#queen!daenerys

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[fierypen37]

Victory is in Your Veins: Chapter 18

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

Chapter 18

 Day Fifty-Five: Jon

 Jon had never been a devout man. Dutifully, he knelt in prayer to the old gods of House Stark; he’d pledged his vows for the Night’s Watch before a heart tree. Not that prayers had saved him since Morrgys took him. Eyeless and powerless without the wierwoods, perhaps the old gods could not reach him. As such, he did not know who to lay his thanksgiving before. Daenerys, asleep on his chest. A miracle, a feast of sensation for him to gorge upon. Jon shifted his weight against the tent support, careful not to jostle her. The lax weight of her, that delicious rose oil and smoky scent. There were different notes to it: sweeter at the crown of her head, then with just a hint of musk at the base of her throat. That thick mane of silver hair, he found notes gold near her neat little ears. Gods, he loved her hair. Free from the complicated braids, it fell in crimped waves, warm and glossy. The even cadence of her breathing, the way even in sleep, her fists were clenched tight in his shirt. Jon wanted to slip into her dreams and slay the monsters that gnashed at her.  

            Jon was terrified to move, to breathe too deeply and break the spell. The hour of the bat faded into the hour of the eel, marked only by the shifting shadows.

            His whisper emerged air-soft, with barely enough breath behind it to make a sound: “I will follow you anywhere. I love you.” Perhaps it was his own foolish heart, but he imagined he saw the corner of her mouth tip into a smile. Gods, could it be possible for her to have shared in his dreams? There had been longing in her eyes when he woke her from her troubled sleep. He would walk barefoot through the Garden of Bones if she wanted him. A breath of assent and he would do anything she asked. Surely she knew that?

             Some timeless eternity or perhaps a couple heartbeats later, Daenerys stirred. Those long eyelashes fluttered, so close he could feel the tickle of them. Jon loosed his tight, possessive hold on her, muscles knotted rigid. His mouth was dry, dread drew his belly taut as a drum. Would she be displeased that he was still here, holding her? Did she think he groped her in her sleep?

                Daenerys made a low sound in her throat. That hum went straight to his cock. Jon clenched his jaw, willing his body to obey. A cockstand would do little to reassure her of his honorable intentions. Still languid and dreamy with sleep, Daenerys nuzzled his throat and mumbled something in High Valyrian. Jon shuddered at the puff of her warm breath, the silky skin of her cheek against his throat. Gods, that felt good. More, please more. If he tilted up her chin and kissed her plump sweet lips, would she cling to him or slap him? There was nothing more in the world he wanted than to kiss her.

              Jon’s hand lifted of its own will and brushed the petal-soft skin of her cheek with the pad of his fingertip. Daenerys shifted in his arms and the scent of her musk wafted up. Yes, that’s more like it. Lusty dreams. A part of him wished he could fall asleep and join her there. Jon clenched his eyes tight shut. His mouth watered. He remembered all too well the taste of her honey, the sweet clutch of her cunt, the bite of her nails in his shoulders as he fucked her. Jon strove for control, willing his throbbing cock to obey.

                Sometime later, she stirred again, unfocused violet eyes blinking open. Jon held his breath, expecting a slap, harsh words. He swallowed hard around the sudden knot in his throat.

                “Your—Your Grace?” Jon’s voice was husky, intimate, though he had not intended to make it so.

                “Jon Snow,” she whispered. Gods. The way her lips formed his name! It struck his heart and stirred his rebellious cock. Daenerys straightened to sit cross-legged on the reed mats of her tent. Jon mourned the loss of her weight and her warmth. Her gaze skittered over his body, his cock tenting his linen trousers. Jon steeled himself for her censure. Would she banish him from her presence for the presumption? The look she leveled at him was one he couldn’t parse meaning from. So many mysteries in those changeable eyes.

                “You’re quite the mystery, Jon. Perhaps one day I will know you better,” she said, as if mirroring his own musings. Jon was at a loss for how to reply. He stood and stamped life back into his numbed feet.

              “Do—Do you wish to be alone, Your Grace?” Jon stammered, his cheeks afire. When was the last time he’d felt embarrassed?

              “I’ll seek my bed. Goodnight.”

              Jon stood rooted in place as she sauntered past him to stretch out on her sleeping furs. Perhaps there was an invitation couched in that phrasing, but he would rather fight in the arena again than displease Daenerys. He straightened his spine. If she wants me in her bed, she had better spell it out. He resumed his post at her doorway to watch through the dark small hours of the night.

 ~

 Day Fifty-Five: Dany

 When the sun filtered through the oilcloth roof of her tent to stir her awake, she woke refreshed. The time spent asleep in Jon Snow’s strong arms had performed wonders on her mood. The warmth and strength of him. There was kindness in his voice and his touch. With a start on awakening, she had checked the urge to kiss him. A queen must remember her duty, even when her lieutenant drove her to distraction with his beauty and his good strong heart. Gods help me, I could love him and it would be the ruin of me. Targaryens could not seek comfort among others.

              Ser Barristan was on watch as she stirred.

              “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you rested well,” he said politely. Daenerys fingercombed her wild hair.

              “I am well-rested, thank you. I hope you earned a little sleep after yesterday, ser,” she answered. The old knight shrugged.

              “There is much work to be done, but yes. I did rest.”

              Daenerys rose from her bed and shook the lingering dregs of sleep.

            “What needs to be done?” she asked.

              Missandei and Irri appeared to help her dress. She chose worn riding leathers and the deep blue stole. Irri deftly braided her silver hair and placed her two bells. One for Qarth, one for Astapor—there was some debate whether Yunkai could add another bell.  Daenerys nibbled on cheese and fresh slices of sweet melon as Ser Barristan spoke. She supposed the council of a healer, priest and wise man she had set for Astapor would work for Yunkai as well.  

            “The biggest issue I foresee, Your Grace, is the issue of prisoners. The men Jon Snow took prisoner are many.”

              Daenerys felt a pleasant jolt at the mention of him.  

              “He took prisoners in my name?”

Ser Barristan eyed her with a mixture of patience and exasperation.

            “He did, Your Grace. Slavers who did as they were bid and offered up slaves and gold.” Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, considering. Every moment she tarried, the jewel of Slaver’s Bay Meereen was girding for a long siege. They mustn’t’ tarry.

            “The city is more or less intact. Perhaps these slavers will be my hostages for the city’s good behavior. Tally their names and ranks and send envoys to their kin. We must make our way to Meereen,” Daenerys said. Ser Barristan nodded.

             “As you say, Your Grace. The camp mobilizes as we speak,” he said, “Speaking of Jon Snow, he has a request, Your Grace.”

            “Say on,” Daenerys said, distracted as she reached through the gossamer bond between her and her dragons. A brush of thought, an inkling of travel. Drogon was the first to answer, stirring to her touch. Straining for focus, she felt his reflection of acknowledgement. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Focusing as she was, she didn’t hear what Ser Barristan said.

            “Apologies, what was that, ser?”

            “Jon Snow wishes to take a squire. A Ghiscari boy by the name of Zokan.”

            Daenerys digested this. It seemed strange. Jon Snow seemed a hard man, a solitary man, not prone to chivalric convention. Stranger still, when he spent several hours in her company last night, he had not asked. Instead, he spoke by proxy.

