@lovedbyspark | for Eira
Drogo gazed at the wall of the tent, not seeing the silk there. In his mind's eye, he saw the gardens of Adrevale Keep, heard and smelled the ruckus of the markets. Dirty children, laughing, chased cats, and beside him... He tore himself from the memory as the flap of the tent was drawn aside. Word had come that a band of riders had run down some travelers and they should be arriving with their spoils to present them to their Khal. He took a disinterested pull from his drinking horn as Dothraki men shoved dirty figures inside, and slaves carried looted goods behind them. Drogo looked over them with disinterest. Their clothes were in disarray from their flight and the following fight. Splashes of red dashed across them and... He stopped, eyes flicking back to the golden-haired woman knelt in the middle of the new slaves. Blood splattered across her face and her dress... It was Adrevalen in make, he had no doubt. The shoulder and and skirt were torn, and she held the bodice of the dress to her chest. The drinking horn slipped from his hand and, trembling, he stood. He took one step, breathed, "My daisy," and rushed forward, crouching before her and taking her face gently in his hands. His eyes, wide, searched her face, took in the bruising around her eye, horrified and amazed all at once. Then, his face turned into a mask of fury and he straightened, slugging the face of the rider who held her shoulder. "Who touched her?!" he demanded, his voice ringing like a hammer on an anvil.