The Wanderer
Title: The Wanderer
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: A song of fire and ice
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys Targaryen/Jorah Mormont
Betaed by the wonderful mrstater
So this is the second vignette in this series, set after Daenerys' latest chapter in DwD, describing her journey back to Vaes Dothrak.
A FRIEND IN THE DISTANCE
Day after day, the Khalasar progressed further and further into the Dothraki Sea, closer and closer to Vaes Dothrak, in a travel that mimicked her first and to this day only visit to the sacred city of her people in the most ironic and cruel way. So many things brought back forgotten memories, wanted or unwanted: the pungent smell of horse shit and men sweat, the rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the ground again and again, the scorched skin of her hands that had grown tender again after her time of leisure in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Like before, unknown and respectful maids had been assigned to her. Like before, the purpose of this endless walk through the plain was to be presented to the Dosh Khaleen.
Just like in the beginnings of her first travel, deep, irrepressible anguish was her daily companion.
Yet, at the same time, it was only but a pale mummer's show of her first journey to the sacred city.
Gone was her Sun and Stars, taken away not by a powerful enemy but by a mere festering injury.
Gone was the Stallion that would mount the world, the little life that swelled her belly then.
Gone was her brother, taken away by his own foolishness.
Gone was her loyal companion who taught her so much about her people's ways, the one man whose mere presence reassured her, appeased her fears and made her feel stronger than she really was.
A girl had left Pentos, and a hardened woman rode back to Vaes Dothrak. In the meantime, she had lost everything she had held dear, became the Mother of Dragons, then the Mother of Slaves, played at being the Harpy and lost everything once again but Drogon.
In the distance, the rearing stone horses that announced the end of the journey appeared behind a curve of the sandy road.
That was it.
In a few hours, Daenerys would know wether she would become the first woman to head the greatest Khalasar ever seen or if she would be forced to unleash Drogon's fire on her late Sun and Stars' people to escape from the clutches of ancient tradition. Not for the first time, a nagging doubt threatened her resolve, glorious victory or bloody escape, triumph or fire and blood. Would she even be able to turn on the Dothraki? Would she even be able to unleash hell on human beings, men, women, children? It was one thing to fly high on her dragon's back, another to dine on his killings, and still another entirely to use the beast like a terrible weapon of war.
Would such an act make her Aegon the Conqueror's great descendant or the Mad King's daughter?
There would not be any turning back, and the hard decision was entirely hers to make. There would be no councilor to ignore, no good advice to follow or bad counsel to be deaf to. In Slavers' Bay, she had resisted her bear's advice more and more, deluding herself that she could not trust him anymore because of his blatant feelings for her, when in reality she was only impatient to be a queen. In Meereen, she thought she had gotten rid of a traitor when she had exiled the last man who still remembered her less than glorious first days as a khaleesi, the last man who still treated her as the inexperienced girl she was.
A few surprise victories and dragons did not make a great queen. Only her bear knew that, and his lack of respect, his annoying familiarity had been the unconscious expression of his assessment of her behavior as a queen. For that, she had to punish him, to exile him if she wanted the rest of her army to respect her for her prowess as Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. To be a queen in Meereen, she had needed to sacrifice her oldest friend and councilor.
In vain.
And, when she needed good, sound advice, there was nobody left who could give it. Her Meereeneses courtesans would be of no use here; and Ser Barristan as well, to be entirely honest. Her own dwindling khalasar was miles and miles away, and many among them were still prisoners of their ageless traditions. Daario had been her lover, her captain, and she did not need to have him by her side to know his own brand of advice.
The now familiar sound of flapping wings distracted Daenerys from her somber musings as the khalasar rode through Vaes Dothrak's imposing and peculiar gates.
In any other place, the two monumental rampant horses would have been accompanied by a paved road, heavy wooden doors and a defensive wall. Here, the horses stood alone, proud in the middle of the plain, indicating that the Dothraki city was not a capital in the traditional sense of the term but much more a sacred territory. Such disposition revealed these people's endless pride: the Dothraki were the feared aggressors, the horselords renowned in all Essos and beyond, why would they bother with walls to protect their cities? They were the ones who destroyed the cities they attacked and brought the remnants of the false gods to Vaes Dothrak.
A shriek followed the flapping wings as the hawk landed on her shoulder, the very same way Drogon used to do when he was little more than a hatchling. Daenerys smiled at her new friend's strange sense of punctuality. The grey hawk had taken an incomprehensible liking to her, or, better said, in the horse meat she humored it with come nightfall. For two weeks now, the ritual had been the same: the bird flew from nowhere and reclaimed its food with authority, perching itself on her shoulder, puffing its white and grey chest, listening patiently to her senseless ramblings. Around her, the riders stared at her as if she were even madder than they believed she was. After all, she had asked a maegi to treat their fallen Khal in the past, and now, she talked in some strange language to a bird. Aerys the Second had been the Mad King for the Westerosi; she would probably be the Mad Khaleesi for the Dothraki.
But it made no matter. Being able to speak in the Common Tongue, the way she had during her first journey with Ser Jorah was priceless. She talked and talked in the night, and the bird listened to her, shrieking in approval, caressing its head to her cheek. She knew all it wanted was more meat, but she chose to believe otherwise.
Like this, it felt as if her bear was riding by her side.
The city's fires were closer now. The decisive encounter with the Dosh Khaleen was near.
"What should I do, my dear beggar?" she asked aloud, stroking the coverlet on the bird's chest.
Westeros is your home. Not Vaes Dothrak, not Meereen. Westeros. The grass answered as it had reminded her weeks before.
