Elphaba818:
Yet another long delay for the next chapter… Longclaw and I are both very, very sorry for the long wait! We haven't forgotten about this story, we promise! Life just keeps getting in the way, that's all. I'm busy with work these days, and Longclaw— well, that's his exciting new news to share. Scroll down below to his author's note to see his exciting news.
Anyway, we both hope you all enjoy this latest chapter! Please leave a nice comment when you're done!
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Longclaw 1-6:
Sorry for the long delay, but we wanted to make this one perfect as it focuses on Torrhen. We're approaching the end of Dany's time in Vaes Dothrak so we can get back to the action.
Also, just wanted to let everyone know that my son was born a few weeks ago. :)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Agoge
The roar of the hooves kicked up huge clouds of dust upon the ground. It was called the Great Grass Sea, but hours and hours of training in this particular field just outside of Vaes Dothrak — to train required the bearing of weapons, forbidden within the city — had left it bare of grass aside from a few clumps eking out a living amongst the many training warriors and boys.
Gritting his teeth, Torrhen gripped tightly on the reins as he banked his horse. Straining on them, palms chafing and burning from the thin leather. A lot of the boys had callouses, but his skin still didn't, so agony would be the price he had to pay to turn sharply as the others did.
That wasn't the worst of it though.
"Bow!" came the barked command in Dothraki. In front of Torrhen, the three boys quickly drew their reflex bows slung across their back, arrows appearing seemingly out of nowhere to nock and loose at targets many yards away. Some hit true, some hit far, but all hit the targets in one place or another.
It was Torrhen's turn, and without stumbling — this time at least — the bow came from around his shoulder and into his hands. The arrow was next as he squeezed his thighs and kicked at the horse's flank with his leather boot. A command to gallop straight. Sucking in a breath, Torrhen rose as high in the saddle as he could and drew back the bowstring, feeling the wood groan and strain. Aiming…
His mount leapt into the air, a jumping arc that leveled him out. Ending the bumps and jostles. With a thwack the arrow loosed, sailing in an arc towards the target — unlike the others, whom had fired direct at the propped up wicker and hide structures.
Torrhen wanted to whoop as the arrow hit dead center, the best shot of all his peers in the creche. A quick look found the instructor watching with a satisfied smirk, the best sort of praise Torrhen could ever have felt…
Only for his mare to slam upon the ground. It was a good landing, hooves taking the brunt of the jolt and letting his mount angle itself to resume the dash. Torrhen had been prepared for the pushback, thighs digging into the mare's flank. He was a great rider, one of the things he excelled at when growing up at Winterfell… but then he had learned to ride with a stirrup.
Dothraki learned to ride without stirrups before they were allowed to have them, and as such there was no resisting force as he was thrown back. Flying off the back of the horse, his eyes focused on the cloudless blue sky above before the wind was knocked out of him. Back exploding in agony upon making contact with the dusty, churned up ground.
"Get out of the way! Get out!"
Torrhen's mind, near blinded by the pain, reacted only when the roar of hooves thundered not a foot away from him. The others of the creche continued their training uncaring of his injury. He did as bidded, rolling out of the way of the further dozen boys and their horses, ending up on his face as he coughed out dust and dirt that caked his lungs and mouth. Wanting to roll onto his back but too much in pain to exert the effort.
Seven hells… seven hells. He had done so well too!
"Boy." A firm hand rolled him onto his back, Torrhen meeting a bearded face curled in concern. "Hard landing. Anything broken?"
Torrhen shook his head. "No… hurts like… shit."
A snort. "I'll bet." Rokharro was one of their teachers, a man with a slender, toned build of a mounted warrior. Also one of the few Dothraki warrior elite that seemed to care for Torrhen, as he was kind enough to alternate his lessons between the Dothraki language and the Common Tongue so Torrhen could grow accustomed to the new language. Whether it was for him or out of respect for Daenerys, Torrhen didn't know, nor did he really care that much. "Your form is improving, but you're still wedded to the Andal way."
"What's… wrong with a… stirrup?" His breaths were still labored.
Rhokarro shook his head. "If you can only ride with assistance, then can you really ride?"
Vague words… ones Torrhen supposed he understood. If there was anyone different from Ser Barristan as could be, it was Rokharro and his training style. While Barristan used the Westerosi standards of squiring, ensuring that Torrhen built up to the more strenuous tasks with common matters such as cleaning armor and watering horses, Rokharro tossed the boys of the creche headlong into the grinder. Common household work was the responsibility of women and slaves, he said, only making them care for their horses.
All else, they were run ragged. Torrhen had marched across plain and mountain, had hacked and slashed with a blunted arakh, he'd ridden till his thighs bled, he'd fought hand to hand against his peers. Blade, spear, shield, and bow, he was expected to use them all with skill, while only given the most basic of rations and told to hunt if he wanted more. It was a harsh existence, a grueling training.
Perhaps he was struggling. The spears used were too tall for him, better suited as a lance rather than on foot the way an Unsullied would use them. Hunting was also difficult, given the small game on the Great Grass Sea. Aiming at them was arduous and he was clueless on trapping. Not to mention the forced marches made Torrhen want to collapse from thirst and blisters.
Perhaps he was excelling. His swordsplay was getting better and better, and was a prodigy with the bow. Riding had been his favorite task when living at Winterfell and it showed here — all he needed was a stirrup and he knew he would ride circles around those of his creche.
The creche…
Stumbling shakily to his feet, Torrhen was unceremoniously shoved from behind. Only quick footwork saving him from falling. If Rokharro was a tough but fair taskmaster, then Karro — the self-designated leader of the creche of boys — was tough and anything but fair. "Idiot. Falling from his own horse!" Boys were expected to have their hurdles, but a Dothraki who couldn't ride reflected badly on all of them. All would be punished and shunned, so Torrhen didn't begrudge the anger. He felt angry at himself for falling as well.
Karro simply didn't have to enjoy tormenting Torrhen. "It won't happen again," he grumbled, wishing to remount his horse and try the course again.
But the older boy, taller than him and with bigger muscles, wouldn't let it go. "Maybe I should kill you… put you out of misery."
Anger welled inside him. Torrhen… he couldn't help himself. "Perhaps I should kill you." His Dothraki was halting, but that came out perfectly, accent included.
The boys, even the mounted ones, began to gather around — taking advantage of Rokharro being called elsewhere. Karro, for his part, only smirked. "Wanna try? I'll even give you the first swing." Fights were common, and oft encouraged to toughen the boys up. It was harsh, but life for a Dothraki was harsh. "Come on, you a coward?" He laughed, turning to the others. "He's just a coward."
"Coward? Hardly," he spat, eyes narrowing into slits. "I just wanna make this self-defense. Come at me!"
Karro smirked. "Suit yourself!" And with that he charged.
A quick sidestep to the left helped him avoid Karro's fist, and he slammed his own into the other boy's jaw. Torrhen's knuckles ached after the first punch, a right hook that sent his tormentor sprawling. Far more of a hit than he figured Karro had expected, but he followed it with a kick to the boy's hip. Ready for more.
Karro spat on the ground, trembling in anger and pain as he reared up. "Ah, some fight in you?"
