly intimate as siblings thanks to her imitating her mother. Never hurting him or insulting him as Lady Stark did, but keeping her distance. Treating him as a guest or family friend rather than her brother.
She was quiet for a long time, sipping at her brew while wrapped in a cloak and a blanket following a hot bath, but that hug gave Jon hope that they could shift from their past. There was nothing more he could want.
"This is good soup," Sansa finally said, if surprised at it. "Wouldn't expect a place like this to have decent cooking."
Jon smiled lightly at her, amused. "Believe me, it didn't always look this bad." Her brow rose, quizzical. "Try two attacks from the Free Folk within the same year."
"Free Folk?"
"Wildlings."
"Ah," was her only response.
A shrug, Jon staring in front of him. "The men need to eat… The food is better than the ale. I've even preferred snowmelt."
"The horror," she said half-seriously, making them both chuckle. The awkwardness was finally dissipating. "Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?"
His eyes perked up. "With the peas and onions?" Jon hummed, reminiscing. "Aye, that was the best… as it was when father roasted the deer he caught on his hunts." Those were a special treat, just them and their father — even Sansa would join the others in going on those hikes in the Wolfswood just to be with Ned Stark. He sighed, and glancing over his shoulder found Sansa looking down with her lip quivering. "We never should have left Winterfell."
His sister was silent for a moment, only to look at him in the eye. "Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?" Sansa chuckled wanly, almost trying to lighten the mood from how bleak it was. "I want to reach back in time to that stupid girl and scream at myself, 'Don't go, you idiot!'" Her eyes shut. "Arya was right, I was a foolish girl with dreams of knights and princes and feasts."
"How could we know?" he replied with much sympathy. "I thought much of the Watch that ended up not to be the case."
"And yet you achieved much, becoming Lord Commander in mere years." Sansa's lip quivered again. "I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you," she admitted with some guilt in her voice. "Oh Jon, I wish I could change everything…"
"Sansa, stop. We were children," Jon responded modestly.
"I was awful," she insisted, wryly smirking — self-deprecating tone clear on her lips. "Just admit it. I was a cunt to you."
Her brother chuckled at that. "I wouldn't go that far with that word, but you were occasionally awful." He slurped up more of the soup, emptying his bowl. "Still, I'm sure I can't have been great fun. Always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."
"Can you forgive me?" she asked him.
"There's nothing to forgive."
"Forgive me," Sansa insisted, smiling at Jon.
He smiled back. "Alright, I forgive you."
Reaching out, Sansa squeezed his hand once before picking up the mug of ale and gulping it… only to grimace. "Gods… tastes like bathwater."
The scene made Jon hold his gut in laughter. "I tried to warn you… In a thousand years you'd think the Night's Watch would brew a decent ale."
"All the fancy wines they have in King's Landing…" she snorted, smirking. "The only good thing about the South were the spirits, but deep down I think I just wanted a mug of Winterfell black ale." Her smile morphed into a longing sigh. "To be home again."
Jon sighed as well. "Aye, home."
Through their whimsey did the awkwardness leave… only to be replaced with a mood far more somber. "So where do you go from here…?"
"Where do we go," he corrected. She looked up, confused. He smiled, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "No matter what, you're with me. If I don't watch over you, father's ghost will come back and murder me… and I'd deserve it. Where we go."
Sansa gave him one of her glittering smiles, one he rarely saw in her in their childhood. It felt… honestly wonderful. "We go, yes." She squeezed his hand before they broke apart… until her smile fell again. "You were really going to leave the North, Jon?" Sansa asked, her voice quiet and sad. "Leave the land you've grown up in?"
"Sansa…" He winced, not wanting to get into his days in the Watch — or Lyaella given their rather… difficult introduction earlier. "I have been released from my vows. Until you showed up… I had no place else to go. Frankly I don't see where I have to go even now, except to Meereen."
She snorted. "Truly? We have our own home, just sitting there far closer."
"And we just hope to ask the Bolton's to pack up and leave, Sansa?"
"Don't tell me that. We'll take it back from them just like our ancestors did."
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am one man. I don't have an army."
"Really?" Sansa clearly didn't believe him. "How many Wildlings did you save?"
"Sansa… they won't fight for me."
"You saved their lives, they owe you." She rose, setting her empty bowl on one of the tables. "And tell me how you think they'll fare with Roose Bolton as Warden of the North?" He remained silent, knowing she was right. "And even still, you're forgetting the most important matter of all. The dragon."
He held his face in his hands. "I don't have a dragon, Sansa."
"Yes, you do!"
"Sōnar is not my dragon. She is Lyaella's."
"Oh, the beast is a 'she' now, and has a name?" Jon suddenly rose, and Sansa seemed to catch the ire in his eyes and sighed. "Alright, forgive me for that — I called Lady a 'she,' so I shouldn't judge another animal companion."
"See that you don't." Jon rubbed his temple. "Lyaella… she's my charge. I promised her last living family up here that I would see to her safety, not use her and her dragon as my personal weapon on our enemies."
Sansa crossed her arms. "Yet you were willing to go to Meereen? To the woman whose father burned our grandfather alive and had our uncle strangled to death? Yes, Jon, I know what Targaryens can do. If what I heard in King's Landing is true, this woman is even more dangerous."
"Sansa—"
"Jon. You've been here at Castle Black since we left home. The Night's Watch isn't involved in politics. Did you ever seriously pay attention to any rumors you might have heard about Daenerys Targaryen? Beyond general curiosity or idle gossip?" He said nothing. Her brows furrowed, face turning to stone. "I'm a Northerner, Jon. Same as you. I listened to her stories, and I remember them now. She had her Dothraki horse lord husband killed by a witch. She killed someone of high importance in Qarth for gold. In Astapor, she set her dragons loose to get a slave army. She's conquered almost all of Slaver's Bay, and in Meereen—"
"I heard about Meereen," he cut in, voice stiff. "You've made your point—"
"Wait, you know about Meereen and you still…? Jon!" She exclaimed, flabbergasted. "All those noblemen — dead! After the city surrendered! She crucified them, Jon! Crucified!"
I know… gods, I know. He had played it over and over in his head, especially since getting no response from Cotter Pyke about the state of what Daenerys Targaryen wanted from him over Lyaella. "It will be different… I have her family, Sansa."
She fell silent, seeming to consider this. Leaning against the table, Sansa finally nodded. "Alright, we do have her family so she likely won't kill us. But ask yourself, what do we offer her?" He knit his brows in confusion. "We, you and I, a former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and Ned Stark's landless daughter. We offer her nothing and so we will have to pray for her to be a generous soul. No, I cannot trust that, not after what I've seen and what I've had to do!" She began to pace, lips set in determination. "I have no issue of potentially sending this girl back to her family, but not now. Not while we have nothing."
