The Prince that was Promised (Kris/Chanyeol) 4/?
the prince that was promised [dance of the dragons] | kris/chanyeol | pg-13/r | a lot of fuckin words according to lj | game of thrones au | tightly based on the a song of ice and fire series, khal bharqo of the great dothraki khalasar falls from his horse
tw: mentions of rape (heavy in this chapter), violence, gore, sexual themes, gender bias (actual mentions of rape in this chapter)
nothing here belongs to me. a song of ice and fire belongs to satan in the flesh aka george r r martin and exo belongs to sm. free the slaves dany. I tried to put a spin on the story to avoid spoilers but just in case heavy asoiaf spoilers (a map of the free cities of essos is your friend)
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The days stretched, the sun a burning plate in the sky. Chanyeol decided to keep his leathers on; an extra bit of safety that the Dothraki seemed to lack, but what good were leathers to a lordling when he is exhausted and an unskilled rider? He felt like an overdressed fool; ill prepared for the long trek to Vaes Dothrak or wherever the gods led the khalasar. The rides seemed endless; the great grass sea felt as great as the sea itself. Chanyeol’s mount was a sure-footed chestnut destrier, another of the myriads of gifts from Illyrio before they left Pentos. Does the man shit gold, I wonder? Chanyeol thought as he noticed his saddle was inlaid with moonstones and mother-of-pearl. A saddle fit for a king, he thought, until one night when the khalasar set up camp and Chanyeol looked at Yifan’s mount, and saw the saddle was made with dragonbone and an assortment of gemstones Chanyeol could not identify. What good was a fancy saddle when it gave your ass sores after a hard day’s ride and the jewels cut into your thighs? Every time they stopped to rest, Khal Bharqo’s Blood Riders would make note of the Arryn lord stumbling off his mount and hobbling to the nearest tent and mock him as Irizhea’s handmaidens tended to his sores. To make a point, one of the Riders- Veezari, pulled down his riding leathers and showed Chanyeol the myriad of welts and sores, split open and hardened from years in the saddle, his manhood a heavy swinging pole amidst the bruises and sores. “A true man wears his hurts with pride,” he said, and made a show of defecating near the entrance of Chanyeol’s tent. “I laugh at your sores, little lord.” He stalked off to Khal Bharqo’s tent and Chanyeol gingerly stepped over the mass of shit to get into his tent, instantly regretting forcing his legs into such a wide stride. He stumbled ungraciously onto his sleeping mat, almost oblivious to the presence of two handmaidens standing in the shade of the tent. The dim space of the tent did little to appease the heat; if anything the stench of horse manure and sweat increased the unpleasantness of the feeling. Chanyeol sighed and wished for rain. Where were they now- Norvos? Qohor? Were they still in Pentos? How far away was Vaes Dothrak? Not knowing where they were displaced Chanyeol, and he ached for home. It was times like this where he wondered if he were one of his bannermen marching anywhere in Westeros, how they felt leaving the safety of the Eyrie to the expanse of the unknown. If they felt anything like he did, then he vowed as Lord Protector to never send his bannermen away from the solace of their homes. If he ever went home. Life in the Vale was slowly becoming a distant past that Chanyeol was unsure he could return to. I have killed men just to make a wedding more exciting, he thought. I have been traveling with a bunch of horse lords who joke of killing me while they mount their women like they’re sow. I’ve been sworn to bring said horse lords to Westeros and help an exiled prince usurp my king because my father feels guilty. The last thought made him laugh bitterly and immediately regretted the action as hot air quickly swelled inside his chest and he coughed. The handmaidens he nearly forgot were there rushed to his side, wordlessly untying his leathers.
Chanyeol put his hands up, trying to back the maids away. “Please, my ladies,” hurriedly slipping back into Dothraki. “I am in no need of-“
“This lord needs care, no?” One of the handmaidens, bronze-skinned and maybe four-and-twenty peeled the boiled leather from Chanyeol’s chest, sticking to his thin tunic. His heart fluttered at the sensation of hot wind that ghost against his sweaty skin. “Such a strong lord, rides a horse well.” Chanyeol recognized her as one of Irizhea’s handmaidens. Irri? What was she doing here? She almost never left Irizhea’s side. The other maid, far younger and slender as a branch, made to unlace his breeches. The feel of fingers near his manhood made Chanyeol scramble backward, but Irri held him down with such a surprising force that the air in Chanyeol’s lungs whooshed out.