"I can do this all day," Torrhen hissed. Karro obliged him, grinning as he lunged forward.
With the other boys cheering them on — some on Karro's side, a few on Torrhen's, but most just baying for blood — the fight was more of a brawl than anything honorable. Fists, kicks, attempted gougings. Torrhen even resorted to biting to extract himself from a brutal hold, the two boys giving their all. Karro enjoying every moment of it, but Torrhen driven forth by his anger. His hate at being here, his hate that he couldn't see his mother, that he was separated from Lyaella…
That yet again he was forced into training with his peers that hated him. He'd done it before.
"The bastard emerges!"
A fist flew at his face. "That's fer' mi'pa's burns, thanks to yer' mama!"
A kick took him in the ribs after he lashed out. "Ook' at the bastard! Run away to the wildlings, why doncha?!"
They came in flashes, memories. But they weren't just memories…
Oh no…
Torrhen saw it coming. The building headache, the trembling of his hands and feet. How his gait grew more and more rigid. Not now… please not…
All went black as Karro's fist connected with his temple.
A stiff breeze pushed against Torrhen's side. One he was familiar with, and felt a comfort in after so long under the stifling heat of the equatorial sun. "The North, I'm in the North," he breathed to himself. While he didn't recognize the landscape, it was clear he was back. The green grass, autumn grass, feeding off the last bit of light of summer before the snows would choke away the life from the region. He had been miserable here, growing without the love of his mother, but it was still the land where he'd grown up.
He and Lyaella had endured so much here. It was as much a part of them as anything.
"Moat Cailin."
Torrhen whipped his head around, finding two figures standing on a hill. He trudged after them, waving his hands. They didn't budge, staring down at a run down keep resting below in the midst of a network of trenches and canals.
Moat Cailin, the fortress of the North. Torrhen had never seen it, but it was the one thing besides herself the Bitch of the North truly spent coin on. Ensuring no one could invade the North.
Speak of the Night King… "I've been here once." And he shall appear. "When I traveled south with my father and sister, with King Robert's party." Torrhen knew that voice. The woman it came from had dyed black hair and was very young but it was her.
Queen Sansa.
He hated the very sight of her.
"Home." A different man, tall and thin. A smiling face, but one Torrhen immediately decided he didn't like or trust.
"The Boltons have Winterfell," he heard his aunt say.
"For now."
Something dawned on Sansa's face. "The marriage proposal, it wasn't for you…" She reacted as if struck. "No!"
Torrhen knew what he was looking at, or at least some of it. Bolton, the House that had betrayed his father's family. The House his cruel aunt married into — the histories portrayed this as an unwilling act, where she had literally been forced into it and escaped at the earliest opportunity. From how the two argued, perhaps it was the truth…
The thin man grabbed her. "I won't force you to do anything… say the word and I will take you and ride back to the Vale, but you've been running all your life. Stop being a bystander." He stared into his aunt's eyes. "There's no justice in the world, except what we make it. You loved your family more than anything in the world… avenge them."
Torrhen expected his aunt to still refuse. He expected her to shake her head and protest vehemently. But she didn't. She blinked at her companion — What was his name again, anyway? Torrhen knew he knew it, he'd been mentioned in passing at the memorial feast that last night in the future — utterly silent, then glanced back and forth between towers and turrets of the fortress to the wheelhouse on the kingsroad where they must have just come from.
Then finally she turned to her companion and nodded, her face firm. Offering him her hand, she allowed herself to be escorted back to the wheelhouse.
Another lie. As the scene faded, Torrhen realized yet another truth. "You agreed to it… you did it willingly."
The moments came by in greater flashes. He saw the roar of the sea against a dock, gently swaying against sturdy cargo ships. Below him was a wooden jetty and next to him—
"Where do these boats go?"
Lady Arya. His other cruel aunt. She was young, very young. Dressed in boys' rags and looking weak. Skinny, unlike her stone-faced self.
A deckhand shrugged. "That one to King's Landing."
"Well, I don't want to go there."
"Alright… that one to Eastwatch by the Sea."
A light went off in her eye. "Jon…" Torrhen watched. Was she going to his father? If she ever did, she never mentioned it, not that she told much of her life beyond common history facts or of her adventures exploring across the Sunset Sea to him or Lyaella…
"And that one to Braavos."
She snapped to attention. "Braavos? Did you say Braavos?" Torrhen was confused. What did she want in Braavos? "The Faceless Men…" It made sense. And it didn't surprise him when instead of the ship leading to the Wall, Lady Arya chose the other one.
It didn't even surprise him.
Another white flash and he was trapped in a snowdrift. Tree trunks surrounded him, all encapsulated in the red-orange glow of a campfire.
"Look…" another voice he remembered, only this one with some bit of life left. "That's my brother."
His uncle. King Bran the Broken, a cruel jape as there ever was, now that he saw how benevolently his mother ruled. Draped in Wildling furs and crouching in the snowy bushes with a boy his age with sandy blonde hair, a dark-haired girl maybe two or three years older, and what had to be the largest man Torrhen had ever met and was mumbling some nonsensical word to himself over and over again. At his uncle's side, a smoky gray direwolf sat on its haunches, protecting its master.
His uncle and his companions watched as less than thirty feet away, a large snow-covered hut caught fire and people inside went insane. Around thirty women of various ages ran screaming from the hut, all of them trying to dodge and avoid being struck when men in black started battling each other all across the property.
The Night's Watch. They had to be men of the Night's Watch! But what was going on? Why would the Night's Watch be battling each other like this? Whatever, the reason didn't matter to Torrhen. What mattered was that the Night's Watch was here, and considering Bran just said his brother was among them, that meant—
"Your brother, the bastard?" The blonde-haired boy spoke.
"Aye! That's Jon, right over there!" Bran exclaimed, pointing at one particular man fighting several yards off. Torrhen whipped his whole body around, craning to see his future father. Sadly, he was far too short to see over the bushes, and he could only catch a glimpse of flashing steel and black boots between the branches. "I gotta talk to him! Please, Hodor carry me—!"
"You can't."
Torrhen turned, incredulous. For once, it seemed his future uncle matched his opinion since he too seemed dumbstruck as he stared at the other boy, as did the older girl.
"Jojen?"
"He's my brother! I have to—!"
"You talk to him, Bran, and he'll take us all to the Wall. What's more important here? You reuniting with your brother, or finding the Three-Eyed Raven?"
Bran bit his lip, glancing anxiously between the fight and his friends, but finally he nodded and motioned for the giant to pick him up so they could all quietly slip away.
It didn't matter to Torrhen.
He didn't expect his uncle to go to his father. Torrhen couldn't care less. The person that did matter here was fighting back at the burning hut. "Father," he murmured, running in the direction of the fire. Wanting to catch a glimpse of him. "Father!"
If one would say that the constant danger of being recaptured by the Dothraki was boredom, Dany would've been skeptical to say the least.
To say that Dany was bored would be an understatement.
While the other widows in the Dosh Khaleen kept her busy by including her in their daily chores around Vaes Dothrak and her mind was constantly at work as she weighed the pros and cons of planning a potential escape for herself and Torrhen from the Dothraki settlement that wouldn't result in either of them being captured and killed, it still wasn't enough to keep her from feeling restless and bored from repeating the same routine for weeks now.