"Winterfell will not likely fall, Sansa."
"Winterfell is our home!" she shouted. "It's ours, and Arya's and Bran's and Rickon's, wherever they may be. It belongs to our family and we have to fight for it. That is our first responsibility, not as caretakers but to our family."
"So you're saying Lyaella matters not? I should shove her aside?"
"I'm not saying that…"
"'A Targaryen bastard.'" She fell silent as Jon looked intently at her. "'You've been hiding a Targaryen bastard here. After what they've done to our family?' Those were your words, Sansa. I made an oath to her and her uncle that I would protect her."
Sansa did not back down. She wasn't the scared little girl anymore, frightened of rats or birds. She looked a mixture of his father and her mother, unyielding. "And you will, Jon. But your family needs her to fight for you."
He held up his hands in exasperation. "I can't ask her to truly fight, Sansa. I can't, she's just a little girl. A girl! Barely Rickon's age, even. I'm twice her age and even I am tired of fighting, can you imagine what it must be like for her?" He shook his head tiredly before turning to the fire. "I made a mistake taking her to Hardhome. I thought it'd be safe for her to go, that the only danger would be for me meeting the Free Folk clan leaders… and I stupidly dragged her into the worst attack by the dead I've ever seen."
"Jon—"
"You didn't see her after that battle, Sansa. She was… She was just blank. Between everything that happened and then her dragon getting hurt? No. No, I won't ask that of her. She's already had to fight in a war that isn't her fight. I'm not doing that again."
She took a deep breath, blue eyes meeting his. Firm, but pleading. "A dragonrider in the North… you know the Boltons will come for her as they would come for you and me. We, her and the two of us both, will never be safe unless Winterfell is ours again." Sansa reached forward, gripping his arm affectionately. "I'm asking for your help, brother." Then she pulled it away. "But I'll do it myself if I have to." With that, she continued to stare at him. Waiting for an answer.
Jon realized in that moment that he had no answer to give… but his fate had been made up for him anyway.
"Why are you here, then?"
Jon jumped in his chair at the timid voice, as did Sansa from where she stood near the hearth. They spun around. Standing in the doorway was Lyaella, her stance stiff and on edge as she fisted the music box key and silver pendant of her Targaryen necklace so hard her hand was white. They'd been so engrossed in their conversation they hadn't heard her come in. She didn't look entirely sure whether she should enter, as she bit her lower lip while her eyes darted back and forth between himself and Sansa. She kept shuffling her feet too, as though debating whether to come in or turn and flee before either of them could stop her.
Sansa blinked repeatedly, now tense herself, but Jon swallowed and up. He hoped she hadn't heard too much of that. Considering how poorly he'd seen Lyaella react to dangerous situations like when he'd first met her in the Haunted Forest or when fighting the dead at Hardhome, the last thing he needed was for her to break down at the thought of standing against the Bolton's like Sansa wanted.
Forcing a tight smile, he strolled forward. "Ah, Lyaella. I didn't hear you knock."
"I… I didn't. S-Sorry…"
"You didn't?"
She shook her head, not offering anything further.
Chancing a quick glance back over his shoulder, he was relieved to see Sansa now wearing a relatively neutral, curious look. No trace of a kind smile to make Lyaella more at ease… but no cruel sneer to scare her away either. It was good enough for now.
His smile a tad more genuine, he turned back to Lyaella. "I think first impressions weren't all that great between you and my sister. How about a new first introduction, hm?"
Lyaella stiffened, but before she could dart away he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered her in, shutting the door behind her. She clutched her necklace and the music box key even tighter, the veins in her wrist all but popping from the strain. Even so, her gray eyes had finally stopped flicking about and settled firmly on Sansa. Jon couldn't read her expression, though. Her eyes were wide as though in fearful shock as she stared at his sister… but the rest of her face was unusually tight. Unlike her eyes and the rest of her body language that screamed her terror and uneasiness, Lyaella's face was strange. Part of it did seem like shock judging by how her throat bobbed and a muscle jumped nervously in her cheek, but her lips were pressed in a thin line he didn't understand.
She didn't breathe. She didn't speak. Beyond how he tugged her forward, she didn't move. And most unnerving at all, she didn't break her gaze from Sansa. She just kept staring at her unblinkingly.
Sansa was unnerved by her gaze and pointedly cleared her throat. Clasping her hands in front of her, she glanced around the room a bit as she collected herself and managed a polite smile. "Hello, again. I apologize for my discourteous reaction when we first met, Lady Snow."
Lyaella didn't answer.
"I intended no offense, I promise. I was simply… not expecting to meet you right then and was caught off guard. I truly hope I didn't offend you."
Still no response.
"I imagine you were surprised too, not knowing who I was and suddenly entered Castle Black, yet being happy to see Jon, who's promised to keep you safe."
Nothing.
"My… My Lord father taught myself and my siblings the value of oaths, and of honoring the bonds of family. If Jon vowed to protect you, then such a vow is binding to myself, as well. The wolf pack stands strong together, I promise." She smiled, a genuinely kind one as far as Jon could tell.
Lyaella still didn't reply. Her only reaction was to suddenly reach for his hand and squeeze his fingers so tightly Jon fought back a wince. Even so, she didn't spare him a glance. Her eyes were focused solely on Sansa, and Sansa alone.
Sansa's smile became rather fixed as she glanced at him uncertainly. Jon swallowed. He had no idea why Lyaella was staring at her like that or not responding. If she were just being shy and trying to hide behind him like she did that first day in the courtyard, he'd have a better idea how to ease her into responding. This… This was something new, and all he could think to do was squeeze back gently and give her a little shake. "Go on, say hello," he murmured.
The little girl went — if possible — even stiffer. There was a short pause, and then finally—
"Hello."
—she whirled around, silver curls giving her whiplash as she scurried to a rickety old stool in the back corner. She plopped down in the seat and sat with her back to them, staring pointedly at the aging wood of the wall corner.
This time, Jon matched Sansa's incredulity. "Lyaella?"
"You asked me to… to say 'hello.' I did."
"Aye, you did, but…"
"I'm a Northerner, Jon… and I remember the Red Wedding."
He blinked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa do the same. "What?"
"You… You're standing next to a woman who… who married into Houses that helped cause it. Forgive me, but it's hard to trust the words of someone who is both a Lannister and a Bolton… especially when the whole North learned that day that words are like the wind…"
A chill swept across the room. Sansa's smile abruptly vanished, her eyes going wide. Jon's mouth went dry. "Lyaella—"
"I told you before that Tory and I have two aunts and an uncle, Jon…" Lyaella continued, still staring into the corner. "But did I ever tell you that we had two other uncles we never met?"
He stared.