“No, don’t!” He yelped as his breeches were unlaced and pushed down his thighs. His cock sprang free and he tried to shimmy away from the wandering hands, but the feelings were… good? Is this why the Dothraki riders make a habit to fucking at least one girl a day? His body deceived him but his mouth remained adamant, even when his voice failed to hold the firmness. “Ladies,” Chanyeol tried again, making a fumbled attempt to roll away. “I am a man of Westeros.” The name sounded bitter on his tongue. “It would do you no good to, besmirch me.”
The young maid literally pouted. “Your riding sores, my Lord of Vale,” she said. “We wanted to ease the swelling, to make you feel better. You’re ride a horse well, but the sores still remain. Will affect later on when you are with a woman, no?” The last sentence had Chanyeol wishing the girl was not hopeful.
“My sores will ease on their own, I thank you for your concern, but I will be fine. You must tend to your Khaleesi first.” With an air of finality Chanyeol shoved off their hands and laced his breeches with stiff fingers. He tried to ignored the hushed whispers from the two maids, nearly scoffing when he caught the phrase “impressive manhood”, but did not bother to reprimand them for their boldness.
“Lord of Vale?” Irri switched to the Common Tongue, accented and stuttered. “Are you like King?”
“King?” Did she mean Yifan, all ambition yet no royalty?
“House Arryn is kingly house, no?” Chanyeol took this as a sign that Irri was interested in Westeros like her mistress, and he gave her a wan smile.
“Yes, and yet no.” He switched back to Dothraki to explain. “House Arryn is one of the nine great Houses in Westeros, like House Targaryen. Dozens of other Houses serve the nine great ones, but only one House can ever be honored with the power to sit upon the Iron Throne.”
“A throne?”
“Great chair, greater than a horse,” at this the unnamed maid scoffed and Chanyeol ignored her. “Whoever sits upon it gets to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”
“It does not sound as nice as being on horseback,” the maid said. “How can a king stay in one room while a Khal can lead a khalasar in the open world and claim the lands as his?”
“The king can do as he likes,” Chanyeol muttered.
“Your father, is he king?” Irri asked.
Chanyeol shook his head, smiling softly. “He’s Hand of the King,” he clarified. “A no small honor; the Hand rules in the king’s stead.” Mentions of his father made Chanyeol wonder if he was thinking of his son right now, if he doomed his heir to an inescapable and tortuous fate.
“This Iron Throne,” throne rumbled deep in Irri’s chest, and it sounded far more imperious than Chanyeol could ever describe. “Does it belong to Khal Yifan?” Khal Yifan, Chanyeol choked back a laugh.
“Yes it does,” A voice from the entrance replied, and Chanyeol jumped and scrambled to bow at the guest. Yifan quietly strode into the tent, scrutinizing Irizhea’s handmaidens. His violet eyes flicked to Chanyeol straightening himself up and hastily saying “Your Grace, my apologies.” Yifan had taken to growing out his hair, to please the Dothraki screamers, but he never bothered to braid it, explaining that he “never truly killed a man in fair combat”, and it would slight the Dothraki. The scorching heat of the plains seemed to not affect the Targaryen; his fair brow shone with sweat but looked far more relaxed, as if he was in the royal caravan in Westeros.
“Was I interrupting something?” Something flickered in Yifan’s eyes-was it jealousy?- Chanyeol dared not to ask.
“Not at all, Your Grace. Do you need me?”
“Khal Bharqo has commanded an audience with me; you’re to translate for me.” We’ve been in this khalasar for nearly two months, your Dothraki has to improve as of yet? Chanyeol wanted to bite back, but he straightened and dutifully followed the Targaryen out of the tent. He was surprised how late it was; the sun was a distant red disk in the purpling sky. The grass sea tickled at his thighs as he waded through the tall blades. All around him were the smells of fire, dust, and the air was heavy with the noises of midwives preparing meals and dogs barking. The Dothraki seemed to notice the presence of Yifan and Chanyeol, and they took extreme measures to avoid the Westerosi. Some even scorned Yifan, muttering guttural insults that Yifan brushed off without a second glance. Maybe he did not understand them.