            “Of course. Shall I draft something?” she asked.

            Dothraki were not record-keepers, but adding Missandei and Ser Barristan to her entourage had incentivized her to keep more accurate records. Ser Barristan grinned, and offered a square of parchment. Couched in formal phrasing, it authorized Jon Snow to enlist a squire of his choosing, given that the interested party also consented. Missandei lifted her writing tray and freshly trimmed quill. Daenerys signed her name and pressed the dragon seal in red wax. There was another sheaf of paper for her perusal. Gold tallies, injury lists, larder lists, and it seemed half a hundred more. As she wrote and tallied and listened to her councilors outline problems facing the camp, Dothraki porters dismantled the tent around them. By the time she was done, they were rolling up the reed mats beneath her feet.

            The warm sun kissed her face and Daenerys felt excitement and energy stir within her. The open road beckoned, and another step on the journey. Rakharo swaggered up, a new gold chain roped around his neck, along with her two other bloodriders, who looked haggard from their long work the day before, but no less energized than Daenerys.

          “Perhaps the warriors in Meereen will offer us better sport than this lot,” Rakharo said with a disgusted twist of his mouth beneath his mustachio.

             “Let us not hope for too fierce a battle,” Daenerys said dryly. In the distance, she saw the Stormcrow banner flapping at the mouth of a sturdy grey tent. The sellsword captain, Daario Naharis. The image of his blue eyes and gold-toothed smile danced in her mind’s eye.

            “Your Grace,” Jon Snow said.

              Damn him, his deep northern voice sent a pleasant shiver through her. Any thought of sellsword captains tossed to the wind. Daenerys mastered it with irritation and returned his greeting. At Snow’s left elbow stood a lanky Ghiscari boy, perhaps five-and-ten, fresh faced with watchful dark eyes that almost matched Snow’s.

            “Good morn, Zokan,” Daenerys said with a small smile in Valyrian. The boy was clearly startled to have her address him—even more that she knew his name. His prominent voice box bobbed, eyes wide and alarmed. He glanced at Jon Snow.

            “Goo--” his voice cracked soaring to a high note. Color stained his cheekbones, but he coughed and doggedly repeated: “Good morn, Your Grace.”

          “Jon Snow requested to have you enter his service as a squire. You agree to this? It is your choice to refuse and maintain your place with the infantry if you prefer,” Daenerys said. At his bewildered look, he also hadn’t expected to have a choice in the matter.

          “I—uh . . . Zokla timpa is a fine fighter, I am eager to learn from him. For your glory, Your Grace,” he added politely. Daenerys shared a glance with Jon—the White Wolf. The reputation he had built in the arena clearly proceeded him. All too easily, Dany could imagine that contained ferocity unleashed on a hapless enemy.

          “Very well. See Ser Jorah about your gear. Jon will help you find a mount,” Dany said in gentle dismissal. Zokan clapped his fist on his chest in salute. A quick glance found the scowl-lines carved deep in Jon’s face.

            “Your Grace, there is something you need to see,” he said. Dread fell like a lead weight, crushing her ebullient mood.

            “Show me,” she said.

            The group of them quickly mounted. Dany heeled her silver after the charcoal-grey rump of Jon’s mount. Her silver danced through the disintegrating camp, dodging tent supports, sidling around porters cursing at pack animals. Daario Naharis a flash of gold and blue in the tail of her eye, mounted and heeled his sorrel to join them. A forest of Unsullied spears formed their perimeter, and Grey Worm joined them, running alongside. Unsullied did not ride, and their commander was no exception. Even at a comfortable trot, Grey Worm kept pace with no evident signs of strain save his muscular arms gleaming with sweat. The three spikes on his helm gleamed like Viserion’s horns in the strong light.

              Wending their way through the dregs of Yunkai’s shattered gates to the mouth of the road the snaked along the coast to the next great slave city. Meereen lay at the farthest point inland on Slaver’s Bay, at the mouth of the Shakazadan River. Brindled crags and tough yellowed grasses spread out before them. Ribbons of heat danced in the distance. Carrion crows cawed to each other, thick in the air. No doubt hungry for the battle’s leavings. The bay was a distant gleam of beaten silver and a faint moist, salty tang in the air. Black, oily smoke rose in ominous plumes in the distance. Meereenese defenders burning fields to deny her men food. Perhaps she should—

            Jon reined in his dapple.

            “The Unsullied scout found them before dawn,” he said.

The smell reached her first.

              Rot and foulness. Old blood and the taste of agony. Daenerys swung down with a crunch of gravel under her boots. Stone mile-markers dating back to before the Doom squatted at the road’s edge, the carvings worn smooth by time. The only thing remaining was a numerical marker in Ghsicari script, near-invisible among crawling weeds. Daenerys noted these details with some abstraction, her eye at last finding the rough-hewn cross and the child nailed to it. Stick-thin arm outstretched, nail cruelly driven at the wrist and the bend of the index finger, pointing down the road to Meereen. A girl, Lorathi or Myrish by the look of her, no older than eight, sagging against the nails that pierced her. Tears blurred the image of her face, those dark eyes wide and staring for the seven heaven’s loving gaze. If Dany blinked, the tears would fall, and she could not allow that. Not yet. When the horror sunk into her heart, she knew she might never stop weeping.

            Daenerys approached, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s cold foot. Above, the sun caught her black hair, making it shine like a halo. Shock and sickness made her lips numb, rage boiled like the blood of the earth in her belly.

            “The scout said there was another on the next mile. Marking the way to Meereen,” Jon Snow said. The softness of his voice made the short hair on her arms stiffen. His rage matched her own.

            “How many miles are there from here to Meereen?” she asked.

              “One hundred and sixty-three, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah rasped.

              “Godless cowards and butchers,” Daario hissed, spitting into the dirt.

            “I’ll have men ride ahead and bury them. You don’t need to see this . . . this butchery,” Ser Barristan said.

            “No,” Daenerys said in a fierce undertone, not taking her eyes from the girl’s bloodless face, yellow as old bone in the sun.

          “I will see every one of their faces,” she said, “remove her collar before you bury her.”

              All through that slow, horrid march, she would stop at each mile to see the faces. This one, a plump boy with the stained hands of a dyer’s apprentice, back jagged with the lash. That one, a girl as rare and lovely as a winter rose, pale and perfect in the dawn, her beauty only marred by her face contorted in a rictus of suffering. A girl, scarcely more than a babe. A boy. A boy. A girl. Not one older than ten. A growing heap of leather collars. Tiny, pudgy fingers pointing pointing pointing to Meereen. Jon stripped to the waist as he dug graves in the cracked earth. The horror and sickness remained, along with that kindling rage.

            Day waned into night and the cawing of crows made Dany want to stopper her ears. More waited tomorrow. Dismissing her guards to a comfortable distance, Dany picked her way down the jagged white rocks to the pebble beach. Here, the only foulness came from the smell of beached seaweed. Exhaling a shaking breath, she let the sound of the surf and the clean, salty air scrub her rough edges. She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees, curled tight around her pain. A dribble of loosened pebbles alerted her to his approach. Jon Snow. Daenerys didn’t pause to dissect how she knew it was him, only the balm she felt in his presence. Jon didn’t bluster or chatter or philosophize. He just sat beside her and waited.