Every day it was the same — wake up, prepare morning fast for the khals, plan an escape, check in on the children, plan an escape, assist in any chores, plan an escape, prepare supper for the khals, plan an escape, and then sleep. Then wake up the next day and do it all over again.
"You done with that washing yet, silver khaleesi?" asked the young widow to her right. "I just finished my load. I can help, if you like."
"Yes, thank you," she answered, passing over a handful of leather skins. "I appreciate that."
The girl smiled and dunked the first set of skins in the water, the last of their domestic duties of the day. Rote to be sure, but at least she could keep an eye on Torrhen from afar while doing it.
Dany missed him more than anything. The last of her blood — her son in all but name.
Since she'd been taken to the Dosh Khaleen and he'd been thrown into the training creche for Dothraki boys, she'd hardly spoken to him much — the Dothraki making sure they couldn't plan a breakout, both limited to just speaking for mere moments by chance each day. So she was purposefully washing as slowly as possible right now as she finished up her load of laundry. The more time it took, the greater the chance that Torrhen would finish up his current training session just beyond the boundaries of the city and she could try whispering to him her plan to get them out of here.
Her idea was risky and would require her to actually attend the meeting between the khals, but it was the only plan she could think of that not only secured both hers and Torrhen's safety and guaranteed the entirety of the Dothraki blood riders following her in her quest to reclaim the Iron Throne when all was said and done. The more allies she had on her side when it was finally time to set sail across the Narrow Sea, the better.
Scrubbing hard at a bloodstain on a pair of trousers, Dany sighed and glanced over to where the blood riders were instructing Torrhen and the other boys in weaponry. It was a good thing Torrhen was a quick learner and picked up the basics on how to fight with a Dothraki arakh straight away, because today the other children had been giving him a harder time than usual during the lesson. More of them were ganging up on him all at once than was strictly necessary for a practice match, but none of them had necessarily crossed the line yet by Dothraki standards, so he was on his own for fending them all off.
Biting her lip nervously, Dany watched as Torrhen ducked to avoid an arakh slice and brought up his own blade to slash at a sudden opening from the boy to his immediate left… but then he suddenly froze, his whole body going stiff and the scowl on his face being wiped blank.
The other boys in the training session paused in the middle of the spar in confusion while the chaperoning teachers blinked, muddled. Even a few of the other widows who'd also been watching the match while tending to the laundry were surprised, but Dany abruptly stood, the washing slipping out of her hands and landing unnoticed in the dirt. Oh, no…
The young widow who'd been sitting with her blinked, startled. "Silver khaleesi? What is—?"
"Get him out of there!" She called, sidestepping around the other widows and hurrying towards the training creche. "He's not well! Get him—!"
A firm yet strong hand seized her wrist. "We do not interfere in the training matches, Daenerys Stormborn," said Drogo's mother. "The only way the children of today become strong in the future is by letting them learn for themselves."
The other blood riders nodded their assent of her words and did nothing as the Dothraki boys overcame their confusion and knocked away Torrhen's arakh before whacking him hard on the head with the handles to their weapons. Torrhen fell to the ground as lifeless as a doll, his eyes as white and unfocused as ever when he 'fire flickered' or used that greensight ability Jorah mentioned.
Drogo's mother tried steering her back to the others, but Dany ripped away from her grasp. "You don't understand! He's sick right now!"
"Sick? He's fine."
"No! He was fine a moment ago, but not now! He's… He's…" she paused, trying to find the right way to explain. "He has moments where he isn't… aware of himself. He goes blank. Doesn't see or hear what's happening. Doesn't realize anything is happening. Look and see!"
Drogo's mother blinked, as did the other widows listening in. They turned curiously back to the training match. Sure enough, Torrhen was still sprawled out lifelessly on the ground, staring with unseeing eyes up at the sky. But shockingly, he wasn't defending himself or even cringing away when some of the meaner boys took advantage of his state to ruthlessly kick him despite being down. That made the teachers shout out and jump in. As did Dany and some of the other widows.
"Stop that! Get off him!" Dany demanded, shoving aside one boy and yanking away a second who'd been winding back to kick Torrhen in the ribs. "Stop!"
"Stay out of this, khaleesi deserter," snarled the largest boy in the creche, the ringleader. "You're not Dosh Khaleen. You have no right to interfere."
"Drogo's widow is in charge of this boy, Karro!" Snapped a middle-aged widow as she hurried to the front. "And I'm your mother! You're my responsibility!"
A few other widows with sons in the creche also stepped forward, their faces cross as they chastised their sons for beating Torrhen as they did, but Dany hardly spared them a glance as she knelt beside her young charge. He was still utterly blank, staring unseeingly up at the sky.
"Torrhen? Torrhen, can you hear me?" She asked, giving him a light shake. "Please… Please say something!"
It was no use. His eyes had rolled up in the back of his head again, revealing only the whites.
The training creche boys scoffed at his vacantness, but the instructors and widows crowded around, their faces now showing equal concern. Dany swallowed. Whether this was another one of Torrhen so-called 'fire flickers' or that greensight ability Jorah spoke of, she hated it. It was disturbing, his eyes white like that. When she finally crossed the Narrow Sea, she'd be sending as many ravens North as she could. Northerner's hatred of House Targaryen be damned! There had to be someone in the country who knew more about all this and could put the past aside long enough to help this boy.
It was several minutes until Torrhen went rigid and his eyes fell shut. Then he gasped, his eyes snapping open again to reveal their natural violet.
"Torrhen!" Dany cried, relieved. "You're all right!"
"Ugh… fuck…" he moaned, breathing heavily. His eyes squeezed shut again as he clapped a hand to his brow. "Seven fucking hells…"
The ringleader of the training creche openly jeered. "Head hurts, Andal boy? You no handle pain. You not strong."
His mother cuffed him upside the head. "Karro!"
"Shut… Shut up…" Torrhen moaned, his broken Dothraki sounding even more hoarse and jilted than ever as Dany helped him sit up. He was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other fisted through his dark curly hair. "Just… Just shut up… Everyone shut up…"
The other boys chortled, but the instructors puffed out their chests, indignantly chastising him. Torrhen yelped and slammed both hands over his ears, doubling over as he cringed.
"Stop!" He yelled, so loudly and suddenly everyone jumped. "Stop!"
The sheer agony of pain in his voice was unmistakable, and the instructors just stared at him, bewildered. The widows began exchanging hurried, quiet whispers before a few of them ran off towards different huts. Dany ignored them in favor of wrapping her arms around Torrhen in a comforting embrace.
"Shh… Shh, it's okay, Torrhen… It's okay…" she murmured. "It's just a headache. It'll be fine…"
"'Just a headache!'" Mocked Karro again. "Loud noise is your weakness, huh? We'll bring the drums to our next lesson. Bang them loudly and you'll fall in the mud!"
The boys howled with delighted laughter. As their mothers reprimanded them again, Torrhen dazedly raised his head.
His violet eyes kept going in and out of focus, but he was coherent enough to force a glare in their general direction. "You… You wanna fall…? I'll… I'll make you… fall…"
He tried to stand — tried — but Dany didn't even get a chance to urge him to stay down. He didn't even make it to his knees before he swayed, dizzy, and collapsed back against her chest.