Khal Bharqo’s tent was set up on the biggest hill in the plains. When they stepped in the Khal was sitting cross legged on a mound of straw, his labored breathing nearly quaking the walls of the tent, yet the simplicity of the Khal’s throne could not diminish the power the Dothraki lord radiated. The great red welts splattered all over his massive painted chest were turning black from the blue war paint and his neck a mottled grey. His Blood Riders were all around him, arakhs at the ready. Is this an ambush? Chanyeol’s heart jolted into his throat. They realized we’re carrion, wasted space, and Yifan is all talk and no show. He closed his eyes. Kill me now and be done with it.
“My great Khal,” Yifan bowed. “You have sent for me?”
Khal Bharqo coughed up blob of phlegm and spat it into the dirt. “My Irizhea had her moon blood,” He boomed, yet Chanyeol almost had a hard time translating for Yifan. “More than a month has passed and yet she is without child. What is the meaning of this?”
“On the night of your wedding feast you and Irizhea rode off on your mounts to consummate the marriage,” one of the Riders, Hizhero, spoke up. “Did you not do this?” He was more of a stripling, his braid barely grazing his shoulder, but he instantly became the replacement for Barbo. Chanyeol automatically hated him.
Chanyeol found himself speaking up for Yifan before the Targaryen gave him leave to. “Last I looked, the Khal needed not a horse whelp speaking for him.” He spat, ignoring the glare Yifan bore into his face. Hizhero made a move towards Chanyeol, arakh about to arc into the air, when Bharqo stopped him.
“I don’t need a stripling to speak for me, unless I say so,” He grumbled. “I am alive, so know your place.”
“Blood of my blood,” Hizhero faltered back and knelt in apology.
“Calm yourself,” Yifan ordered Chanyeol. “The Khal wants to know why Irizhea is still a maiden?”
“He is this close to giving her off to one of his Riders.” Chanyeol added. He was half right, to be sure.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he would not even dream of doing that.” He stepped forward, his graceful stride putting shame to every knight Chanyeol has seen in tourneys. “My great Khal,” Yifan began. “It is true Irizhea and I have not consummated.” The mutters of disgust and appalling cries were thunderous in the tent.
“You have disgraced an ancient tradition!” Veezara snapped.
“We ought to slit this lord’s throat and toss him into the dung pile.” Another Blood Rider spat out. “Shitting on our customs like that.”
“My lords,” Yifan put his hands up to silence the raging Riders, and to Chanyeol’s surprise they did. “In my land the man courts his lady wife before they consummate. An established relationship builds stronger romance and is proven to bear more children.” Chanyeol fought to keep his face impassive as Yifan told this outright lie.
“A plague to your Westerosi bed fables!” a Rider spat.
“I am to be the next Khal after Khal Bharqo goes into the Night Lands, and you’re to be my Blood Rider,” Yifan’s eyes narrowed, his violet eyes spearing into the Dothraki screamer. “The next time you threaten me and suggest of slaying me and tossing me into a shit pile will be the moment I slice off that braid and toss you into your Khal’s funeral pyre, and then you will roam the Night Lands soulless and as a leper.” The threat was so harsh and so convincing that all of the Blood Riders backed away, and Chanyeol almost failed to notice that he was not translating for Yifan. He looked at his liege lord, incredulous, but if Yifan noticed the awestruck look from Chanyeol, he did not show it.
Khal Bharqo laughed, a horrid rasp that grated his throat. “Look at the fire this young dragon lord is consumed with!” He chuckled. “Athdavrazar! You see why I agreed to give Irizhea to him.”
“Irizhea is mine,” Yifan continued, “and I am hers. When she is ready to consummate, then I will heed her wishes.”
“You do not take orders from a wife, you order the wife around.”
“The dragon can do as he likes. Irizhea deserves more than being ordered to obey my every desire.”