             “Why?” she said at last, tears clogging thick in her voice. Tears welled and fell despite her will, hot, ticklish drips down her cheeks. She moved to swipe them away. Jon’s rough hands, knuckles scabbed and palms blistered from digging, were gentle as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing. Wiping away her tears. The musky male smell of him washed over her, sharp with sweat. It soothed her.

            “You know why,” he said, “they hear you have a tender heart, and a love for children. So they make you suffer. It cost them nothing.”  

            “It cost me much,” Dany whispered. Silence fell between them, broken only by the song of the waves as ancient as time. Jon’s deep voice broke the stillness.

            “In the arena, the masters threw in a boy with me, no older than my younger brother. Then they loosed a shadowcat on us. I . . . I couldn’t protect him. It cost them nothing to slay him, but it cost me,” Jon said, husky with emotion. Accustomed to violence as she was, sometimes the savagery of the arena gave her pause. Another institution to dismantle.

            “We will find our recompense, I swear it,” Daenerys said. The shadows in his eyes mellowed and a muscle jerked in his jaw, almost a smile.

            “I have no doubt, Your Grace.”

            Comfortable silence fell between them. As with extreme fatigue, her grasp on her thoughts seemed to fray. The lap of the waves against the beach in and out, in and out in grey-blue ripples lulled her into a mesmerized stupor.

            “Your sons worry for you,” Jon said. Blinking back to the present moment, Daenerys found a bemused smile.

            “The green one, Rhaegal. He always flies around your tent three times every night before he finds his nesting spot.” The iron band around her heart loosened a little.

            “I didn’t know he did that,” she said. On impulse, she reached out and grabbed his callused hand, so warm and strong, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Those night-dark eyes shone like polished jet.  

            “You are not alone,” he said.  

 The horror didn’t lessen with repetition. Talk was subdued at the head of the column. She could feel the questing touch of her entourage’s worried glances. Jon Snow’s gaze was among them, but she took comfort in his. He understood. Dany swayed in the saddle—she couldn’t stomach food. What little she ate returned with burning vengeance at the next blood-wet cross.

            “Please take some, Your Grace. You could faint in this heat,” Missandei said, offering her a wineskin. Daenerys accepted the wineskin and took a token sip to please her friend. The lukewarm wine seared her throat like vinegar.

            The heat was indeed unmerciful. The wide-brimmed straw hat she wore offered some shade, but the sun was a hot, hateful eye in the sky—not so much as a wisp of cloud in sight. Sweat tickled her neck beneath the heavy weight of her braid. Even her dragon standard with its proud three-headed dragon hung listless. The thought of her sons was a comfort. The three of them enjoyed fishing in the bay. Drogon could dart his head underwater, snatch a fish, then toss it overhead and sear it to his liking in one smooth motion.

            “I’ll be all right, Missandei.” Daenerys tried to make her voice reassuring, but this death march had shaken her. Not her faith, or the belief of the righteousness of her cause, but shocked her with the depths of depravity her enemies would plumb. Jon heeled his dapple the remainder of the distance and shooed the carrion crows perched on the cross. Zokan and a pair of Unsullied marched double-time to assist him.

            “What is the count now, Ser Barristan?” she asked, swinging down.             “Ninety-seven, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said at her stirrup. With care, he helped her down. Daenerys staggered as the world swam and warbled before it righted itself. The smell of rotten flesh made her stomach clench and roil. Beneath the shade of his hood, Ser Barristan’s seamed face was full of sympathy. Hard swordsman’s hands held her shoulders.

          “They say your brother was the last dragon, Your Grace. But they were wrong. You are as fierce a dragon as I’ve ever known.”

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

[fierypen37]

Victory is in Your Veins: Chapter 14

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

Chapter 14

 Day One: Jon

 True to his word, Jon hunkered down in an obscure alley until nightfall. As he crept across the sun-warmed cobbles in the dying light, Jon was plagued with a vague disquiet. No watching eyes. No heavy clank and rattle of chain and fetter. His neck felt strangely light without the weight of the collar. Gods, he was unused to freedom. A pathetic, sobering thought. Missandei had told him stories of slaves who were freed who begged to be sold back to their masters. It is all they know. A slave knows when he must wake, when he must work, when he must sleep. Freedom is a burden to some, Jon Snow. He had sneered at them. Every moment for over two years had been striving to regain his freedom. It felt so long. More like a lifetime.

Jon retraced his steps back to the courtyard. From there, he could find his way to Morrgys’ compound. Before parting, Daenerys had instructed Ser Jorah to toss the collars into the bay. He slipped like a shadow through the near-deserted streets to Morrgys’ complex, poised black and gleaming like a scorpion. The master’s quarters were in the highest tower. Jon glared at the distant lamplight so far above him.

All the measures meant to keep slaves in also worked in effect to keep intruders out. He growled and paced like a stymied wolf. Think. Think! As bitter of a draught as it was to swallow, the truth remained. It was suicide to attempt to kill Morrgys in his own compound. Astapor was not Volantis. A slave rebellion here would be savagely repressed. Legions of Unsullied—the finest slave soldiers in the world—would see to that. Jon imagined Morrgys pacing in his quarters, clinging to Longclaw as a child would cling to a doll. Double the guard, he would say. Jon found a grim smile. Those guards will not save you. One day soon, I will watch the light die in your eyes.

“I shall have to bide my time. The coward loves luxury too much to remain sequestered within forever,” he said to himself. Patience, that’s all he would need.

Another thought niggled at him. Once her dealings with the masters were concluded, Daenerys would ride away. Ride away and take his heart with her while Jon remained in this blood-red hellhole of sand and tears. For what? A sword that hadn’t been his right to begin with? A vow of revenge that could be rendered moot since Daenerys had freed him?

Jon lifted his eyes to the waxing paring of the moon, his gaze unhindered by bars for the first time in years. Jon clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, at war within himself. The thought of her selling her dragon for an army . . . the sound of it did not ring true. The woman he knew was kind as well as fierce. The whispers said she was called Mother of Dragons. If they were her sons, then she would not sell them into slavery. Not her. Go to her, you thick-headed dolt. Pledge yourself to her in a vow more binding than slavery and never leave her side. Jon wasn’t sure what part of him whispered it to him, but the missing of her was a physical ache high in his scarred chest. Daenerys said she would be bunking aboard her ship the Meraxes in Astapor’s harbor. Maybe just one last look.

 ~

 Day One: Daenerys      

 Daenerys paced in the close heat on her cabin. The translator, Missandei, lay asleep in the berth bed. A mixture of tenderness and pity stirred in Daenerys’ chest. Such a sweet lovely thing. Intelligent and guarded. Her wary golden eyes tugged at her heart. She hoped to coax a friendship between them. A different voice than her Dothraki handmaidens would be a boon. Her decision to trade Drogon for the legions of Unsullied weighed on her. Selling a son into slavery. Daenerys closed her eyes. There was another way, she just wasn’t seeing it yet.

Another weight was Jon Snow. Gods, he was so beautiful. His battered body sculpted to perfection. Wild black hair, deep soulful eyes that betrayed so much emotion on his impassive face. Her fluttering heart hoped he was the one. The man in her dreams who loved her with passion and begged her for solace, for hope. No doubt he had seen her tremble as she removed the collar. Pale and scarred, with a deep, rough voice . . . and then he left. Left to seek his own aims.