The boys doubled over with cruel laughter. One even laughed so hard they fell into the dirt on all fours and banged the ground with his fist.
This time, the instructors joined in with the mothers disciplining the boys for their callousness. A child could attack a sick, helpless invalid, but the boys were learning to be warriors. Forge their strength upon each other, cheap shots to be reserved for their first plunder.
For her part, Dany shot them a glare of her own. Despite current circumstances, she still had love in her heart for her first people and she mourned her precious Rhaego more than ever upon returning to the Great Grass Sea… but what would her son have been like had he and Drogo lived? Would he have been like these boys when he was their age? Being needlessly cruel and mocking towards an outsider who'd done nothing wrong? Someone in obvious pain and clearly ill?
Shaking her head in disgust, Dany did her best to support Torrhen back up. "Come now, up you get, Torrhen," she murmured in the Common Tongue. "Just take it slow. Slow and—"
Out of nowhere Torrhen jerked, and then he fell back to the ground, limbs flailing as he started thrashing.
Reactions seemed to intensify at this. The widows screamed in horror. The instructors sputtered before snapping out of it to push back the boys. For all their amusement before, they were stunned, now. Frozen mid-laughter as they stared at Torrhen. Not that the boy was even aware of it. His eyes were white again as he frothed at the mouth and kept violently shaking.
Dany's heart stopped. No… No, not again! Not again!
"You!" She shouted, eyes locking onto the nearest instructor whilst dodging an elbow to the jaw. "Find a healer! Go!"
He didn't argue. He just took off.
Her head snapped over to the widows. "Get the washing!" She ordered.
They jumped. But unlike the blood rider, they blinked at her, puzzled.
"The — The washing?"
"What for?"
"You want to finish washing?! Now?!"
Drogo's mother smacked that one on the shoulder. "Don't argue! Just do it!"
The widows were frantic, but two of them overcame their panic long enough to grab two piles of dry furs and skins and deposit them beside her. Nodding her thanks, Dany shuffled the piles into a single massive clump and shuffled it as best as she could under Torrhen's head. The boy was oblivious to the cushioning under his head and kept convulsing. Her heart clenched at his pain, but she stayed there next to him and did her best to keep his head elevated and mouth open so he could breathe.
A few more seconds passed before Torrhen finally calmed down. He groaned, eyes falling shut again as he slowly came back to his senses.
"Torrhen! Torrhen, are you all right?!"
He struggled to open his eyes, and when he did manage to get them open, his pupils dilated. Repeatedly.
Another widow scrambled to push her way to the front of the onlookers. She was carrying a basin of fresh water along with a clay cup. As soon as she reached them, she hurriedly poured some into the cup and passed it to Dany before joining them on the ground. Dipping one of the cleaner tunics into the water, she wiped away the spittle that had escaped Torrhen's mouth during the ordeal and dabbed away at the sweat clinging to his face and neck.
"Thank you," Dany murmured appreciatively. The woman only nodded and gestured to the cup. Smiling her thanks, Dany held up the cup for Torrhen to see. "Think you can drink anything?"
There was a long pause, but then he grunted and forced a single, slow nod. By the time he'd finished the cup, the blood rider she'd ordered to find a healer was rushing back. With the healer on his heels along with the widows who'd run off earlier. They were carrying what appeared to be an animal-skinned stretcher.
The healer tended to Torrhen for a few minutes, and then finally ordered the women holding the stretcher to help him get on. Torrhen was a little more awake at this point and tried to sit up and protest the need for it, but he groaned in pain and pressed a hand back to his head. The healer frowned at this, and wordlessly motioned for Dany to follow as he ordered the widows to bring Torrhen back to the hut where all the boys stayed.
Torrhen was not pleased as they tried to lay him down in his pile of animal skins to rest. "Argh… I'm fine, really!" He insisted, his words slurred and garbled. "I just… I just have a headache, now… I'll be fine…"
Dany flinched. These headaches he experienced were a major physical weakness. He'd already suffered from one concussion when Grey Worm and Barristan first brought him to her court, and that happened when he'd been more or less fine. If someone were to hit him over the head when he was enduring one of these side effects from the shaking sickness…
I'll have to remember to commission someone to forge him proper protective gear when we return to Meereen. A helmet, especially…
The healer snapped his fingers to get her attention. "You're lucky right now, khaleesi, about the boy," he said, helping him sit propped up against the soft pile. "You only had small attack. Rest for a while — you'll be fine to get up soon."
Torrhen frowned, brow furrowing as he struggled to remember his lessons in the Dothraki language. He blinked in surprise when he recalled the correct translations. "Really? How… How soon?"
"An hour, at least. Sundown, at latest," he assured him. Then the healer turned to her. "May I speak with you outside, silver khaleesi? I need to know what happened."
"Yes, of course. Torrhen? Promise me you'll rest until you feel better?"
"Aye, your grace."
As soon as they were some ways off from the hut, the healer turned to her, his face impassive. "The Dosh Khaleen widows told me the boy went 'blank.' They said nothing about him having the shaking sickness. What do you know of this?"
It took her a long time to fully explain the little she knew about Torrhen's condition to him, only leaving out his Northern heritage giving him the ability to use that Greensight magic whenever his fire flickered. The Dothraki feared magic, after all. Telling him would guarantee Torrhen's throat slit in the night.
"Hold on, you say the Ghiscari healer offered him only willow bark for his headaches?"
Dany blinked at the sudden question. "Not exactly… he said chewing willow bark was the best solution for minor headaches. For really intense ones when Torrhen can barely function because of pain, he said it'd be best to drink water mixed with a particular medicine from the Basilisk Isles."
A flurry of enraged curses escaped the healer in such a frenzy that Dany couldn't help but flinch. "Fool! The Great Stallion should kick him in the head! Utter fool!"
"What is it?"
"That fool didn't know what he was talking about, silver khaleesi. Tell me, has that boy experienced any vomiting since you both came here?! Night sweats or chills?! Extreme emotions of any sort?!"
"Not that he's told me. Why?"
He let out a deep breath of relief. "Because that drug from the Basilisk Isles is highly addictive. People have been known to get sick and volatile if they stop taking it after using it for an extended time. Thank the Great Stallion that didn't happen to that child."
Dany tensed. "The healer in Meereen mentioned it was addictive, but I didn't realize it could cause things like that to happen. Even so, I don't see what else can be done. Torrhen's headaches happen very frequently, and he can't function if they get so painful that he literally needs that drug to numb the pain…"
"That's not true, silver khaleesi. Dothraki healers have encountered the shaking sickness before — we have our own remedies for it."
She stilled, hope welling up in her chest. "You do? Is it better than willow bark and that Basilisk Isle drug?"
"I can't speak for how Westerosi healers treat this, but it's certainly safer for that boy than that foolish Ghiscari healer's idea. I will need time to gather more valerian and mugwort from the wilds, but I can definitely make him one of our Dothraki remedies."
She beamed. "I would be forever grateful if you would. Thank you."
As the healer nodded and walked off, the widows who had helped get Torrhen inside turned to her curiously.