“I will hear no more of this. I want to see my only blood carry on our line before I pass on into the Night Lands.” The look in Bharqo’s steely black eyes almost looked as if they were pleading. Was he begging Yifan to honor his last wish? A Khal, begging?
Yifan seemed reluctant to agree, but he bowed and murmured he would honor this command and will do as he is bid. With the Khal’s leave, Chanyeol and Yifan exited the tent.
“How did we survive that?” Chanyeol breathed aloud after a moment.
“Most of the Blood Riders are actually frightened of you,” Yifan said quietly. “You killed Barbo, the most trusted of all the Blood Riders, who was actually going to wed Irizhea had Illyrio not reached out for the Khal first.”
“Was there any reason why you needed me to come even though you knew enough Dothraki to hold a lengthy conversation with the Khal?” Yifan ignored him and stalked off to the far corners of the camp, where campfire and torchlight barely reached the oncoming darkness. Chanyeol made way to follow, staying close as the stars started to show in the night sky. “For a month in this khalasar I must say, Your Grace’s Dothraki has improved dramatically.” Yifan remained silent as he knelt in the tall grass, looking west. Chanyeol stood behind him and looked into the darkness, as the sun finally sank and the moon was shining among the stars. He realized what direction Yifan was facing and his heart sank. He was facing the direction of Westeros.
Chanyeol knelt beside Yifan, the blades of grass being crushed under his boots. Several moments of silence passed between them, a gentle evening breeze caressing Chanyeol’s face. He welcomed the sweet touch of night’s cool embrace, if only for a passing moment.
“My lady mother barely knew my father,” he began. “She was offered to him one day, and they were wed the next. They consummated their marriage that very night.” Chanyeol shrugged. “I turned out fine, so did my little brother.”
“Your point, Lord Arryn?” Yifan did not deem to face him.
“I just wanted to know why Your Grace outright lied in front of the Khal. What do you think he’s going to do to you when he finds out?”
“Then you will have to protect me, won’t you?” A faint smile crept upon the Targaryen’s lips, and Chanyeol thanked the gods that the darkness hid his blush.
“But why did you lie? Did you not consummate with Irizhea-“
“What is it to you?”
“I’m just concerned, curious, and you heard from the Blood Riders, it’s a slight on their traditions.”
“Irizhea and I rode off on our mounts on our wedding night,” Yifan began. “We were to consummate by the cliff, in the open air.” He trailed off.
“Do you not know where to put it…?”
“I know where to put it.” Yifan rolled his eyes and hugged his knees. “It’s just, when I saw her there, lying on the ground, waiting for me, I just couldn’t…” His words caught in his throat and he stopped, looking hard into the distance.
“Your Grace,” Chanyeol started. “I am your sworn shield. By my honor as an Arryn do I swear to guard you from any harm. You know you can come to me with anything.”
“Anything, eh?” Yifan frowned to the west, and rested his chin on his knees. A child. Chanyeol wanted to lean in, press himself against Yifan in comfort.
“I was two months shy of my second name day when your father helped the Usurper sack the captial,” Yifan’s voice was soft against the windsong in the grass, but Chanyeol heard him fine. “I was in the Holdfast, I think, it is hard to remember, but I do remember this great warrior, all cloaked in his arms of a yellow field with three leaping hounds-”
“House Clegane,” Chanyeol cut in. “You saw the Mountain?”
“Is that who he is?”
“I have seen him once several years past, a fearsome and brutal beast of a man.”
Yifan nodded and continued. “He was finishing off my aunt Elia, and I was hiding behind a toppled desk, frightened and confused.” A glint of emotion shone through Yifan’s eyes and he hardened. “He killed my nephew, raped and murdered Elia, and walked out of the room. I can still see Elia’s body lying on the floor across from her son’s corpse, brains and blood staining the rug. I could not move, I was so young, but I thought that I would be dead. The idea of death, flitting through my mind at that age. Ever have that, Lord Arryn?”
“I have not, Your Grace. I am sorry for your loss.” The apology tasted so sour on his mouth that he would have begged for the Seven to give him a skin of piss Arbor gold to wash it all down, but what was he supposed to say? I am your sworn shield, but how can I protect you from what has long passed?