"My youngest uncle I'll tell you about another day, but my other uncle? He was supposedly the oldest of all of them. People say he was a fool like… like my father, but he was still a good person. And he cared about his family… Tory and I never got the chance to meet him though, because… because he was murdered at the Red Wedding…" Her words trailed off a bit, turning rather hollow. "Because of the Lannisters and Boltons…"
"Lya—"
"I'm… I'm sitting in a room with a woman who is of both Houses…"
"No… That's not—"
"Lannister-Bolton… Bolton-Lannister…"
Sansa snapped out of her shock at those words, her gray eyes narrowing harshly. "Don't you dare call me that!" She screeched, cheeks ruddy red. "I am nothing like them!"
Lyaella jumped but still didn't turn around. She just kept squeezing her dragon pendant and music box key tightly in her fist and clenched her black dress skirts in her other. "All right… Then would you prefer Lady Lanton or Lady Bolster?"
Sansa seemed to shake with fury, though Jon could see a certain stare behind her eyes — something similar he'd in Gilly and the other ladies of Craster's Keep as best he could relate. "You… You insolent—!"
"I cannot call you Lady Stark, since you married out of your birth House. I have to call you something, though. Lannister-Bolton and Bolton-Lannister don't flow well together… So do you prefer Lady Lanton or Lady Bolster?"
There was a tenseness in the air Jon didn't know how to break. He didn't understand why Lyaella was acting like this, but he couldn't admonish her about it because she wasn't exactly crossing the line,. Moreover, it wasn't like she wasn't stating anything that wasn't true… but he couldn't blame Sansa for how her lips pursed and shoulders quivered. What was he supposed to say?
"Do you not care at all which one it is?" Lyaella mused, still not turning around. "Very well, I'll pick. Hmm… Lady Lanton has a nice ring to it, but I think Lady Bolster's more appropriate all things considered."
"Just what is that supposed to mean?!"
"The word 'bolster' has two meanings. It can mean pillows and cushions and fine fabrics, but it also means strengthening and giving power to something." Pausing to let that sink in, Lyaella finally glanced back over her shoulder, her face unusually solemn and serious. "From the little I've seen already, 'Bolster' is the perfect name for you. You arrived… what? Three hours ago? You spent that long just taking a bath? And I heard you just now talking to Jon, all but demanding he ignore me just so you can have your castle back? Oh, that reminds me, you never answered my question."
"Question? What question?"
"What I asked when I first came in: 'Why are you here?'"
Sansa still seemed miffed, but she blinked, confused.
Lyaella wasn't fazed. "You disappeared from King's Landing… What, two years ago? Three? I don't remember, but I know it was definitely more than a year ago, yes?" Sansa just looked thoroughly confused. "I can understand you staying in King's Landing after your father was executed. You had no choice in that, and I get it… what I don't get is why you still married into the Lannister's only to run from them later."
"That… That situation was…"
"Lyaella, she was a child and a hostage…" Jon tried to speak, defending her.
"Yes, I've factored that and it makes sense for all but the marriage. I would've understood running away if you'd done it sooner, before that happened. Still, after you ran you could've gone anywhere. A few months delay getting here to Castle Black to find Jon I'd understand… but instead you disappear for years only to arrive now. As the runaway wife of a Bolton after the Red Wedding. And instead of just appreciating being with him again or asking to come with us to find Daenerys Targaryen, you're demanding he helps you just to get Winterfell back? You already had your castle back, yes? Your highborn life? You married another man who could give you that… but you don't like that he has the power in the North and you don't."
Sansa gaped at her, unable to speak. Her face both shocked and… ashen.
"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" Lyaella accused, suddenly standing. "You're not here for Jon at all, are you? You're here because even though your birth name is 'Stark' you're still a woman who's married two enemies to her House. You know the Northern lords won't rally around you alone… So you need him" —she paused, nodding to him— "to do the rallying for you. Isn't that right?"
"Lyaella!" Jon shot, moved to anger himself now. "That's enough! Apologize! Right now!"
Lyaella flinched, but held her ground. "I do apologize. I apologize for saying all that in front of you, Jon. You're a good person. One of the best people I've ever met… but I won't apologize for being honest about this. Especially not when your sister isn't even trying to deny what I said."
Jon tensed at that, chancing a quick glance over his shoulder. Sansa looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon, her throat bobbing repeatedly and her face pale white.
"So indeed, the name 'Lady Bolster' suits you perfectly. You want a cushiony highborn life and all the power you can get out of it for yourself. You want to bolster yourself up to the highest heights you can… And I think it's terrible of you to use your brother as a stepping stone in your endeavors, Lady Bolster. That's exactly what my cruelest aunt did to my father before tossing him aside. You're just as cruel as she will always be."
And with that, Lyaella gathered her dress skirts, curtsied politely, and marched out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing not to follow. Not now, while her blood was up — Lyaella had been so scared and shy, but his death seemed to have awoken the dragon in her. Instead he turned to his sister. "Sansa, forgive her for she's but a child…"
Tears trickled down Sansa's cheeks, marring them red. "I… I just can't, Jon… Please… just leave me." She shook, eyes scrunched shut and leaning against the wall. As if her legs couldn't hold. "I can't be weak… I can't be weak…"
Approaching her, Jon pulled her close and kissed her forehead. Feeling her accept the gesture before finally pulling back. "I will be close by if you need anything — you are safe here no matter what happened. I know it wasn't your choice or your fault." Behind him he shut the door, only to hear a half-scream, half-sob through the thick wood.
"Goat bones?"
"Ram."
"They're charred black. Did our friend get him?"
"Pfft! Well of course he did, Old Boldy! What else could melt a ram's horns?"
There was a threatening snarl, followed by a furious bark.
"Argh! Fine, mutt! I'll keep my wittiness to myself!"
Jorah chuckled as the appeased direwolf slowly calmed himself. Shaking his head, he rose from his crouch and mounted his horse again. "We're definitely on the right path. We'll find a trace of the queen and the prince somewhere around here…"
Daario and Barristan nodded, and with a quick whistle from the queensguard to Shadow who was still eying Daario warningly, the trio all kicked their heels and set off at a leisurely trot atop their steeds across the grassy plateau, all of them keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of Daenerys or Torrhen.
"You think they're nearby, Mormont?" Barristan asked. "Were those bones recent, by chance?"
Jorah shrugged. "Probably a week old, but for all we know they could've moved on right away. I couldn't say."
Daario scoffed. "I say our queen's tired of actually being queen and has flown off. I don't think she likes it very much."
Barristan scowled. "She cares for the people of Meereen. She wouldn't just abandon them out of nowhere."
"Aye, and she's too smart to like it," Jorah agreed. "She knows what comes from being fond of too much power."
"Then perhaps she's flown far away. Somewhere she can escape men who want her like the Andal and me."