"You care about that boy, silver khaleesi?"
"Of course I do. He'll be my heir to the Iron Throne when we return to Westeros."
The widows couldn't help but laugh as the boys from the training crèche finished up their lessons and hurried past to enter the hut.
"You were not supposed to go out in the world after Drogo passed, silver khalessi. You stay here with us in Dosh Khaleen."
"Yes. You stay. Forever."
"And stop lying. We know you're only obligated for that boy since you're here together. He's not that important besides that, is he?"
Dany's eyes narrowed into slits. "He is the blood of the dragon, part of my House. Never suggest that again."
The widow who'd spoken only shook her head, her face bland. "I only speak the truth, silver khaleesi. I was there when you made that pact with that witch. Your son is dead because of your foolishness. Because you not care for him enough to be wary of a stranger's promises and evil magic. Yet now you claim you care about boy who's of your blood? I don't believe that."
The others absently nodded and motioned Dany to follow them back to the main group so they could finish up the washing. Dany didn't move, though. She was frozen, stunned. She hated what that woman said, but she knew in her heart she had a point. Drogo would've been lost to her no matter what, but she should've accepted his death and fled with Ser Jorah when she had the chance. Had she followed his advice and ignored the honeyed words from Mirri Duur Maz, Rhaego would've lived. He was dead because of her stupidity.
But she would not allow the same thing to happen to Torrhen. She would not allow it.
With a firm nod to herself, Dany squared her shoulders and strode after the others with a hard face. Torrhen might not be her son, but he was her heir. And she was going to get him out of Vaes Dothrak one way or another.
The dry throat was the first thing he registered.
Blinking… only to stop as it just made the ache worse, Torrhen shifted upon something far harder than he had become accustomed — still, it felt like a cloud upon his bruised body. Seven Hells…
It had been but two days since his fire flicker, the one that had sent him collapsing during training, the worst possible time. The Dothraki creche valued strength, and the times where he fought back and fought back well allowed him to be left alone. But then Torrhen fire flickered, and his comrades interpreted it as weakness and ganged up on him. The bruises still throbbed with agony.
Thankfully, some older women had inserted themselves — friends of his mother, it seemed — into his care. The adult warriors supervising the creche listened to them, and he was placed on rest within the tent. Torrhen, sitting up and managing to do so in spite of his throbbing head, reached over for the wooden cup. The drought within tasted like dirt and grass, but for once something managed to ease his pain.
Not the pain of his body and the abuse the boys gave him, but of his head. Better than that in Meereen, and definitely more so than he was given by Queen Sansa's pet maester — that being nothing, after all.
It didn't take away all the pain, but it helped. And he had learned to accept whatever goodness came its way, cause there would be so little of it.
Torrhen sat there for what seemed like forever, resting his eyes and rubbing the bruises of his legs as the healers told him to do. Part of him wished to remain alone, while most hoped for one of the Dosh Khaleen to return. They were sweet, and brought him messages from his mother. Her unabashed hugs had whetted his appetite for more, and while given his lack of affection all his life, Torrhen missed them desperately.
Once his mother embraced him and loved him, he couldn't go back.
He wouldn't… they would leave here, he vowed to himself.
But the voices grew closer and they clearly weren't the older women that had cared for him — or women at all. Total immersion into the Dothraki culture had allowed Torrhen to pick up enough of their words. At least to get the gist of whatever they were saying, and enough to communicate his own thoughts to them.
And what he heard made his blood boil."...seems like… Andal… bitch Khaleesi… son."
"Don't be stupid… far too old for that…"
"But… sucking… from tits like baby…" That drew a lot of laughs.
Karro laughed. "Very funny… more… that he's her suckler… but not child."
Torrhen clenched his fists, wanting to set upon them in rage. Honestly, it would only make him respected in the creche… but he didn't dare go out there ready to swing the first punch. If there was one thing he had learned while growing up in the hellhole that was Winterfell, he had to fight his battles using his words at first. If someone attacked him first, that was a different story, but he could never be the one to throw the first punch. He had his sharp tongue. That would have to suffice.
But what was next said stunned him. "Give it time… dragon khaleesi will kill this one… same as she did the other."
It was… did he hear them right? The other? Were they discussing Lyaella? Did they know Lyaella?! No, not possible, but that only made it more confusing. And more infuriating that they insulted his mother over something so obviously false.
Forcing himself to his feet, Torrhen staggered out of the hut, his face swelling red with anger. It made some of the creche startled. "How dare you speak of her that way! She's your khaleesi!"
Karro snorted. "Was our Khaleesi, and a horrible one. Gullible, weak bitch."
"You slime!" Torrhen marched forward, mouth wide open to throw out another insult, but he was still weak and a fast shove from Karro made him collapse in the dirt.
"You were listening to us?" A skinny boy asked. He wasn't too strong, but he was fast — normally he tolerated Torrhen, but not now. Not when surrounded by the stronger boys.
"Hard… hard not to… so loud." Torrhen managed to choke out the words in broken Dothraki. It made the others laugh. "Don't… talk about her…"
"Why? Cause you gotta protect your mama?" Karro taunted. "Just making sure you know you're safer with us than with her. She kills her babies."
"You lie!"
Another kick — it wasn't just Torrhen that Karro treated thusly, but he was at his most eager when abusing Torrhen. "Jealous, Andal? Well you need not be. Her son with our Drogo is dead! Killed by her hand… or her stupidity." He motioned to another boy, much taller and stronger but more of a gentle giant. "Tell him, Qhokko."
Qhokko nodded meekly. "My mother was one of the healers that first attended Drogo, and the Khaleesi." As such, he spoke a halting common tongue. Very halting. "He festered from a wound and Khaleesi sold her son's soul to a witch."
"A witch that betrayed her, stupid bitch."
Torrhen simply stared, each breath being choked with dirt. "No… that's not true… that's impossible," he wheezed out.
"Ha, it did happen!" Karro yanked him up. "Let this be a lesson to you, part of my duty as your creche leader." Grinning madly, the boy practically carried the stunned Torrhen through the camp, followed by the others.
He likely hadn't planned this out, but within the Dothraki camp it wasn't hard to find what Karro was looking for. Torrhen, eyes cloudy and mind in a haze from the supposed revelation — he was sure it was a lie, he was sure of it — found himself looking at something that confused him. A Dothraki screamer tossed a woman to the ground. She had a collar about her neck and looked quite different. The same features as Missandei but with shorter hair and thicker about the waist. And as the screamer mounted her as if he would mount a horse, she began to cry.
There was no denying that her face was of absolute terror.
"This is the fate of that witch had your Khaleesi hadn't gotten involved." Karro grabbed Torrhen's chin, making him look as the screamer… grabbed his crotch and shoved something inside the female slave. "She would've been nothing, a pleasure slave for some warrior, but her stupidity brought her into a position where she could harm the great Khal. Drogo was a great Khal, but destroyed by your stupid Khaleesi."
The woman screamed, writhing about in pain as a growing bruise formed on her rear and thighs, but the screamer grunted and shoved her down in the dirt with his hand on her neck. Squeezing the back of it. "Please, I don't want to see it anymore!" Torrhen yelled, his head throbbing in agony — not close to a fire flicker, but at this point he wished to have one in order to not see what was happening.