“A fire was breaking out, so I ran. Amidst the smoke and the knights running to defend the Keep I stole away to the bowels of the castle when a mailed hand grabbed me. I was so sure, so certain that I was to meet the tip of a sword any moment, but it was Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, I think. He took me and cloaked me in his blazon of a black plowman on brown, and soothed me. I did not realize that I was squeaking and crying. Next thing I knew I was in Braavos. A house with a red door.” A small smile played across the Targaryen’s lips. “I was safe there, and whenever I was scared, Ser Willem would give me my mother’s crown to hold, a circlet of silver, amethysts, and moonstones. But the old bear Darry barely lasted a year and he died. I was three.” Yifan accounted the years of the servants throwing Yifan out of the house with the red door, only with the clothes on his person and his mother’s crown. Yifan was six, and he escaped out of Braavos when sellswords from Westeros were inquiring about a “little lord with hair of silver and eyes of lavender”. He feared if he ever returned to Braavos, the sellswords would find him. Yifan found himself in Lorath, then Norvos, where he was so desperate for food that he finally sold his mother’s crown for food, and when he reached Volantis and could not find food or shelter he would sell his body to anyone and everyone who was willing to pay.
“Your Grace!” The horror in Chanyeol’s voice made Yifan turn to face his sworn shield. “You were a boy of eight!”
“Practically a man grown in some cases. Ser Willem told me once that one of the Lord Commanders of the Nights Watch was eight years old when he assumed leadership.” Yifan turned away, hugging his knees even tighter. “Mainly men wanted to bed me. They made me do… things I will not go into detail. It is just that, every time I sold myself, I would think of that knight in yellow, raping my aunt, and I could scarce breathe. I was so scared, and once when a man was being too rough and humiliated me by taking me from behind in a tavern, I killed him.” Yifan blinked in the darkness, and looked up at the moon. “Slashed his throat with his dagger and ran. I hid in a sewer for three days. It hurt, and it always hurt. Almost as much as it hurt parting from my mother’s crown for a few dozen Honors. I could never get used to the pain. Then a man in Lys, pale skinned and heavily tattooed grabbed my manhood in an inn and had his way with me. He tossed me a few Honors upon my nakedness after every time and would whisper, ‘for the Crown,’ in my ear. It was the man who bought my mother’s crown, and I tried to fight him and beg for it back, even offering a lifetime of servitude as his slave if I could only have my mother’s crown, but he would not give it to me. ‘Come get it when you are a man, whore of a Targaryen.’ He said, and he left me, despoiled and angry, in that Lyseni inn. I was two and ten.
“From there, I vowed to take back what was mine by rights. I never forgot the tattooed man, and willed to live. I wound up in Pentos and rallied my claim to the Prince of Pentos and its Magisters, and it is where I met Illyrio. He took me in, comforted me and brought me up to be a learned lord. He vowed to help me get my birthright back, and listened to everything I said. I roamed in his trading caravans from as far as Mantarys, looking for the tattooed man.” Yifan glared in the darkness. “I wanted to break him, make a new crown made from his jaw. But-”
“That’s what you were talking to Illyrio about,” Chanyeol said softly. “You were still looking for the crown.”
“Never found it. I will get a new one but, my mother…” Yifan glanced back at the khalasar’s camp. He stood up and stared at the dying cookfires.
“Every time I try to bed with Irizhea I keep seeing Elia lying in a pool of blood and brains and fire. What if I hurt her like all the men who hurt me? What if I displease her?” Chanyeol wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his throat.
“You do not have to,” Chanyel tried. “You could-”
“I could be a man and do my duty by the Khal and consummate the marriage before the Blood Riders have their way with her.” Yifan finished. “I will do this, Irizhea and I will have an heir. All men must do tough things in life, I especially. It makes us stronger and more capable to face harder challenges later on. I must do this.” Yifan looked back to the West, lingered for a few moments, and began to head back to his shared tent, with Chanyeol scrambling to keep up. When Chanyeol matched Yifan’s stride, he was certain he heard the silver haired king murmur “after all, I will be king someday.”
part 4.5