“No. It wasn’t him. Ser Barristan could have been wrong. Maybe I am tainted. Mad, just like my father,” she whispered.

Her hands fisted in the tunic over her belly. Her loins ached. It had been so long since her sun-and-stars. Dany longed for the feel of a lover’s body. The warmth and closeness. Irri would relieve the tension, but out of duty, not desire. Dreams weren’t enough. Certainly, she could take a lover from among her khalasar, or even marry to secure ships or swords or lands as all queens must, but . . . she would not risk the steel of her command on fleeting pleasures. Those who followed her did so out of devotion, not because her bedsport pleased them.

The walls of the cabin were too close, too hot. The lamp smoke stung in her eyes. The dragons watched her from their enclosures. Drogon’s innocent amber-red gaze burned her as surely as a brand. Daenerys closed the door softly behind her and sought the quiet of the upper deck. The sliver of moon hung serene and golden above the harbor. The heat had blessedly slackened to a sweet cool calm. Dany braced her hands on the smooth railing and breathed deep. Sick in body and heart. If she believed in gods, she would have sought solace in prayer. Tears pricked her eyes and welled up, though she did not let them fall. I am blood of the dragon. Tears will not beget solutions.

“What am I to do?” she whispered. The seemingly endless journey, forging these stiff-necked, troublesome peoples into a single unit, facing starvation and treachery and death . . . for what?  A land she had never seen? A chair that belonged to her father? She wanted a home. Sturdy walls and safety. A man to love her. A child. Grief smote her and the tears defied her will and slipped hotly down her cheeks. The moon offered no answers, and Daenerys could muster none either.

 Day Two

 The Plaza of Punishment awaited her in grey of dawn. Sleep eluded her, and after bathing in cool seawater, she dressed with care. Today she wore horsehair breeches belted with golden medallions, her favorite brown leather boots and a loose tunic of sandsilk, studded with seed pearls along the neckline. She wore her bell in her braid. Gold and copper bangles jangled on her wrists. Like chains, somewhere her mind whispered. Her bloodriders, Ser Barristan, and Ser Jorah of her Queensguard marched around her silver. Drogon and his brothers were chained in their basket. The dragons knew something was amiss. Viserion and Rhaegal paced in the enclosure while Drogon lay coiled like a still snake, red eyes watchful.

The ranks of the Unsullied that would soon be hers stood in silent, perfect ranks. Over ten thousand in all, including the unblooded and the boys who had not yet earned their spears. Kraznys mo Nakloz awaited her on the wooden platform. Slaves held a silken shade aloft to shield him from the heat of the rising sun, from the cloud of dust kicked up by horses. Another deftly whisked at the flies and midges. Still another knelt holding a tray of cherry wine above her bowed head. Veiled women and tokar-wearing masters watched as Daenerys swung down from her horse, braided and belled like a Dothraki khal. Missandei scurried to keep pace with Daenerys’ quick stride, whispering in her precise voice what the hideous masters said on her approach.

“The master says they are untested. He says it would be wise to blood them early. There are many small cities between here and there, ripe for sacking. He says he will buy the healthy ones for a good price. And who knows? In ten years, perhaps those you sell will become Unsullied in their time. Thus all shall prosper.”

Daenerys swallowed hard. She motioned for Kovarro to loose the chain. He obeyed, handing her the chain shackled to Drogon’s leg. He took flight with a sharp screech, unfurling wings like black silk. Daenerys handed the chain to Kraznys. He in turn handed her the whip, topped with its grotesque golden harpy. The claws anchored to each of her stripes clicked faintly.

“Is it done, then?” she said in crisp Common.

“It is done. You hold the whip. The bitch has her army.”

“--It is done, Missandei said, “you hold the whip.”

Daenerys turned her back to Drogon and Kraznys who struggled to yank the dragon down. The Unsullied rank stood, as silent as ebony-armored statues.

“Dovaogēdys! Naejot memēbātās! Kelītīs!” [Unsullied! Forward march! Halt!] They obeyed. Perfectly. Unflinchingly.

All her fear and anguish burned away as swift as the morning mist. The golden sun touched her shoulders, a warm kiss of benediction. There was no going back now. The watching Astapori were more interested in the struggles of Kraznys to note Daenerys had spoken Valyrian. Missandei understood, her golden eyes wide and round.

“Tell the bitch her beast will not come,” Kraznys complained. All of Daenerys’ fury coalesced into a hard ball in her belly, it rose up and out as hot as dragon’s flame.

“Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.” [A dragon is not a slave.]

Kraznys stilled, jarred by her words.

“You speak Valyrian?” he said dumbly. Daenerys found a thin smile.

“Nyke Daenerys Jelmāzmo hen Targārio Lentrot, hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan. Valyrio muño ēngos ñuhys issa.” [I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue.]

“Drogon. Dracarys!”

A black jet of flame engulfed Kraznys and the gathered Astapori shrieked in horror.

Daenerys found her silver’s stirrup and swung astride. With all her strength, she threw aside the whip. Viserion and Rhaegal rose to join their brother in the sky and the colors of their fire dazzled her. Fire glowing an unholy black. Fire white as the sun. Fire green as the fabled wildfire that her father delighted in. Daenerys stood in her stirrups and shouted in Valyrian: “Unsullied! Slay the masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who holds a whip, but harm no child. Strike the chains off every slave you see! Freedom! FREEDOM!”

“FREEDOM! DRACARYS!” was the answer from ten thousand throats and she had heard no sweeter sound.

 ~

 Day Two: Jon

In the shadows of the Plaza of Punishment, Jon watched. The cadence of her words, the proud set of her shoulders, the sun turning her silver hair aglow. Daenerys.

“Dracarys! Freedom! FREEDOM!” The word rang through him. Every part of him so sharply, painfully alive. As if she’d awoken him from a slumber deep as death.

“DRACARYS!” he shouted along with every Unsullied in the plaza. Had Jon been close enough in the boiled-over cauldron of blood and screams, he would have kissed her hem. Not only was she a shining goddess who freed slaves, but she had given him his chance. Morrgys would be somewhere in the Plaza of Punishment, and Jon would have his revenge.

Soft-footed, Jon jumped down from courtyard wall. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet. All through the long sleepless night, Jon had paced through the streets of Astapor. He found the harbor. He searched for the ship painted with the name Meraxes. Barefoot, he wandered, looking for her, but for naught.

Now, energy sang through his muscles, burning away the weariness like the sun burned the dew. The Plaza writhed in chaos. The Unsullied did as they were bid, marching in perfect ranks down the avenues of Astapor—their spears wet with blood. The Dothraki riders broke around the lines like water over stones, shrieking and slicing out with their gleaming black arakhs. Arrows flew. Long Dothraki whips cracked like thunder. Some of the slave soldiers fought, but more to save their own skin than out of concern for their masters. And the dragons. Living dragons on wing, sleek and small as their mistress, and just as fierce. Their fire burned so bright, so hot in colors as vivid as their scales.