While most of the boys grew more and more uncomfortable with this, it seemed, the same cruel boy only laughed. "You Andals are the same as us. All your steel clothes and fancy titles make you seem superior, but you're just hypocrites. Condemning us for doing what you gladly do." He thumped his chest. "At least we admit it, let it make us stronger."
Torrhen spat at him. "You're a damned savage."
"Yes, yes!" He grinned. "Believe it. Fear us for it." Without delay he punched Torrhen in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and leaving the boy coughing. Wheezing each breath out in agony.
"Karro, that's enough," a hesitant voice spoke.
"Yeah, he's already suffered."
"There's no fun in kicking him when he's down." Apparently there was a line that when crossed would elicit pity from the creche — especially since he'd actually started to show off some level of skill and fortitude.
Karro pursed his lips… then kicked Torrhen in the side. Torrhen didn't cry out this time, but it wasn't for the lack of pain shooting up near his kidney. "Dunno, this is fun." A cruel laugh was met with hard stares, and Karro sighed. "Whatever, you're not worth my time, Andal." Hawking back, he spat on Torrhen, letting him wallow in the dust.
A fire flicker didn't come, never so close together, to which Torrhen would probably be grateful later — but in the moment, all he could feel was the excruciating pain that any jolt or movement brought to him. The clumsy actions of the creche in half-carrying, half-dragging him back to their communal hut gave plenty. He wouldn't cry out anymore, though. Wouldn't give Karro the satisfaction.
Laying on the floor of the hut, on the pallet of straw he could call a bed, Torrhen's thoughts focused not on the pain — which had changed to an all-encompassing ache rather than the stabbing it had been earlier. No, his thoughts returned to what Karro had said. Insults aside, the comments of his secret mother, the former Khaleesi of the Dothraki. Even the grossly inaccurate Song of Ice and Fire history text hadn't spared mention of that, though details were sparse. Drogo actually let his people… hurt women that way? It still made little sense to him, but there was no denying the poor woman's suffering.
A memory came to him of his childhood, of an execution his aunt seemed determined to carry out in the most brutal way. Of a man accused of 'hurting a woman.' At the time, Torrhen figured it was a sign of her callous cruelty, but if the man did what he saw today being done then he no longer blamed his aunt for punishing him accordingly.
Good that his mother tried to stop such conduct, to snuff it out, but how did that hurt her? He'd seen her compassion move mountains back in Meereen, build love and devotion where none existed. It was the moments when she wasn't compassionate — such as respecting the religion and benign culture of the Meereenese freeborn population — that led to harm.
Hadn't it?
"The bitch was a fool, a stupid, weak woman that believed a blood witch. Her weakness let that blood witch curse him and his son to death."
A son? What son? What hadn't his mother told him?
Before the sweet blackness of sleep would take him, Torrhen could only reflect on while he had come from the future, there was still so much he didn't know.
Perhaps that was his curse. An ignorant boy lost in a sea of time.
"Torrhen, is that you?"
Torrhen all but jumped. He knew that voice. But he'd only ever heard it when accidentally using the Sight. Never when he was still grounded in reality.
He whipped around. To his utter astonishment, Rickon was standing behind him, auburn curls tangled and dirty and his usual Northern leathers and gray cloak replaced by heavy Wildling furs caked with dried mud and fraying at the edges. He looked utterly out of his depth as he stood there, his attention diverted between offering Torrhen a friendly nod to glancing about at the rest of Vaes Dothrak in obvious curiosity.
Torrhen blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Yet Rickon didn't disappear after doing so. His future uncle stayed there, staring at him expectantly. Torrhen didn't say anything though, he was so stunned. The only times he'd ever had contact with his deceased future uncle was when he'd used greensight accidentally. Sure, he'd used the Sight again without meaning to a little earlier, but this time his visions had nothing to do with Rickon at all. And even so, when he met up with Rickon, it was because he used Sight to unintentionally return to the North. Never had he imagined Rickon would appear without warning in front of him on this side of the Narrow Sea.
Rickon suddenly shoved his hand in front of his eyes and snapped his fingers. "Oy! Torrhen! You still there?"
He jerked. "R-Rickon!" He gasped, shaking away his shock. "Sorry, I — I just… How are you—? How did you—? What're you doing here?"
His future uncle huffed. "That's all you have to say? No 'hello,' at all?"
"H-Huh?"
"I came to visit, obviously! You've always visited me in the North when using the Sight. This time I came to see you with it."
As if to prove his words, a trio of blood riders suddenly brushed past them. Or rather, they brushed past Torrhen while walking straight through Rickon's ghostly form without realizing it. Rickon flinched at the sudden walk-through, but otherwise ignored them.
Torrhen just stared. "Oh. I see…" He didn't know what else to say other than that. He was still too stunned to think properly.
Rickon seemed to pick up this and rolled his eyes before turning to glance around at the rest of Vaes Dothrak again. "I thought you said before you were in Meereen? What is this place? A Dothraki screamer encampment?"
"Uh, aye. Aye, it is," he muttered, carefully glancing around to make sure no one was paying him any attention as he slowly rose up. The last thing he needed was for the Dothraki to accuse him of being mad for 'talking to himself' when it reality he was talking to Rickon. "This is Vaes Dothrak, the Dothraki city. Queen Daenerys and I… we're technically prisoners here…"
"Prisoners? Seriously? But you're not in chains or locked up!"
"It's a long story…"
Rickon still seemed puzzled, but otherwise shrugged. "Might as well explain. I've gots lots of free time back in the North. I'm only here right now since I needed time out of my own cell."
Torrhen jolted. "What?"
"My real body's sitting in a cell in the Winterfell kennels right now. Ramsay Bolton's taken me prisoner."
Torrhen thickly swallowed. "Sounds like we've both had a lot happen since we last saw each other," he said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. "You tell me your story and I'll tell you mine?"
"Aye, sure. But can we walk a bit and look around? I've never left the North before. This Dothraki city is amazing!"
And so Torrhen and the otherwise invisible Rickon set off between the thatched huts and tents, exploring the settlement in detail as they took turns explaining their current imprisonments. Aside from how Torrhen had to keep his voice low so others wouldn't stare and wonder why he was seemingly having a conversation with 'no one,' the two of them caught up on each other's misadventures fairly quickly.
It took all of Torrhen's willpower to stay calm as he listened to Rickon's tale. He'd been so wrapped up this past year in trying to change his mother's future for the better when she finally sailed for Westeros, he'd forgotten to think about current events in Westeros now. It was almost time for the Battle of the Bastards to happen. For his future father to take back the North and be crowned as its king… meaning the Bitch of the North was probably already reunited with Jon Snow at the Wall and plotting to claim the country for her own following the battle.
After all, Jon Snow's survival against Ramsay Snow had undoubtedly taken her by surprise considering the North named him their king instead of honoring her… but Rickon's death at Ramsay's hands? That was something she should have foreseen. And now his future uncle — whom he now considered to be a good friend — was practically sitting on death's doorstep every day. But since Rickon was still in the North while he was stuck here in Essos, his options were limited on what he could do to stop this from happening.
Seven fucking hells.