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: A song of fire and ice
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys Targaryen/Jorah Mormont
Betaed by the wonderful mrstater
So this is the second vignette in this series, set after Daenerys' latest chapter in DwD, describing her journey back to Vaes Dothrak.
A FRIEND IN THE DISTANCE
Day after day, the Khalasar progressed further and further into the Dothraki Sea, closer and closer to Vaes Dothrak, in a travel that mimicked her first and to this day only visit to the sacred city of her people in the most ironic and cruel way. So many things brought back forgotten memories, wanted or unwanted: the pungent smell of horse shit and men sweat, the rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the ground again and again, the scorched skin of her hands that had grown tender again after her time of leisure in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Like before, unknown and respectful maids had been assigned to her. Like before, the purpose of this endless walk through the plain was to be presented to the Dosh Khaleen.
Just like in the beginnings of her first travel, deep, irrepressible anguish was her daily companion.
Yet, at the same time, it was only but a pale mummer's show of her first journey to the sacred city.
Gone was her Sun and Stars, taken away not by a powerful enemy but by a mere festering injury.
Gone was the Stallion that would mount the world, the little life that swelled her belly then.
Gone was her brother, taken away by his own foolishness.
Gone was her loyal companion who taught her so much about her people's ways, the one man whose mere presence reassured her, appeased her fears and made her feel stronger than she really was.
A girl had left Pentos, and a hardened woman rode back to Vaes Dothrak. In the meantime, she had lost everything she had held dear, became the Mother of Dragons, then the Mother of Slaves, played at being the Harpy and lost everything once again but Drogon.
In the distance, the rearing stone horses that announced the end of the journey appeared behind a curve of the sandy road.
That was it.
In a few hours, Daenerys would know wether she would become the first woman to head the greatest Khalasar ever seen or if she would be forced to unleash Drogon's fire on her late Sun and Stars' people to escape from the clutches of ancient tradition. Not for the first time, a nagging doubt threatened her resolve, glorious victory or bloody escape, triumph or fire and blood. Would she even be able to turn on the Dothraki? Would she even be able to unleash hell on human beings, men, women, children? It was one thing to fly high on her dragon's back, another to dine on his killings, and still another entirely to use the beast like a terrible weapon of war.
Would such an act make her Aegon the Conqueror's great descendant or the Mad King's daughter?
There would not be any turning back, and the hard decision was entirely hers to make. There would be no councilor to ignore, no good advice to follow or bad counsel to be deaf to. In Slavers' Bay, she had resisted her bear's advice more and more, deluding herself that she could not trust him anymore because of his blatant feelings for her, when in reality she was only impatient to be a queen. In Meereen, she thought she had gotten rid of a traitor when she had exiled the last man who still remembered her less than glorious first days as a khaleesi, the last man who still treated her as the inexperienced girl she was.
A few surprise victories and dragons did not make a great queen. Only her bear knew that, and his lack of respect, his annoying familiarity had been the unconscious expression of his assessment of her behavior as a queen. For that, she had to punish him, to exile him if she wanted the rest of her army to respect her for her prowess as Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. To be a queen in Meereen, she had needed to sacrifice her oldest friend and councilor.
In vain.
And, when she needed good, sound advice, there was nobody left who could give it. Her Meereeneses courtesans would be of no use here; and Ser Barristan as well, to be entirely honest. Her own dwindling khalasar was miles and miles away, and many among them were still prisoners of their ageless traditions. Daario had been her lover, her captain, and she did not need to have him by her side to know his own brand of advice.
The now familiar sound of flapping wings distracted Daenerys from her somber musings as the khalasar rode through Vaes Dothrak's imposing and peculiar gates.
In any other place, the two monumental rampant horses would have been accompanied by a paved road, heavy wooden doors and a defensive wall. Here, the horses stood alone, proud in the middle of the plain, indicating that the Dothraki city was not a capital in the traditional sense of the term but much more a sacred territory. Such disposition revealed these people's endless pride: the Dothraki were the feared aggressors, the horselords renowned in all Essos and beyond, why would they bother with walls to protect their cities? They were the ones who destroyed the cities they attacked and brought the remnants of the false gods to Vaes Dothrak.
A shriek followed the flapping wings as the hawk landed on her shoulder, the very same way Drogon used to do when he was little more than a hatchling. Daenerys smiled at her new friend's strange sense of punctuality. The grey hawk had taken an incomprehensible liking to her, or, better said, in the horse meat she humored it with come nightfall. For two weeks now, the ritual had been the same: the bird flew from nowhere and reclaimed its food with authority, perching itself on her shoulder, puffing its white and grey chest, listening patiently to her senseless ramblings. Around her, the riders stared at her as if she were even madder than they believed she was. After all, she had asked a maegi to treat their fallen Khal in the past, and now, she talked in some strange language to a bird. Aerys the Second had been the Mad King for the Westerosi; she would probably be the Mad Khaleesi for the Dothraki.
But it made no matter. Being able to speak in the Common Tongue, the way she had during her first journey with Ser Jorah was priceless. She talked and talked in the night, and the bird listened to her, shrieking in approval, caressing its head to her cheek. She knew all it wanted was more meat, but she chose to believe otherwise.
Like this, it felt as if her bear was riding by her side.
The city's fires were closer now. The decisive encounter with the Dosh Khaleen was near.
"What should I do, my dear beggar?" she asked aloud, stroking the coverlet on the bird's chest.
Westeros is your home. Not Vaes Dothrak, not Meereen. Westeros. The grass answered as it had reminded her weeks before.