"I've traveled the world, Naharis. There's no escaping men like us."
"And there's no escaping her, is there?" He didn't answer. "You keep coming back. Why?"
Jorah sighed. "For her, you both know why."
Barristan scowled. "If you're still holding onto hope that anything will happen between you and our queen—"
"I'm not, Ser Barristan. I know perfectly well she will never share my feelings. All because of that boy. I will continue coming back to her for him. He is the future of her House."
Daario snorted. "Ah, yes. The little prince… All hail Prince Torrhen Snow of House Targaryen," he mocked, rolling his eyes. "No, King Torrhen Snow of House Targaryen, First of his Name. Screamer of Profanities, Starer into Blankness, and Friend of Mangy Mutts."
A vicious snarl erupted from Shadow as he lunged forward, snapping his jaws warningly at Daario's horse. The horse whinnied in terror and abruptly reared back.
"Oy! Oy, stop! Stop that!" The sellsword panicked, trying to calm his spooked steed. It was still on edge, but insisted on trotting ahead a few paces ahead of Shadow and the others. Daario grumbled but let it slide, only bothering to shoot the wolf a dirty look over his shoulder as he took the lead.
Jorah weakly chuckled, but a sudden twinge in his arm distracted him, and his thoughts shifted all at once. Sparing one last glance ahead to ensure the arrogant sellsword wasn't watching, he sighed and carefully rolled back his left sleeve. It was spreading again, the disease-ridden mark. His forearm was almost completely covered with the hard, crackling grayness. It was only a matter of time before it spread to his upper arm. Then to his shoulders. His back. Chest. His whole body. And when that happened…
"Mormont."
He tensed and looked up. Barristan was trotting alongside him, his eyes fixated on his exposed arm. He swallowed and covered his arm again.
For a long moment, Barristan said nothing. He just stared pointedly at his arm, brows deeply furrowed. Then his eyes flicked to Daario before meeting his gaze and jerking his head. Jorah nodded and pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse.
Silence lingered between them for several moments, and then— "What happened?"
Jorah sighed. "Long story short, I sailed through Old Valyria to save time when bringing the dwarf to our queen. The Stone Men attacked us. They nearly touched him… but I blocked them at the last second."
Barristan's eyes widened. "You willingly let yourself be infected?"
"He's more important than I am to our queen, and by extension the prince, too. Don't hold it against the imp. There was so much confusion going on he didn't realize what happened… I just wish I'd gotten the chance to ask Torrhen if I was lucky enough to survive this in his world. And if so, how and when I did."
The old knight was quiet for a few moments as he absorbed this, then a new glint appeared in his eyes. If Jorah didn't know better, he almost thought it looked like respect. "I still don't like how you sold our queen's secrets to her enemies, Ser Jorah, but perhaps I was too hasty to judge you for it. The fact you're here looking for her and Torrhen right now instead of searching for a cure for yourself…" He paused, shaking his head. "You truly do want to serve them, don't you?"
He smiled heavily. "Aye, I do. If nothing else, I will die to protect them before the disease can off me…"
"Perhaps it won't." Pausing to glance ahead at Daario again, Barristan lowered his voice. "Torrhen admitted you died in his world, but not for a few years from now… and that you died protecting her grace, himself, and his sister. Not from greyscale."
Jorah blinked. "Oh!" He murmured, his mind snapping back to the conversation in the cellblock. "I — I forgot about that. I haven't really had the chance to think about… Well, anything he told us before…"
Barristan chortled. "Indeed. Between the trial-by-combat right after we talked with him and then the Harpies right after that… I only just remembered everything, too."
He nodded. It had been nothing but chaos that day, each bad disaster following the last one. Still, his fellow knight was right. Torrhen did tell them he survived longer than Barristan in his world. If only he could've given them more specific details though. Knowing more would make things a lot more bearable.
Urging his horse to avoid a few boulders, Jorah ran through the conversation in the prison cells in his head again… and then blinked in realization. "He told us more than he thought he did."
Barristan turned to him. "Pardon?"
"Torrhen. He was trying to be evasive with us. We both know that. But we never got a chance until now to talk about what he told us. Some things he told us don't make sense, and other things he was trying to be cryptic on he didn't do very well."
The older knight frowned. "I'm not following you. What do you mean exactly?"
Jorah sighed. "Well, before he told us we were gone, Torrhen said his and his sister's birth somehow contributed to Daenerys turning to madness. That right there doesn't make sense, Ser Barristan. I know I've been away from her for a while now, but I was with her long before you found us in Astapor. The khaleesi would do anything to have children."
"Hmm, you do have a point. She's the last trueborn Targaryen left in the world, and she's still ignorant of Jon Snow's true parentage. She needs children of her own to revive her House."
Jorah slowly nodded and let the matter drop. It wasn't his place to tell people about Rhaego, after all. "Torrhen also mentioned how one of us had a role of some sort the day he and his twin sister were born. But then he told us how you apparently died back in Meereen, Ser Barristan. During a riot, he said?"
Barristan jerked. "Yes, you're right. The one he interfered in the day I met him."
"I doubt he realized how much he told us right then, but that means whatever role he was speaking of, it was me that had it. Somehow, I was involved in something of great importance the day Daenerys gave birth."
Barristan fell quiet, furrowing his brows as he thought this over. "I'm not sure what you could've been doing at the time, but you're probably right Ser Jorah. We'll have to question him more about that later."
"Agreed."
"That being said, Torrhen did say your death was one of many series of events that made her grace spiral into her father's madness…"
"I don't take Torrhen to be a liar, but I still don't understand that part. I can't see that happening to the khaleesi. She's good. Unequivocally good."
"Neither can I… but he also told us how she lost almost her whole army in Westeros during a fight that apparently had nothing to do with her war for the Iron Throne. And that it's critical for her to not avoid that fight in this new timeline…" Barristan shook his head, utterly muddled. "I can't make sense of that, either. If Torrhen isn't wrong about such a horrible fight being a contributing factor for the queen's eventual downfall, then why advise us to not keep her away from that battle?"
Jorah rubbed his chin, his mind whirling through all his previous meetings with Torrhen. If they couldn't figure this out from that particular discussion, then perhaps the answer lied in something else the boy told them before they were aware of his future origins. It took him a few moments, but then a thought occurred to him. "The dead!"
"Hmm?"
"The army of the dead! Do you remember when I was speculating how I think Torrhen is a greenseer? He was insisting about the army of the dead being real. What if he was so adamant about that because…?"
Barristan scoffed. "I know you're both Northerners, Ser Jorah. The story about the Long Night is just a story. Even if white walkers existed thousands of years ago, they're gone now. I think Torrhen was just being a little too excited about Northern fables in that instance."
Jorah frowned. "If he hadn't convinced us he's really from the future, Ser Barristan, I'd agree with you. But the fact he is makes me think otherwise."