The Plaza fell into eerie silence as Daenerys and her army moved on. Kraznys mo Nakloz was naught but a heap of blackened bones. Jon peeled sandals and sandsilk trousers from a nearby corpse. He found a good dagger, as well as an Essosi shortsword. Jon tied both to his waist. That would do until he found Morrgys. He would be unique amongst the Good Masters of Astapor. A slaver who dealt in fighting pit slaves, his guards would most likely defend him. Like the coward he was, he would retreat to his compound.

“Not that it will save him,” Jon said to himself.

Nearby, an Astapori master moaned, bleeding out from a spear wound in the belly. Turquoise roundels rattled on the fringe of his jet tokar.

“Help me,” he wheezed, blood joining the perfumed oil in his forked beard. Jon looked down on him. If he was feeling kind, he would open his throat, end his suffering. But Jon hadn’t felt anything like kindness in over two years. Jon stood, the sun blotted out by the smoke from the burning.

“The slaves on the Walk of Punishment cry themselves hoarse begging for help. For water. What succor do they find?” he said, stepping over the man. Let him gasp and bleed and die watching dragons dance and his city burn. Jon lengthened his stride into a lope, clapping a hand on the sword hilt to still the joggling. Morrgys awaited. He and the red thing within were of one accord. Swift and hungry. We must prepare her way with blood and the whips of masters.

The Unsullied were nothing if not efficient. Jon saw the evidence of their obedience. Dead men and women in tokars, faces blank with shock. Weeping children. Collars. Collars everywhere. Leather, brass, gold. All yawning open. The slaves had taken the frenzy of battle and armed themselves with the dropped weapons of the guards. Any who survived the tide of Unsullied would not remain so long. The din of the rabble was deafening.

Jon cut through an alley, heading north towards the center of the city. He could circumvent the Unsullied legions with some luck. A screech raised the fine hairs on his skin. A dragon. The green one. Jon craned his head to see him gliding through the air almost close enough to touch. Some kinship bloomed between them, almost as with Ghost.

“Happy hunting, brother,” Jon whispered as the dragon flapped his wings.

The heavy stomp of hobnailed sandals, the rattle of armor, each step timed in flawless sync, was growing louder behind him. The Unsullied were coming. Jon would have to hurry. Astapori natives seethed, a scrum of terrified, confused people. Merchants, wives and children making their way to market. Daenerys’ orders would see these people unharmed.  Jon struggled, elbowing through the crowd. The reek of fear and sweat replaced the lingering scent of smoke.

A palanquin waded through the sea of humanity at a sharp clip. A fresh jolt of energy sang through him. The sword was in his hand. He would hamstring on of the bearers, then as the palanquin fell and he tumbled out, Jon could open his throat—the silk screen parted to reveal a veiled female master, dark eyes darting about like a frightened doe. Jon cursed under his breath, pressing the pace. In a fashion, Morrgys had sealed his own doom—Jon had become a supreme killer. The long run barely winded him as he turned down one avenue, then another. Twice more, he passed fleeing masters in sedan chairs or palanquins.

Anxiety made his empty taut as a drum. The compound was only a couple streets away. Any closer, and Morrgys could raise the alarm and Jon’s opponents would multiply. Gods, if that monster slipped through his fingers, if Jon squandered the gift Daenerys had given him . . . Jon snarled, digging deeper into his reserves of energy.

At last! The gleam of two sweating bald pates, walking on either end of the palanquin. The Twins, and half a dozen sellswords besides. The odds were not in his favor, but when had they ever been? Morrgys’ palanquin bearers were nearly running, the cabin lurching this way and that in its haste. On any other day, it would have earned the bearers a sound beating. Jon steeled himself, gripping the shortsword tighter. In his off-hand was the dagger. If he killed enough of the sellswords, they would break and run.

The only true threats were the Twins. Each were as skilled as they were cruel. Every lash of a whip, every blow from a cane or cudgel rushed back at him. The red thing roared. Too close now for them to turn or call for help---Jon leapt, burying the dagger to the hilt in one Twin’s neck, in one side and out the other. Blood spurted in a red-black fountain, spraying a palanquin bearer across the back. The large man shrieked in alarm, joggling his burden. Fuck, the dagger stuck in the falling Twin. The sellswords, armed with swords and clubs, converged.

“Fuck! It’s the Wolf!” the other Twin shouted.

“Kill him! Kill him!” came Morrgys’ muffled refrain. The Twin fell, gargling on his blood.

First, prevent escape.

Jon swung the sword down, slicing one of the rear palanquin bearers in the arm. Enough to wound. Jon had no quarrel with them; the poor bastards were treated little better than fighting pit slaves. The man stumbled, running into his fellow. The palanquin tumbled to the ground, and Morrgys with it. The remaining palanquin bearers bolted like frightened horses down the street. The sellswords brandished their weapons. One darted forward, but Jon saw the reflection of flames and fear in his eyes. Jon raised the sword, blocking one overhand blow, then parrying one of the others in the same motion. He swiveled, ducked, turned, keeping the sellswords from surrounding him. Another with a cudgel charged. Jon ducked, heaving the man over his back and opened his throat.

A sword flew in, Jon was a hair too slow ducking. The blade opened a long cut across his shoulder. Pain was a sharp burn. It gave him clarity, focus. Jon settled himself. Calm. Quick. Methodical. He dispatched one with a blow across the belly, his entrails spilling like shiny red snakes. He cracked another hard with the pommel, then twisted his neck until it snapped. Slivers flew from the crossed swords as Jon checked another hard overhand. Jon strained, heaving up and shoving him to the ground. With the jagged teeth of the sword, he slashed another open from collarbone to navel. Blood flew up in a fine mist. The remaining two broke and ran.      

The other Twin cowering back loosed his whip. The crack was deafening at such close range, pain and leather curled around his left forearm. Jon endured it, then sawed clean through the whip. Left holding a useless handle, the Twin tossed it aside and drew his sword.    

Jon grinned, picking up a clean sword from the dead sellsword.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Daenerys Targaryen offers freedom to any who surrender.” As if on cue, the dragons filled the sky with their song. Piggy dark eyes darted around.

“Too late,” Jon said, twisting the sword in a whistling arc. The Twin roared, slashing out quick and wild. All his discipline and cruelty had bled away to fear. Simple fear. He reeked with it. Like Daenerys’s dragons, Jon could smell it, was emboldened by it. Jon’s hand shook with nerves and weariness, but as the Twin charged, it fell away. His body was an instrument of death, and his name was vengeance.

Jon dodged the blows with ease. From the tail of his eye, he watched Morrgys struggle free of the collapsed palanquin. The white wolf pommel gleamed at his hip. Longclaw. Jon ducked another wild blow, disgusted. It was almost easy. Jon struck out, a quick sharp diagonal slice. It caught the Twin across the belly. Enough to slow, not maim. The Twin cursed, his blows coming slower. Jon danced to the left, and backhanded him hard across the jaw. As he reeled, Jon kicked him to his knees. With one hard swing, Jon decapitated him. The head rolled in the dirt, face frozen in a rictus of agony. Jon tossed aside the sword, and pried another from the dead hand of a sellsword. The club had a nice heft, so he took that too.

Morrgys had made it some distance down the street.

He could move quickly when properly motivated, Jon thought with grim amusement. Jon closed the distance with ease.    

“Morrgys!” Jon shouted. Close, so close now.