"You said you're locked up in the kennels right now, aye?"
Rickon absently nodded, turning to watch as some Dothraki wives started a fire and prepped some meat to roast on spit above the flames. "Aye, I am. Last stall at the end of the row, and Shaggydog's in the first cell on the opposite end."
Torrhen's mind raced. The kennels. That was good news. Torrhen knew the Winterfell kennels like the back of his hand, what with how many times he and Lyaella went in to bust Sōnar and Shadow out from their pens to go play. The Bolton's weren't the true rulers of the keep. Assuming the spare key to the cells still existed in the past and was still hidden in the same place…
While using greensight, Torrhen couldn't interact with people — the exception being Rickon — but he could interact with objects. If he could use the Sight to purposefully go to Winterfell itself…
"How'd you get here today?" He asked abruptly.
Rickon turned. "Huh?"
"You came here to visit me. On purpose, right?"
"Aye…?"
"How'd you do it? How'd you use the Sight to come here, I mean?"
Rickon blinked. "You're the one who usually comes to see me, Torrhen. You should know already."
"I came to see you the last few times purely by chance. I wasn't trying to see anything or go anywhere. You just said that you came here today to see me. How'd you do it?"
His future uncle stared at him for the longest time, incredulous. Then finally he turned and walked over towards the fire pit where the women were still cooking, his expression thoughtful. Dodging a few blood riders who blocked his path, Torrhen followed.
"I'm not really sure how I did it. I mean, I know I tried visualizing you, Torrhen, and picturing myself standing next to you wherever you were, but I don't know if that helped at all. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. I don't know."
Torrhen scowled. "That's not exactly helpful for me, Rickon."
"What do you want me to say, Torrhen? I only have a vague guess as to how I got here right now! Sorry I can't—"
A loud, hollow thump echoed through the air, cutting Rickon off. Followed by another, then another. Then two more in quick succession.
The boys turned. On the other side of the cooking fire, a group of men had gathered together in a small semi circle and were waving over other Dothraki to join them. Each of the men were sitting on reed mats on the ground with what looked large, almost goblet-shaped pieces of carved wood in front of them topped off with animal skins. Onlookers cheered as they spotted the men, and all at once a stampede of adults and children hurried to gather around them. Pleased by the crowd, the men then proceeded to bang their hangs on the tops and sides of the wooden goblets before singing out in the Dothraki language. Whenever they hit the wood or the leather, the hollow thumps would resonate in the air, and when blended together with the thumping from the other thumps of wood and their singing… it created a strange melody.
Music. The likes of which Torrhen had never heard before.
"What's going on?" Rickon asked, perplexed. "What are those things?"
"Dunno," Torrhen answered, a wondrous smile spreading across his face. "Let's go see!"
"Huh? Wait, Torrhen—!"
Torrhen ignored Rickon and rushed to join the crowd. In the back of his mind, he heard Rickon grumble before hurrying after him, but he otherwise ignored his invisible friend. Whatever was going on, he needed to know more. The sounds made by whatever those things were… they were the missing piece. The missing piece for the musical scores he needed for his future mother's and Lyaella's songs. Those one aspects of the songs that were technically right music note-wise… but still sounded wrong when he tested them over and over again on his lyre. This was why! The notes themselves didn't need to be changed. The instrument on which they were being played needed to change. The songs in his head needed the accompaniment of an instrument similar to whatever those Dothraki men were using to entertain everyone.
Shoving his way past the last few adults, Torrhen finally made it the front of the throng. The men were still beating the wooden contraptions as other Dothraki started dancing to the beat. Everyone was clapping and cheering, having fun for once as they enjoyed the music.
Rickon phased through the last few people himself as Torrhen turned to look up at the woman on his right. "Hey, what's going on?"
Luckily she knew the Common Tongue. "The blood riders had successful hunt! We play the drums and feast tonight after the khals meet."
Rickon turned to him blankly. "Blood riders? Khal's?"
Torrhen pretended to shift his arm, but in actuality elbowed his friend to keep quiet. He didn't dare try to alternate conversations with his friend while in front of the Dothraki. "Drums? Is that what those things are called?"
She nodded. "We carve them from wood and seal the top with animal skin. It's our way to make music."
Torrhen was intrigued, but before he could ask anything else a muscular rider appeared at her side and tugged her into the clear space between the drummers and crowd. She laughed merrily and pressed up against him, swaying to the music.
Torrhen flushed red and averted his eyes. Despite the recent famine in the North prior to going back in time, feasts happened on the rare occasion back in the North beyond the yearly Long Night memorial service. Only if Queen Sansa had an important enough guest coming to Winterfell that required the formalities of hosting such a meal. Northerners were loud and brash when they knocked back pints of ale, but aside from the Long Night feasts, Torrhen and Lyaella normally didn't attend them. They were aware of the bawdiness that Northerners let loose during the festivities, but they never saw it for themselves since the Long Night feasts were much more tame in comparison considering it was for the memorial service.
Even so, Northerners definition of bawdiness didn't hold a candle to how Dothraki celebrated. It was… weird. Really weird. Torrhen had never seen people dance the way these Dothraki were dancing with each other right now. It was just plain weird.
A tugging on his sleeve made him turn back to his friend. "Must we stay here?" Rickon asked, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I know my father were he alive would be mortified to see me watching this…"
Torrhen hastily nodded. They turned to go, but Torrhen couldn't resist stealing one last look over his shoulder at the drummers. Rickon noticed his gaze and couldn't help but smile.
"I'll admit those so-called drums are interesting. I've never heard anything like them before."
"Neither have I," Torrhen agreed, his thoughts returning back to his unfinished music scores as he watched the drummers bang the tops and sides of the instruments in the hypnotic beat. "They're fascinating to me."
"Aye, I like them… If I manage to survive and escape from Ramsay Snow and you somehow get out of this Dothraki camp too, bring one of those drums with you and come find me in the North. I wanna try playing one."
And with that simple request, Torrhen's interest in the hollow instrument vanished. What was he doing, wasting time like this? Time was running out for his future uncle if he was going to somehow change his fate. He could worry about his mother's and Lyaella's songs later. Right now, he needed to keep questioning Rickon how he managed to purposely use the Sight to visit him like this right now.
Torrhen turned to his friend anxiously, ready to bombard him with more questions, only to jerk in surprise and curse under his breath.
Rickon was gone.
"This is mad."
"We have to. It's the only way."
"But Ser Jorah, if we don't bring them—"
"It's the sacred city, Barristan. It's their law."
"If we go in there without weapons," Daario hissed, his voice a loud whisper. "We'll be dead by morning!"
"And if we try going in there with them, we'll be killed before we take three steps." Jorah was deathly serious. "We leave our weapons here. There's no other choice."
Daario and Barristan weren't too happy about this predicament, but to Jorah's relief, they nodded and unclipped their weapons from their belts. It was a huge gamble to do this, sneak into Vaes Dothrak to rescue their queen and prince, but what else could they do? The Dothraki would never surrender Daenerys, and it was anyone's guess what could have become of Torrhen.
They had to enter the city, appearing as unthreatening as possible. Because while Daario and Barristan worked to rescue their queen from the Dosh Khaleen, Jorah had to figure out where Torrhen was.