"Ser Jorah—"
"That boy's top priority is making sure our queen is smarter in this timeline so she will get the Iron Throne. And remember, he mentioned all this stuff about the dead before he was being wary of revealing too much about the future too soon to us. We didn't know he was from the future yet when he was talking about that. And — And then there's what Tyrion told me while on the road."
"Tyrion?"
"Aye. My father took the black after I fled Westeros, and he ended up becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Tyrion… he told me how King's Landing received news about him being murdered in a mutiny whilst leading an expedition beyond the Wall."
"My condolences for your loss, Ser Jorah."
"Thank you, I appreciate it. Still, if I hadn't heard about his death, I wouldn't be wondering this all that much. But considering he was killed beyond the Wall for a mission of some sort… don't you think it's possible if Torrhen's right, my father could've been investigating rumors about the dead? If that's true, then there's probably a great deal happening back in the North right now then we realize since we've been here in Essos all this time." Pausing to catch his breath, Jorah's heart clenched as he continued. "And it also explains how the khaleesi met Torrhen's father."
Barristan jerked so hard, his horse whinnied, startled. "Pardon me?"
"Torrhen told us that somehow, his future father became the King of the North. I've no idea how that could've happened since he's part of the Night's Watch and its vows are for life, but the Watch serves to keep out Wildlings and to supposedly keep guard in case the white walkers ever return. He'd know better than anyone if those monsters are back… and he'd be the one asking people like our queen for help in protecting the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."
There was a long pause as the older knight considered this.
"There's also what Torrhen said about her dragons dying," Jorah went on. "He told us Rhaegal died during the war for the Iron Throne. I don't remember what he might've said about Drogon, but Viserion? Viserion's death he wouldn't give details on. Why? Her dragons will be her greatest assets when she finally sails for Westeros. If something's going to happen to her dragons, why wouldn't he tell us exactly what so we can prevent it? Not unless it was something he couldn't give us details on yet because he knew we wouldn't fully believe what he was saying."
"…Well, I'm still not saying I believe in any tales of ice monsters and walking dead men. However, I'll admit your theory has merit at least on how her grace could've met the future King of the North and on something unimaginable happening to Viserion. I'll keep it in mind."
"Good. That's good."
"In any event, there's nothing either of us can do right now if there are dead men walking about in the North again. What we should be focusing on right now is possibly seeking other allies with all this."
It was Jorah's turn to be puzzled now. "Other allies?"
Barristan nodded. "My squire's told only us who he is and where he came from, Ser Jorah. I'm glad he trusts me with this, and seeing how loyal you are to him and our queen, he was smart enough to know he could trust you, too… but he's only trusted us so far. And the problem there lies in the fact that if he wants things to change, we're going to need at least one more ally in the queen's inner circle to be aware of what happened in his world so we can ensure things change for the better in the world he's trying to create. We need another ally."
Jorah blinked. He hadn't even considered that aspect yet, but now that it was in his head, he was forced to admit Barristan was right. His eyes unconsciously flicked towards the sellsword up ahead before focusing back to the older knight. "Who, though? Surely you don't think we should trust Daario of all people, do you?"
Barristan immediately shook his head. "Certainly not. Torrhen wouldn't never consider it. Between his anger management issues and that man's arrogance and rude teasing, trusting him with this secret is a recipe for disaster."
Jorah relaxed. "All right. Hizdahr wouldn't be very useful for her future success in Westeros, so I really don't see any point in talking to him… Varys would be useful, though. He's served many rulers. Having his input would be—"
"—another recipe for disaster. Trusting him would be the stupidest thing we could do, Ser Jorah."
"What?"
"You just said he's served many rulers, and I've watched him over the years while in King's Landing. First he served our queen's father. Then Robert Baratheon. Then the Lannister's. And now he's here for our queen? Were it not for the fact Torrhen's missing too and I have a duty to find her grace and my squire, I would've never left Varys alone in the queen's city. His loyalties change far too often for my taste, and that alone makes him untrustworthy with this secret."
Jorah considered this, then ultimately nodded. "Aye, you're right. I hadn't thought of that."
"If anything, we should consider talking to that representative from the Golden Company."
"No. Absolutely not."
"But Ser Jorah, Torrhen mentioned before you came back he was interested in potentially getting in contact with the Golden Company. He thought they'd be a better sellsword army for our queen as opposed to the Second Sons, at least in terms of being honorable. Surely we could—"
"Ser Barristan, you might have a better read out on what Varys is like, but I served in the Golden Company for a time whilst in exile. I don't know what could've possessed that boy to think the Golden Company would be a good choice for an army for the khaleesi, but we should count ourselves lucky that out of all the sellswords they could've sent, they sent the one man who's interested in supporting both Torrhen and Daenerys." Jorah paused, shaking his head absently as he turned away. "Had Strickland himself come…"
Barristan frowned. "Strickland?"
"Harry Strickland, the newest commander of the company. I never spoke to him much before I left, but I do know he's a Blackfyre supporter rather than a Targaryen loyalist. The fact he sent an emissary here who loyal to both sides had to be a mistake on his part. He'd never risk contacting Torrhen here in the queen's court if he was aware that Torrhen himself isn't actually interested in being like other Blackfyre's and staking his own claim for the throne. Not with the Golden Company's heirloom on the line."
"Heirloom?"
"Long story. One I don't want to get into right now. What about Tyrion? He's well-versed in politics, and we could use the insight of someone who understands Westerosi court games if we're to change things for the better."
"Hmm," Barristan's brows creased as he thought it over. "He's a definite possibility. We do need someone with political insight on our side."
"Aye. Far as I could tell, Torrhen doesn't appear to be against him."
Barristan started to nod, but then he abruptly stopped, a frown spreading across his face. "No, he didn't… but he didn't say anything about him either, did he?"
Jorah cocked his head, confused.
"Torrhen never told us anything regarding the dwarf. Not even if he's still alive in his timeline or not. If he is still alive, then what was his role in the queen's downfall? Did he help orchestrate it? Was he an innocent bystander? He's still a Lannister, Ser Jorah. You brought him here as a gift of your loyalty, but he admitted to you he was already on his way to meet our queen because he's allying against his sister, yes?"
"Aye. Aye, he did."
"Then he's here mainly out of hatred for Cersei rather than respect for Daenerys being the rightful heir. We can't consider him trusting him. Not until we ask Torrhen what happened with the imp in his world."
Jorah sighed. As much as he didn't like it, Barristan was correct. Seven hells, he hoped he hadn't brought Daenerys a potential traitor as a gift of his loyalty. "Then that leaves only two possible allies left. Grey Worm and Missandei."
"I see no harm in trusting either of them with this secret. Both of them would rather die themselves than see anything happen to our queen."