The pain and weariness were dust in the wind. Jon chased him down like a wolf hunting a lone sheep. A wolf you have made me. Do you rejoice? Raw terror twisted his features, narrow black eyes wide. When he saw he couldn’t outrun Jon, he fumbled to yank Longclaw from the sheath. Jon laughed, a harsh sound.

“This is your chance, Morrgys. How did you call it, when men fight to death in the arena? ‘Thrilling? No feeling like it in the world.’ Indeed. Let’s see what you can do.” Jon watched him stumble and cower, and relished it.

Longclaw was too long, too heavy for Morrgys. The blade trembled. He held out one hand in a placating gesture.

“What do you want, Zokla timpa? Gold? Women? It’s yours. How ever much you want.” Jon needed to take Longclaw. First, prevent escape. He batted aside Longclaw and struck with the club, hard in the knee. The joint snapped with an audible crack. Morrgys crumpled with a thin cry and Jon was able to wrench Longclaw free. The leather grip was damp with sweat, but holding it felt like home. Jon could almost taste snow in the air. The sun glinted off the ribbons in dark Valyrian steel, wicked sharp. So sharp it felt as if he would cut the very air.

Beyond the blade, he saw his prey, clutching the broken pieces of his knee. His fine velvet trousers were torn and stained. Hate swelled up, hot and choking. Like dragonfire.

“There is nothing you can give me. Nothing,” Jon hissed, “I want your death, nothing more, nothing less.”

“We can work this out. Name your price. I’ll give you anything. Anything!” Morrgys pleaded, inching away on his arms. The fine white silk of his tunic was soaked through with sweat and caked the Astapor’s red dirt. Jon brough the club down on Morrgys’ right hand. This scream was louder, undulating. Like music. What remained of his hand was a pulverized mess of pulpy tissue.

“You must learn to obey, Morrgys. Your first and simplest lesson. Tell. Me. My. Name,” Jon said. The terror in the master’s eyes was so strong a kinder man would have been moved to pity.

“Zokl--” Jon hit him with the club again, in the belly. Coughing, wheezing, Morrgys feebly tried to crawl away. Jon squatted down over Morrgys.

“My name, slaver,” Jon said, dropping the club and hauled him upright by a fistful of his hair.

“Jon Snow,” Morrgys croaked.

Jon thrust Longclaw, piercing Morrgys’ belly. In and up. Slow, twisting his wrist as he pushed. Wet, tearing sounds. Morrgys’ eyes bugged out, body wriggling like a worm pierced by a hook. He clutched at Jon’s arms, struggling. Jon held fast. Blood trickled from his yawning mouth. Morrgys fell slack, eyes wide and fixed. The light fading until it winked out. Dead. Dead. Jon dropped him, pulling Longclaw free. Gore coated his arms to the elbow. He tilted his head back, exhaling a long breath. He felt light, clean.

Free.

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

moodboard by @libradoodle1

[fierypen37]

Victory is in Your Veins

Chapter 9

 Day Two Hundred and Nine: The Dragon Queen

 The bone-white spires of Vaes Drivi in the distance were a boon to her sore eyes. After her sons slew the riders in the Painted Hills, those that remained swore to follow Daenerys’ khalasar. Even thus bolstered by horses, travel was slow on the plains, waylaid by prowling shadowcats. Three horses had died from snakebites and the weak streams were not enough to water horse and man alike. Yet more time was eaten away by their Lhazareen guide departing to seek her own people. The shepherdess would tell her tale to the chieftain and tiger-eyed godswife who would travel to meet them at Vaes Drivi.

A headache throbbed at her temples. The sun was a hot yellow eye bearing down on them. She longed for water, for shade, for rest. Still, she had not survived two journeys through the Red Waste and learned nothing. Daenerys kept her spine straight and her grip on the reins easy. Khal Lanno had fallen before her sons, and the second best mount the khalasar had to offer was the dun she now rode. A strong, hard-mouthed stallion. It took a great deal of her concentration to maintain her seat. It was a tacit test on the part of the newest Dothraki. A khal must ride, after all. The dun too, was worn out from the long march with little water. His proud head drooped, ears lax and pointed outward.  

“Khaleesi?” Kovarro said, offering his waterskin. Daenerys sipped. It tasted more like mud than water, but she was grateful for it all the same. A plume of dust rose. Daenerys rose in the stirrups and spied her own dragon banner gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Relief sluiced through her. Respite before they travel south through the Bone Mountains to Slavers’ Bay. There they would find soldiers. Soldiers to win back her true home.

 ~

 Day Two Hundred and Nine: The White Wolf

 Facing death as many times as he had, Jon’s sleep that night was deep and restful. There was no help in fretting. He would live or die. Gamemakers were notoriously cruel and unpredictable. She did not visit him, but Jon was grateful for that too. Dreams of her stirred longings he would rather keep buried.  

“Valar morghulis,” Jon said under his breath. Not today. I have business to finish. Morrgys will die by my hand.

The routine was familiar. Jon woke to the screech of the key in the lock. A Twin fastened his chains, led him to baths. No costumes or varied weapons this time. Jon was given a tunic of unbleached linen, belted at the waist, leather sandals strapped up to the knee. Weapons too, would be easy to find and keen as pain. It was blood the crowd wanted. As an added spice to this elimination games, the slaves would be shackled in pairs. Morbo was chosen as Jon’s partner. The Twin snapped the manacle shut to Jon’s wrist with a thin grin. Their mutual dislike for one another was no secret. Jon eyed Morbo narrowly. He looked fit. Lean and strong. Lightning quick as most Dothraki were. Time would tell if he Dothraki would try to knife him rather than fight together.  

Like everything else in Volantis, the arena was old and lavish—slaves labored day and night to maintain it. Towers of gleaming white marble, every thoroughfare line with painted statues of past champions, even the torch sconces were chased in gold. Fused black dragon road paved the horseracing track. Tiered seating towered over the white sand of the arena floor. The most lavish boxes overlooked the arena, closest to the action. Triarchs and princes often sat there cosseted by their slaves. To Morrgys’ disdain, Volentenes could even flood the arena to stage mock naval battles. In his master’s opinion, this was frivolous nonsense that mocked the true meaning of the fighting pits: to achieve eternal glory by conquering one’s opponent. Jon’s loathing for slavers did not negate his awe at the architecture. Westeros’s marvel the Wall would have dwarfed the building, but Jon couldn’t help but remember the sorry state of Castle Black. Even Bran the Builder would have marveled the grandeur.

From Morrgys’ telling, the arena seated ten thousand, the same as the famed Daznak’s Pit in Meereen. ‘The best games are in the world are seen in the three sister cities of Slaver’s Bay,’ the native Astapori said. Still, Jon could see the master was nervous. He paced as the slave cart waited for their turn down the avenue to the arena. Slave masters were said to draw lots to determine their arrival time, but Jon heard grumblings from the Twins that the lots were fixed and bribes were rife. Tycho’s master Azmeher zo Queknak was a third-generation slaver, and Meereenese. He also had three more of the most prestigious champions and thus, Morrgys loathed him.