The plan for rescuing Daenerys was relatively simple — given they were only three warriors in the midst of thousands. Since Daario knew enough of the Dothraki language to get by, he and Barristan would pose as wine merchants who'd gotten lost in the city and were supposedly trying to find their way back to the marketplace should anyone see them. The Dosh Khaleen was just past the marketplace and was recognizable enough due to its size being the second biggest building in the city after the meeting hall for the khals. From there they would have to hide and wait to catch either Daenerys or another of the khal widows alone and order her to find a way to bring their queen to them alone.
With any luck, Jorah would have already found and rescued Torrhen by then and they could reconvene at this meeting point outside the city, but if he hadn't, Jorah would be back within half an hour. They would find out from Daenerys herself where he was and they could all go get him together before fleeing the city.
It was the best plan they could come up with in the current situation… aside from two problems.
"I still don't see why it should be you searching for Torrhen, Jorah," Barristan grumbled as the trio hid their weapons behind a cluster of boulders a little ways off from the bushes where their horses were tied up. "The boy is my squire. I should be the one to look for him."
Daario snorted. "You want to find him, Ser Boldy? Be my guest. But don't be surprised when you attract every blood rider's suspicion for obviously not knowing the language and wandering alone in the city."
Jorah nodded. "For once, Daario's right. I'm sorry, but you going in alone to find Torrhen would guarantee we're discovered. It's one thing when a visitor arrives at Vaes Dothrak not knowing the language because they're traveling with someone who does know it. It's incredibly suspicious though when someone comes alone not knowing it. And between myself and Daario, who would that boy be more likely to trust at first glance when we find him? It has to be me."
Barristan folded his arms. "And when they remember you were one of the most notorious warriors to side with Daenerys?"
"As far as the world knows, I was banished by her, remember?" The knight had little to say to that, in any case. Jorah turned to Daario. "Get to the marketplace and figure out a way to secure her Grace. I'll find young Torrhen and find my way back to you."
Heavy panting filled the air, and suddenly the large black furred beast that had accompanied them on this quest sidled up beside Jorah, red eyes fixated on him irritably.
Hence what led to problem number two, and made Jorah sigh in annoyance. "Shadow… please stay with the horses."
Shadow growled, hackles rising.
Daario snorted. "I know these so-called wolves from your homeland are smart and all that, Mormont… but even you can't deny that it's being stupid right now."
Quick as a flash, Shadow snaps his jaws in Daario's direction, his growling growing louder.
"Argh! Damn it, mutt!"
"Jorah, we can't bring the wolf with us to find the queen," Barristan insisted. "If Daario and I are to have any chance to appear non-threatening while searching the city as merchants, we can't have a beast like that with us."
"I know… but he won't stay behind and I can't bring him either. I have no idea where to begin looking for the prince, so I need to be even stealthier than both of you."
For a long moment, the three of them were silent as they deliberated their options on what to do with Shadow… but then the direwolf started trotting along towards the darkest back corners between some of the huts.
"Shadow! Get back here!" Jorah hissed.
But Shadow did not listen. Instead he halted, turned to look Jorah right in the eye, and growled insistently before continuing on his merry way, making sure to stay in the darkest corners between the huts as he waited for the older Northerner to follow him.
Barristan folded his arms as he watched the direwolf, his expression thoughtful. "That wolf might have an idea where Torrhen is, Jorah. I don't know much about how bonds with direwolves work with Northerners, but if they're anything at all like the connection between our queen and her dragons… I'd say following that wolf is the best plan there is."
Jorah considered that for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
"Alright. Good luck then, Jorah." Daario grinned. "I've grown quite fond of your sword arm next to mine in battle." The exiled knight — twice over — gave a grimace and dashed off in the opposite direction of Barristan and Daario.
Their journey was… not without incident. Spilling blood was forbidden, but killing was not. Two bloodriders left to join the Great Stallion with a cracked skull and snapped neck respectively, a quite exhilarating way to kill a man. Certainly tested Daario's skills. "Where is Daenerys being held?" Barristan asked as they tried to keep a low profile while seeming they belonged there.
"She's important, so they'll keep her close to their own quarters, which are… there." He pointed to a large hut, and they both dashed into a copse of bushes and trees with thick branches. "Wait…" Daario held up his hand. "Hear that?"
Barristan blinked. "Hear what?"
But then the voices grew louder, both in fluent Dothraki — one accented, the other musical. As if a Valyrian speaking the language. Daenerys. "I wish he died sooner."
The other voice laughed. "Aye, and I wished yours did as well."
"He wasn't…" The Dragon Queen they both served sighed. "He was a savage, and then he wasn't at the same time… Some men can be both, I suppose, some are uniformly the former."
"And few are the latter, good ones." It was then that they came into view, Daenerys dressed in a simple riding outfit and leather jerkin, one that didn't hide her petite, feminine figure. The other woman was like night compared to the Dragon Queen's Valyrian features, but still very pretty with bronzed skin and dark hair. "Tell me, you truly have three dragons?"
Daario could almost visualize Daenerys' proud smile. One she often wore in the bedchamber while riding him. "I do."
"And they all breathe fire?"
"Yes, they do… Would you like to see them one day?" He rolled his eyes. She was strong, but her compassion often got in the way of that. Like with Torrhen — Daario wasn't so arrogant to believe that the boy wasn't an asset, but Daenerys didn't need to coddle him. It would come back to bite her.
"I am Dosh Khaleen…"
"Ah, so that's where they put her."
"Where?"
Barristan didn't know about the Dothraki. "The widows of the dead Khals. Think the Silent Sisters but not as clean."
"Seven Hells."
Nodding, just as they ducked behind the copse of trees, Daario raced forward and grabbed the other girl. Covering her mouth with his gloved hand, he prepared to snap her neck.
"Don't hurt her!" Daenerys recognized him immediately, her eyes filled with relief even if her voice was frantic.
It was a command, and he couldn't disregard it. "She'll give us away." The girl tried to say something but it came out a muffled series of sounds.
"She won't," the Queen repeated, reaching for his hand. When he took away the hand, the girl only fell onto the ground, sitting there. "Stay there, nothing will happen to you." She nodded. "You came for me? Where's Torrhen?"
"Ser Jorah is going for him." Barristan pointed to the mountains surrounding Vaes Dothrak. "We have horses. A quick ride at night and we can be on the way back to Meereen before they find us gone."
Daenerys shook her head. "Torrhen is sick, he's not in any condition to move…"
"Leave him if he's a liability." Daario immediately knew he said the wrong thing. "Your Grace, your survival…"
"He is my blood, Daario," Daenerys replied, her glare close to killing him.
"Do you truly believe that?"
"Jorah always said he was," Barristan remarked. "And the way he approached Drogon without fear?"
"Means nothing."
"The boy is special, Khaleesi," said the girl.
"Shut up."
"Daario, enough." When the Queen made a decision, nothing could sway her. "The only way Torrhen can get out of here is if the khalasar swears to me the way the Unsullied did."
"But that's impossible…"
"No, it's not." Her eyes filled with fire, the same that made Daario bind himself to her in perpetuity. "I will do it, and you two are going to help me."