"Agreed. Grey Worm is the commander of the Unsullied. Having his input would be invaluable in terms of planning her eventual conquest for the throne. And Missandei might not know much about Westeros, but she does understand politics and is the queen's most trusted companion. If we were to trust her, she'd be a great asset to changing things."
"But there's still one problem," Barristan sighed. "The fact that Torrhen hates Grey Worm and that Missandei is in love with him. He'd never consider this…"
Jorah ran a hand over his face and slumped his shoulders. "What is that boy's problem with Grey Worm? I get why he hates Daario. That man is always antagonizing him. But Grey Worm? Far as I could tell, the man's hardly ever spoken to him."
Barristan shook his head. "I'm as lost as you are. If anything, I'm confused why he doesn't show him proper gratitude and respect. Not only is Grey Worm one of Daenerys' most faithful supporters, he saved Torrhen's life during that riot. He brought Torrhen to the council chambers to first meet her when he got lost. I even tried forcing Torrhen to get used to him by having the man verbally instruct him in spear fighting lessons. Nothing has changed. Torrhen doesn't explode at him the same way he does with Daario… but he just hates him. I have no idea why…"
"Wonderful… And Missandei?"
"He seems to like her well enough. He appreciates her lessons on High Valyrian and knows his manners around her… at least until Grey Worm walks into the room and they start talking."
Jorah's mind was a mess. It didn't make sense. None of it did. "We'll have to pull Torrhen aside whenever we find him and the khaleesi. Get him to explain this to us. If he could let go of that hatred and we convince him that Grey Worm's a good person, then we could easily talk him into trusting him and Missandei."
"Maybe not both of them. It's too risky spreading the truth to too many people. But if we could get Torrhen to see that trusting at least one of them is a good idea, it'd definitely be worth it."
"Aye, it would."
"Oy! You two geezers done whispering back there? Mind sharing with me and the mutt what you're talking about?"
Jorah's head snapped forward. He'd been so caught up in the discussion, he hadn't realized Daario had slowed his horse and was now only a few feet ahead of them. Seven hells, he hoped the sellsword hadn't been listening to them.
Barristan straightened and lifted his chin. "Just musing over the queen and the prince, Captain Naharis. Nothing more."
"Bullshit. You two have secrets, don't you? About that boy?"
"Whether we do or not is none of your concern, Captain Naharis. I'm strict with my squire, but I still treat him with respect, and Ser Jorah here helped when no one else in the city would, including you. It's your own fault if Torrhen chooses to trust us rather than you considering how you've treated him."
"Listen, old man—!"
"Quiet, both of you."
"Ser Jorah—"
"Fuck you, Andal—"
"Look."
The urgency in his tone shut them up, and Daario and Barristan immediately turned to where he pointed. A short ways ahead, the plateau dipped down somewhat to a small hill. And the greenery was almost entirely stamped out into flattened dirt. Unnaturally flattened dirt, judging by the almost perfect circular shape of it all.
Without a word, the trio snapped their reins and set off towards the site to investigate. The closer they got, the more evident it was as to what had caused this strange occurrence. Hoof prints. At least a week or so old at this point, but definitely hoof prints. Hundreds of them by the look of it.
"What happened here?" Daario murmured as they dismounted their horses. "Was it an army?"
"No. Gods, no." Barristan remarked. "I might not be too familiar with how Essosi armies march, but I'm still a military man. No army in the world would swarm in a giant circle like this. See the tracks, here? They start out wide at this point, but circle in closer and closer to the center. The exact center. Had this been a full out battle, there'd be evidence of the circle breaking up as a battle waged."
"Aye, you're right. There was no battle here. This was a horde," said Jorah. "By the Dothraki."
"How can you tell?"
"I traveled with them for a time with the khaleesi, Naharis. I know their language and the basics in how they hunt and capture prey. This was definitely them."
Barristan tensed. "And what exactly did they capture here? Wild animals, or…?"
Jorah swallowed and approached the center of the ring. It took him a few moments, but then he spied a glint of something shiny in the flattened grass. His mouth went dry as he fished it out, and without a word he held it up for the others to see.
Daario scowled. Barristan sucked in a sharp breath. Shadow whined.
It was a ring. A silver ring inlaid with two intertwining pearls. The ring that once belonged to Daenerys' mother.
"They have her," Jorah murmured. "They must've found her and Torrhen wandering alone out here and took them."
"Well, shit," said Daario, sighing heavily. "This retrieval mission just got a hell of a lot harder."
"I agree," Barristan murmured. "The Dothraki are wanderers. They raid whatever pleases them, but they never stay in one place. They could've taken our queen and the prince anywhere."
"No, I know where they're going."
Daario and Barristan stared at him, mystified.
"When Khal Drogo died, Daenerys was supposed to go Vaes Dothrak, the one main Dothraki city in the Great Grass Plains. To live the rest of her life in the Dosh Khaleen with the khal widows. They'll take her there. Rescuing her won't be easy, but they won't hurt her. Khal widows don't have power, but it's forbidden to harm them. We can save her."
"That's good to hear, but what about Torrhen?" Barristan pressed. "What would they have done with him?"
Jorah froze. "I… I don't know."
Daario snorted. "What, you don't think they brought him there too, did you? Or did they slit his throat right here for mouthing off?"
Jorah's blood ran cold, and quick as a flash he started scouring the grass, searching for any signs of blood or a struggle.
Daario blinked at his abrupt change, but Barristan was immediately alarmed. "Is Captain Naharis correct, Ser Jorah? Would the Dothraki really do that to him?"
"I… I don't know. If he was a girl, he probably would've been given to a khal looking for a wife and raped repeatedly or just been raped by lots of them back to back before killing him when they were through with him."
For once, even Daario had the decency to be startled. "Seriously? Even if he were a girl, he's not even of age yet."
"Doesn't matter. The Dothraki will take any girl they can. Age doesn't matter. Just fertility, or in that case, eventual fertility."
"Guess we should be glad he's a boy, then… But still, what's going to happen to him?"
"It's because he's such a young boy I don't know… If — If he were a little older right now, there's two ways this would go. One, he'd be seen as a threat depending how skilled he is with a blade, and they'd probably overwhelm him in numbers to kill him off. Or two, they'd be beat him to a pulp to break him down, then strip him of any weapons he might have to force him into their own personal slave… I never saw them take a boy as young as him while I was with the khaleesi. I don't know what they'll do to him…"
"You're only considering whether or not the Dothraki even keep him. You've said before they're greedy. Would they have sold him off somewhere?" Barristan demanded. "Gender aside, brothel would love a child his age. The younger the better to break the spirit. And what about the Masters? Daenerys might be safe under their laws, but would they sell him off to her enemies for gold?"