Crowds were thick. All were quivering with the promise of entertainment. Hawkers threaded through the throngs with skewers of meat, loaves of bread, cold water or flagons on wine. The fame of experienced slave fighters lit a madness in some of the spectators. They painted banners, shouted chants, shrieked and tore at themselves when they fell. Tycho, as a prestigious champion, was some ways ahead. The din of the crowd shred at Jon’s ears. So many people. The people of the entire North could fit into this building. The stink and the noise . . . Jon lowered his gaze, seeking an inward calm. With each step, he was reminded of Morbo. The taller man took long, brisk strides, forcing Jon to speed his pace lest he be dragged.

From the upper tiers, wealthy children sprinkled flower petals down on the arriving fighters. Crushed petals released a faint waft of perfume as they walked. The chant for Tycho died down. Morrgys’ slaves began down the queue. There were a couple shouts for Morbo, or Drazhen, Morrgys’ Ghiscari spearman. Then a woman caught Jon’s eye. Free and Volantene by her dress.

“Zokla timpa! Zokla timpa!” The chant caught, echoing into the entrance of the cavernous arena. It sounded as if a thousand voices shouted the name Morrgys gave him.

White Wolf. White Wolf! WHITE WOLF!

From his palanquin, Morrgys grinned and laughed, as if the adulation was his own. Had it been for himself, Jon would have heaped abuse on their heads, cursed their mothers, spat at them. But the mob was often the deciding factor in a match. More than once, Morbo had been saved from a slit throat by the crowd chanting: Life! Life! Life! So Jon waved and grinned at the crowd, loathing himself with each step. As his eyes cast over the crowd, Jon noted the slaves. Some were cheering, some were silent. One, a girl in a leather collar standing closest to rope cordoning off the crowds, watched him with solemn black eyes. Jon watched and she held up one tiny fist and held it tight. Jon let the false smile fall and he gave her a grave nod. Missandei had held up her end of the bargain. Now Jon had to find a way to speak to the crowd. And also not die, he thought ruefully.

Horse races and other lesser matches filled the morning. Mostly criminals thrown in with animals. A couple matches with starving children. In the bowels of the arena, Morrgys’ four pairs of slaves were plied with food and water, guided through gentle exercise with trainers to loosen their muscles. Morbo kept the chain between them taut, hampering both of them. Jon cursed under his breath in frustration.

“Listen, rider,” Jon began in mangled Dothraki, “if we want to live, we--”

“Speak Common, krol. You sound like a simpleton in the horselord tongue,” Morbo said sharply. Jon lapsed gratefully into Common, allowing the dig to slide.

“Listen. I don’t know why we’re rivals. I don’t know and I don’t care. Do you want to live?” he said sharply, yanking the chain between them for emphasis. Morbo’s thick black brows snapped together.

“Yes.”

“So do I. We need to learn to work together. And fast.”

The threat of death was a potent motivator, Jon thought dryly. The next hour, Jon and Morbo tested the movements the chains allowed. While he could fight with either hand, Jon was thankful the manacle tethering him to Morbo was on his left wrist. Morbo would have to fight off-handed, but he was skilled with either. Jon nodded, anticipation drawing his belly taut. Soon. Soon.

“It would be easy to cut off your hand and slip free--” Morbo suggested, after their arms tangled trying to move.

“Cut off my hand? Why not your hand?” Jon asked. It might have been a trick of torchlight, but Jon could have sworn the rider was smiling. Jon snorted. Morbo shrugged.  

“I have use of it,” he said.

“I have use of mine as well,” Jon shot back, “now just focus on using your godsdamned speed and we should make it out alive.”

Any trace of humor left Morbo’s expression.

“Elimination games are meant to keep slaves in line. Champion grows too popular; masters begin to sweat. Tycho has forty-one kills to his credit. Too many.”

Jon remained impassive. There was no way Morbo could know about what he and Missandei planned. A savage excitement kindled. Let the masters sweat. Sweat and begin to know the fear of who they beat and raped and abused for their comfort and enjoyment.

“Then I’ll kill him. Solve their problem for them,” Jon said bitterly. Morbo spit into the sticky yellow mud.

“Kill too many and you will be next, Ver.”

 “Ilon vīlība se morghūljas syt aōha jaqiarzir, O Jaqiarzus Mēre!” {We fight and die for your glory, O Glorious One!}  Jon uncrossed his free arm from his chest. He tried not to gawp at the sheer breadth of the arena. Yards and yards of perfect white sand, marred here and there by drying pools of blood. Wild beasts could be loosed from hatches in the flooring, he knew. The match before had been a pack of jackals against three women. The jackals won. And the noise. Gods, outside there had been some relief from the din, but hemmed in by arena walls, the cacophony of so many voices was like thunder, harsh in his ears. His heart thundered along with it, his palms slick with sweat. A glance darted left down the line of paired slaves. Where was Tycho?

The triarch of Volantis answered, though his voice was lost in the crowd’s enthusiasm. An orator scaled the stair near the triarch’s box, garbed in a ridiculous green tokar.  

“Begin!” he boomed.  

The slaves scattered. Looping the excess chain around his arm, Jon loped back alongside Morbo. Not many pairs had made the same accord as Jon and the Dothraki. By Jon’s estimation, half began fighting each other. Of Azmeher zo Queknak’s three pairs, one was arguing where to run. Another pair had one slave snapping his partner’s neck and yanking the chain off the corpse. The third ran in tandem—Jon couldn’t see the distinctive green flash of Tycho’s dyed hair. Where in the seven hells was he?

“Sword, Ver!” Morbo hissed in his ear. Jon followed Morbo’s gaze and saw the gamemakers had dropped pairs of swords at regular intervals.

“Go!” Jon shouted.

The two of them sprinted across the sand. Longswords in the Westerosi style, whetted to a keen edge. Yes! We have a fighting chance. Tycho was famed for his skill with a bravo’s blade, a water dancer. The heavier Westerosi sword would slow him. He and Morbo each took one and ran for a strategic position near the arena’s edge. Jon measured his breathing, his senses sharp. Jon tested the sword with a couple singing swings. It felt good in his hand.

“There! Go!” Jon said, pointing to a pair of slaves attacking another. It easy to knife them both through the back. He and Morbo struck as one. The crowd howled and jeered as the blows hit home. The ever-thirsty sand drank down the red blood. A grim pleasure kindled. He and Morbo had sparred more in the past seven months than Jon ever had with anyone else, save perhaps Robb. They knew each other’s fighting styles and spacing as well as their own. Of the attacked pair, one was on his knees, bleeding from a wound to the belly. A thickset slave slashed out at Jon. He parried. Once, twice. On the third swing, he was too slow. Jon opened his throat with an almost casual flick. Easy.

Something was off. A shift in shadow.

“Ver!” Morbo’s shout. Jon ducked and shifted right. The sword whistled through the air. Another pair of slaves. A burly one, Lyseni by the looks of his shorn silver hair. The other was Dothraki. From his knee, Jon parried a blow. The shock rattled up his arms, singing through him. Morbo moved to slash at his attacker. The chain dragged Jon left, mistiming his parry. The Lyseni’s sword caught him, a grazing slash along the ribs. Jon grunted, the pain sharpening his focus. He dodged a heavy overhand, then cut. Deep, along the groin. Jon finished the swing with an artful flourish. Gouts of black-red blood poured from the wound. The Lyeseni’s life measured in heartbeats. Jon left him to die and rounded on Morbo’s attacker, in time to see the Dothraki run him through. The cheers were deafening, hooting as blood gushed on the sand. The Dothraki bent and cut the other’s braid in victory.