The blood drained from his face. Seven fucking hells, that was a definite possibility… Before Jorah could organize his thoughts though, Shadow trotted forward, intently sniffing at a particular area of the grass.
Jorah blinked at the action and Barristan cocked his head. Daario however rolled his eyes. "Oy, mutt! Stop mucking up the scene!"
Shadow ignored him and kept sniffing. Then out of nowhere he approached Jorah and sniffed at the ring. Jorah was startled, but let the wolf do as he pleased. He circled the grass again and smelled the ground before lifting his head, red eyes all alight. Wagging his tail, he turned and set off at a brisk trot towards the far off mountains, stopping when he realized they weren't following. He whined, butting his head against the air as though urging them to follow.
Barristan gasped. "I think that wolf has Torrhen's trail, or Daenerys', at least! Ser Jorah, is Vaes Dothrak that way?"
"Aye, I think so."
"Then there's a chance the Dothraki took Torrhen with them. With any luck, our queen and the prince are both alive and together in the Dothraki capitol."
"Seriously? You're going to put your faith of whether or not that stupid boy is still alive on the fact his wolf wants us to follow it?"
"Do you have a better idea, Captain Naharis? Do you have a valid reason why we shouldn't trust Shadow's judgment when it's his master he's searching for?"
"Well… no."
"Then let's go. If this wolf is right and it turns out our queen and my squire are both alive and well at Vaes Dothrak, then we should be counting our blessings we brought this wolf with us on this mission."
"This is the city of the Dothraki?"
Chuckling at Torrhen's shock, Daenerys nodded. "Aye, this is it. What it lacks for in opulence it does make up for in being out of place." Certainly true words. Out of nothing but barren plains and mountains sprouted the massive rearing stallions, overlooking a great hub of permanent buildings and transient ones marking a horde on the march - or several, given the constant fracturing and reforming of the great khalasar. "All Dothraki in the world can fit in this place if need be, and comfortably."
Torrhen, looking around as if he had lived in a cell for most of his life - tragically, making Dany's heart ache for him, that was quite the truth - cleared his throat. "You were once their Queen, no?"
"I was, a long time ago."
"Then can we talk to someone and get out of here?"
She shook her head. "We're lucky we're not bound like before." Holding up her wrists to show Torrhen, he quieted down, dejection on his face. "But we'll be fine, I promise," she commented reassuringly.
"Doesn't look much like it." He looked up at her, nuzzling her side even as they both walked. "I finally have your love and we're stuck here, prisoners."
"Listen to me," she insisted. "I will ensure our safety. I promise - never doubt the promise of a dragon and a woman that loves you as a son."
Those words seemed to strike him deeper than any other. "As a son." In spite of the fact they were prisoners, the biggest of smiles she'd ever seen upon him formed on his face.
Only for it to be dashed as one of the mounted guards behind kicked her in the back. "Move your asses, silver Khaleesi." She glared over her shoulder but complied, listening to their laughs in a seething silence.
One large building loomed ahead, larger than anything but the central meeting house and one she didn't remember much of the last time she was in Vaes Dothrak. However, several bloodriders stood before it and as soon as she approached, they advanced on her. "You two, take the boy where the Khal wants him. We'll handle the bitch."
Immediately two seized Torrhen and yanked him out of her arms. "No!" he screeched. "Let me go!" Thrashing around, he managed to bite the arm of one of his captors.
"Ah… tough little whelp." Torrhen was restrained tighter. "Better keep that for later."
"Where are you taking him?! He comes with me!" Daenerys demanded, only to be led away from Torrhen. "Torrhen!"
"Queen Daenerys! Mother! Mother!" Her heart broke, knowing in that moment the depth of what Torrhen actually felt for her.
Everything they've been through leading to this moment, ripped away. "I'll kill you all!" she screamed.
"Shut up!" Doors to the large building opened, they shoved her in, denying one last glimpse of Torrhen as the doors shut.
The building had a single chamber, lit by a large fire that opened up into a central hole in the roof. What had to be a dozen women occupied it, led by an older one with dark hair but a wrinkled face and sunken eyes. Snapping her fingers, the other girls - most young but some older - began to reach for Daenerys. "Stop!" They didn't, stripping off her dress and jewelry before handing her a proper Dothraki garment. Wishing not to be nude, she hastily donned it, glaring as she did so. "I am Daenerys Stormborn, wife of the Great Khal! You do not dare touch me…"
"But I know who you are," the old woman said, the lines of her face deepening as she grinned — the smile not reaching her worn, sunken eyes. "You ate the stallion's heart right in front of me. In front of most of us, given how we were brought out by your husband to witness. Your then husband, and my son."
Daenerys' eyes widened slightly. "You are Drogo's mother?"
She nodded. "The wife of the late Khal Barbo, his father. He promised that he would conquer the world and bring it to heel for me, much as Drogo did for you. Alas, neither did, and my son died because of your naive idealism."
Wanting to respond, feeling the need to respond… ultimately Daenerys couldn't. The woman, Drogo's mother, was right. She'd caused Drogo's death by wishing to spare Mirri Maz Duur from the fate of slavery, only for the witch to cast a curse on her and in doing so condemn Drogo to a fate worse than death.
Not to mention Rhaego, her son. A death whose consequences had led even to Torrhen. How much could I have helped his suffering had I simply chosen to believe him from the start? Or sooner? A burden she would have to bear.
"If I look back, I am lost," she murmured to herself in Dothraki, not surprised in how she picked up the language so quickly after so long as Queen rather than Khaleesi. Sensing the confused looks of most of the Khaleesis, she continued. "Drogo is dead, that I know. Whether the witch that killed him would've done so regardless of my naivete is unknown, but in the end he is dead and there is nothing I can do but pick up his mantle."
A snort came from somewhere in the crowd of young women. "You were supposed to come here, Daenerys Stormborn!" Others nodded approval. "It is the ancient law, all widows are to return to live among the Dosh Khaleen."
"But I am not Dothraki." Daenerys, dressed in grimy leathers that she was, nevertheless stood tall among the others. "I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, rightful Queen of Westeros and the last dragonrider. Walked have I into the fires and emerged with dragons, so long gone from this world. I am destined to reclaim the throne of my ancestors, and pass it after my death to my heir — Torrhen Snow of House Targaryen."
Whether Torrhen would accept was still debatable, but Daenerys knew she could sway him. No longer was there a blackness she couldn't address at the end of her reign. A gaping chasm of chaos and likely civil war that would come about when she died childless upon the Iron Throne. Torrhen was there, a boy with the dragonblood in him even though his bonded dragon had died long ago.
Her family and legacy would live on.
Such grand thoughts died upon the laughter of Drogo's mother. Clapping her hands. "Marvelous… marvelous. I almost believed you for a moment there, Khaleesi Daenerys." The words sounded mocking and sarcastic, but there was a bit of sadness in them. "But I'm afraid you will not have the luxury of reclaiming whatever you did gain on your own."