A slight tremor moved through him. The thrill of a fight. Sweat stung in his eyes. Jon tugged the chain to get Morbo’s attention. Across the arena, several pairs were locked in battle. Where the fuck was Tycho? A flutter of movement distracted him. Above the arena in the stands, spectators waved banners. Several showed a green profile and crossed bravo’s blades for Tycho, a couple gold Dothraki horses, one with a manticore, and a couple white wolves.

“Come, Ver!” Morbo said, pointing with his bloodied sword to a knot of battling slaves. Jon pried the Lyseni’s sword from his dead hand. Another sword in his off hand would help his parries. He and Morbo struck in much the same manner, slaying another two pairs in rapid succession.

Another muscled slave, a minor champion from Pentos, was using the chain with the severed hand of his partner as a flail, killing one attacker. Several pairs danced around the periphery, unable to get close. One hacked at champion’s leg, opening a shallow cut. Jon checked the blow with his off hand sword. The chain wrapped around the sword, useless. The manacle thudded painfully against Jon’s wrist. He dropped the sword and followed Morbo as he traded blows with the champion. Morbo spilled his entrails on the sand, and Jon finished him with a blow through the throat.

By now, the two of them sucked in air greedily. Jon licked his dry lips, trying to ignore the sticky blood dampening his tunic, his burning legs and aching arms. Blood dripped down the blade of his sword to slick the hilt. He discarded the sword and took up a fresh one. Jon hefted the chain, an idea blooming.      

“Let’s go!” Jon shouted. He and Morbo ran as another pair squared off against them. Stretching the chain taut, he ducked low. With a curse, both the slaves landed on their faces.

“Wai--!” one started to say, his blue eyes wide. Jon rolled the sword point down and thrust quick. It took strength the pierce the muscle and bone caging the heart, but strength Jon had. Morbo cursed. He swiveled, saw his partner clutching his sword arm. Blood wept between his fingers. Jon ducked an incoming blow. No time to pull the sword free. Jon caught the opponent’s sword arm in a loop of chain. He yanked up and out. The skinny Essosi’s arm snapped. A wet sort of snap. He shrieked and the crowd jeered. Jon smiled grimly. Gods, there was such relief in shedding blood, even if it wasn’t the masters. The slave fell to his knees. There was no fear in his face, only grim acceptance. He lifted his chin to accept Jon’s death blow. He was young, closer to Bran’s age than Jon’s.

“Find peace, brother,” Jon said in bastard Valyrian.

“Konīr āeksia morghon issi daor,” he said. {There are no masters in death.} Jon gave him the relief he wanted in a quick clean blow. The boy sank into a heap on the hot sand with a sigh. In another life, the boy would have been an artist, a potter. Then some master had beaten him into a killer and he died alone on the sand by Jon’s hand.  Jon pulled the blade free, panting. Weariness lay heavy on him. A part of Jon longed for the peace of oblivion. But the red thing in his chest snarled. Rage and vengeance remained unquenched. Gods, had it been hours, years since that blustering fool shouted at them to fight? Somewhere in the seething sea of the spectators, master and slave alike watched. If they won, if he and Morbo were declared victors, what would he say to them?

Jon cast a glance around the arena. There were only a few pairs left. Not many left now.

“That scratch won’t slow you, hmm?” Jon said, nodding to the blood running in sluggish drops down Morbo’s left arm. He shrugged. The banter was pointed, but surprisingly light. Removed from the opposition of rivals in the training yard, Jon could see Morbo being something of friend.

“The bite of a fly.”

The monotony of it began to settle on him. Raising his arm to bring the sword down and through another enemy. The resistance of flesh and bone as he hacked. The heat. The sweat streaming down his face. His dry, sticky tongue. The ever-present head-rattling roar of the crowd.

“They pulled Tycho from the games,” Morbo shouted over the din of the crowd.

“Aye. They’ll save his death for another day,” Jon said.

“We sho--” Morbo began. A wet tearing sound. The red point of a blade emerging from Morbo’s lower chest. Jon’s cry of rage was lost in the cheers of the crowd. Jon lost himself in the red, hacking down the one who had knifed Morbo. He and his partner both fell. Jon decapitated one in a double handed blow, the other he sliced down the arm, the thigh and let the thirsty sand drink its fill. The savagery was unnecessary, wasted too much precious energy. But Morbo was dying.

“Ver,”Morbo wheezed, blood reddening his teeth and trickling in sticky threads from the corners of his mouth. The wound was a red hole, making a horrible wet sucking sound as he tried to breathe.

“Get up, Morbo. There’s more to do,” Jon said gruffly, taking the proffered hand. He cast a wild glance around. There were no more slaves near them. In fact, only two pairs remained from Jon’s count. Two more and they would win!

“My strength is gone,” Morbo coughed. His black eyes shone fiercely.

“Make them pay, Ver. Make them pay!” Be it the other slaves, the masters, or something else, Jon didn’t know, but he promised just the same.

“Look up. Look at the sky. The stars are waiting,” Jon whispered. The gate to the Nightlands and the god of his fathers. Morbo’s eyes looked up and he breathed his last. Despite his weariness, the diffuse ache of his muscles and his wounds, Jon stood.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, sawing off Morbo’s hand to free himself. He coiled the chain and set off at a sprint, plucking up a fresh sword as he went. A hand-and-a-half sword, a bastard sword. Perfect for me. Jon and the red thing within were in perfect accord. Blood they would have. Buckets and oceans of it until they choked and drowned in it. He was intent incarnate. A savage wild thing. The crowd saw him, the noise tipping up to a fever-pitch as he slew one. And another. And the last with horrific ease.

“Zolka timpa! ZOK-LA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA!”

The words beat in his head like the multitude voice of a god. He had won. He lived—but only after so much meaningless death. Jon’s eyes scanned the sea of humanity. Slave and master alike. He said only what they would understand.

“Death!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising his bloodied fist in the air

“Death! Deeeaaaathh!” The word was a harsh drawn-out scream from his dry throat. The cheering mellowed in confusion. Then somewhere in the throng, he heard it.

“To masters!” someone answered.

“Death!” Jon screamed again.  

“TO MASTERS!”

The chant took on a life of its own, catching like a wildfire: “Death to masters! Death to masters!”

Fighting erupted in the stands. Foremen with crossbows ringed the lowest tier of the arena, aimed at Jon. He waited, standing stock-still, waiting for the blow that would kill him. It never came. Instead, Morrgys emerged from the shadows of the Gate of Life, with the Twins and a dozen bodyguards in tow. One Twin struck out, snagging Jon around the throat with his whip. Jon choked and clutched at the leather as red stars burst along the edges of his vision. Morrgys drew Longclaw. From the tremor in his wrist, he was unused to the weight. Weakling. His face was impassive, but Jon could see something cold grow in his piggish black eyes. Fear. Morrgys set the Valyrian steel edge of Longclaw beneath Jon’s chin and waited.

“Master, I didn’t—I---” air was precious. The black began to creep closer. All he heard as the black closed over him was Morrgys’ cold voice: “You’re lucky you won. All you’ve earned is The Pit. A month, if I feel charitable.”  

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works