She arched her brow. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Our law provides absolute security for the widow of a Khal. Preserved here, free from death or rape. Given every need and even allowed to ride and accompany the khalasar on their activities. We may even choose lovers from among ourselves if loneliness strikes us." Just as she said, Daenerys noticed some of the young and old women standing closer to one another than platonic friendship would suggest. "But you did not come here upon Drogo's death. You chose to strike it out on your own, which means such protections are gone."
Ice started to form in Daenerys' veins. "So I am to die, or be raped?"
A shrug. "You could be… or sold off… or be put here. It is really up to the council of Khals, called together to decide which cities to sack, which towns to enslave… what to do with the silver-haired Khaleesi who calls herself a Queen." The next words truly tested Daenerys' strength. "What to do with the boy that accompanied her."
Anger blazed in her eyes, a useful mask to hide her fear. "Torrhen is my family, my heir… if you kill him…"
"You shall burn us down? With what?" A chuckle. "But he is not dead… at least not for now."
The thought of losing Torrhen just when she finally allowed herself to love him… "Where is he?"
Another sad smile. "My supposition, he is being placed in the creche with the other boys his age. I would better pray to whatever gods you hold that he is strong enough to endure."
Daenerys wished she could still hold Torrhen in her arms, protecting him. But that was impossible. Feeling close to falling to her knees and crying, she wouldn't allow any of the Dothraki to see her do that, so instead she simply walked to a dark corner and sat. Nary a sound leaving her lips.
"Put me down!" Torrhen snarled, thrashing about as the Dothraki screamers simply carried him through Vaes Dothrak. Hoisting him up and watching his legs dangle as they were lifted off the ground. They laughed at it at first. Then he kicked one in the stones, felling him with a loud cry. Now his legs were bound with thick rope. "Put me down or I'll kill you all! Sacred rule or not!"
"Try and we kill you. Rule is no blood spilt in city. We kill you in way that abides law," said one of Khal Moro's bloodriders, having taken temporary charge of him. His Common Tongue was atrocious, but Torrhen understood it.
His head whipped around, glaring daggers at the Dothraki warrior. "You think you savages scare me?! I've lived a life of true torture! With sadists that would make you cry for mercy! Go to the Seven Hells and piss on your mothers while there!"
Spit flew from his snarling mouth, enough to make the bloodrider smack him upside the cheek. "Shut up… perhaps you live longer where you going that way."
The slap stung, stung badly as hot tears welled in his eyes, but Torrhen would not break. He didn't break for his aunts and uncle, he didn't break for the boys that so tormented him, he didn't break for the guards and servants that left him and Lyaella near praying for death. I will not break, I will not break.
I will be strong for mother. He had his mother, he had his purpose. Torrhen would save her and find Lyaella, that was all that mattered to him.
"You here." It was a long tent, rectangular in nature like a loaf of bread, a fire burning inside. "Enjoy, you be man or you die." Laughing, the bloodrider opened the door and watched in amusement as Torrhen was simply tossed in. Grunting in pain as he collapsed onto the dusty ground, the tent folds flapping shut behind him.
"Look at this wimp." Torrhen knew no Dothraki, but whatever that meant wasn't good given the tone. He looked up and found his childhood flashing before his eyes in real time. A group of boys his own age, watching him with sneers. "Barely even a muscle. Probably lived with his mother till now."
"Probably suckled her teat til' now," another called out in that same nonsensical babble that was the Dothraki language in his mind. "And not the good way."
"He looks like he never had a woman."
He had no idea what they were actually saying, but those taunts… the same dismissive tone and mocking laughs, looks of derision and disgust had been his entire youth. Some directed at him and some at Lyaella, to which Torrhen couldn't remember which was worse. They would surround him, pelting the both of them with snowballs or clods of dirt and calling them mad Targaryens. Lyaella would cry and curl into a ball while he would throw himself in front of her, shielding her from the abuse. In his younger years he'd charge at whoever tried for the day, swinging whatever came in handy. It never worked, for they mobbed him, hitting and kicking while the Stark guards merely laughed and assaulted him with insults — and then later dismissed whatever inquiries the Bitch of the North would only once in a while have about the bruises by pointing out he threw the first punches.
He did so to save Lyaella, protect her from their words while he could take their hits, but that'd never been good enough for Queen Sansa. Hearing him resort to violence resulted getting smacked about by the serving woman to teach him proper respect. It'd worked… to a certain degree. He learned to not be so quick to throw punches when he lost his temper — at least not unless it was in justifiable self-defense should someone else try hitting him or Lyaella first. Instead, that was how he learned to smart off and scream profanities at everyone. Fight with his tongue rather than his fists. Still, something told Torrhen that these Dothraki boys wouldn't be as easily to fend off with his words as Northern children were. Dothraki were raiders, born warriors. And now that he was here… Why was he here, anyway? Why did those bloodriders shove him in here with these boys?
"Oy, you!" Torrhen snapped, fixing a glare on the closest one in the bunch. "What's going on? Who are you lot?"
His words drew cruel chuckles from them all.
"I asked you a question! Where am I and who are you?!"
The oldest boy amongst them smirked and cracked his knuckles. Unlike the older Dothraki bloodriders, his head was close-cropped… all of them were. "Hold him down. First one to restrain him up gets first shot on our next hunt."
Quick as a flash, the other boys whooped and swarmed him all at once. Torrhen yelped and tried to throw a few punches in self-defense, but there were just too many of them and less than a minute later he found himself struggling profoundly as another older boy physically pinned his arms behind his back while two younger boys kept firm hold on his legs to keep him from kicking.
Torrhen snarled. "Fuck you, assholes! Just wait! When Queen Daenerys gets free, she's gonna—!"
The rest of his scream was lost as the ringleaders fist slammed into his cheek. Stars filled his vision, his ears ringing as the others cheered. Before Torrhen could recover however, a second punch sank into his gut. Torrhen groaned, wheezing painfully with each breath.
"Andal," spoke the same older boy in broken Common Tongue. "You… hold anger… but you weak."
"I'm… not Andal! I'm First Man!" He gasped, doubling over from the shock. "If you're… gonna insult me… do it properly…! And go to the Seven Hells!"
The boy shook his head, clearly superior to all the others. "You… life not… easy." With a grin, he slapped Torrhen hard, making him wince in agony. "Now sleep. Tomorrow… bring work."
By the gods, he didn't wish to know what that meant. While the boys shoved him into the dirt, he closed his eyes tight and willed himself not to cry.
Mother… help me… please…
Longclaw 1-6:
So, Lyaella doesn't like that Sansa is here. That's pretty obvious, while Jon is still devoted to his family.