Chapter Text
“No weapons, sorcerer.”
The Dothraki grunted, arakh brandished, yet even the guttural and harsh tongue of the Dothraki could not veil the tension in his voice. Above him stands the horse gate of Vaes Dothrak, two great bronze stallions whose hooves meet a hundred feet above the riders beneath. One could make out the grassy road connecting Vaes Dothrak to the sacred mountain of the Dothraki, lined with artifacts and monuments, statues and idols of gods and kings, spoils of war in the numerous Dothraki conquests displaying their reach and power.
The cloaked figure says nothing, and after what seemed to be an eternity, tossed an unassuming bag at the group of outriders.
Catching it in his hand, the Dothraki skimmed over the content of the bag, within lies a sheathed arming sword, a simple dagger and a mace, an engraved silver snake coils about the grip of the weapons, with its head the pommel.
He eyed the figure suspiciously, the man’s face is concealed by a masterfully crafted steel mask, engraved with serpentine features. Vaes Dothrak has not received a caravan from Yi Ti for many moons, many khalasars have risen and fallen since the Golden Empire has shattered into three kingdoms. The Emperor of Yi Ti is said to be weak; his generals and governors have carved out a hundred princedoms among the provinces. Among these princedoms, some are ruled by sorcerers, and the Dothraki worshipped the Great Stallion. They regard magic, especially those of blood in origin with fear and hate, they think it vile, evil, and soulless.
“No magic, blood will not be shed in the sacred city. Go.” The Dothraki warned.
The figure remained silent, but gave the slightest of nod, and that was sufficient. Horses parted to let the caravan pass, and they resumed their journey toward the Eastern Market.
He waved the carts onward, chocked full of spices, sugar, saffron and silk. The further west he goes, the higher price rises, and he wondered, if he goes west as far as west go, just how wealthy would he becomes.
“You will be seeking out the Asshai’i woman then?” One of the caravan guards rode up to him, disarmed per Dothraki tradition, but his lamellar armour remains.
“Yes.” He answered. “Cryptic as ever, she really does know how to get on my nerve.”
“And her words?”
“The shadow grows restless, an old flame flickers in the dark, we must be there to witness the blaze.” He droned on, in the same monotonous tone she had when she’d appeared before him in the East.
“Oh? When did she arrived in Yi Ti?”
“She wasn’t there.”
He could feel the guard’s eyebrows shot up, though his eyes were far more occupied with a rather large group of khalasars, glowing with festive mood.
“Glass candles?”
“Quite.”
“Well then, I will not delay you any further.” The guard turned and whistled, directing the caravan toward their assigned lot.
He bowed and received one in return before they part ways, unlike the Western Market’s grand bazaar with its bustling stalls and isles, animal pens and drinking halls. The Eastern Market has a rather apprehensive air to it, it is where men goes when he seeks rare goods, animals, and the art of the arcane. One must approaches with caution to any place that dabbles in magic, after all.
The sorcerer didn’t bother dismounting, content to wait in place as he watches the khalasars make its way toward the tent of the Dosh Khaleen. He traced from the rear to the front, and it is there that he saw the Khal. Riding a great red stallion, the man has copper skin, tall and muscular with long black braid that hangs to his very thighs, symbol of an undefeated warlord. Next to him a stark contrast, a woman- no, a girl rather, she seemed far too young and naïve to be anything otherwise. She was of fair skin and countenance, long silver hair flowing freely in the wind. She is of Valyrian descent then, he noted, though it is rare to see one of them so far East, away from Volantis.
“You have terrible manners.” A woman rode up aside him, her eyes peering from her red lacquer mask.
“Me, terrible manner?” He almost scoffed. “I rode day and night from the East, and you hadn’t the decency to meet me at the gates.”
“Don’t be childish.” She chided. “You felt it too, we could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass half a year pass, now? The followers of R’hllor grows stronger by the day.”
“Some of them set swords on fire with their parlor tricks, what of it?”
“Magic is returning.” She concluded, her voice like silk.
He could not refutes her in this matter, ever since the dragons fade away from the world, it has been difficult for Eastern sorcerers to wields their magic, from Yi Ti to Asshai. Long ago a noblewoman of Valyria has married into the lines of the Yitish Emperor and graced his court with a dragon. Though the dragon itself was an instrument of destruction and a great weapon, it does not fares well in a battlefield of hundred thousand with bristling scorpions and cannons in Yi Ti to bring it down. Rather, what was significant is what it represents, the symbol of magic itself, fire made flesh. So long as dragon breath in the world, magic thrives, though none can say how so exactly, but it does. Ever since the Doom of Valyria and the foolishness occurred in the West, magic has declined significantly, in the West it is now nothing but myths and stories, and in the far East, magic did not fare much better.
Yet, they could feel the change in the air, the slightest of change, but a change, nonetheless. The stagnation has stopped, the wind is once again shifting, invisible to but the most powerful sorcerer lords of Yi Ti and the shadowbinders of Asshai.
“So,” He gestured toward the tent of the Dosh Khaleen. “This is it Quaithe? This girl will be what bring about our salvation?”
“She has three dragon eggs.”
“And none have hatched for centuries, we’ve got countless in our land.”
“I understand you dislike dragons.” She said patiently, though he could hear a small sigh. “You hailed from the southern island that broke free of Yi Ti, your people worship a great serpent and a great tiger, you yourself a scion of the House of Serpent. However.”
Quaithe nodded toward the silver-haired girl, helped down from her horse by her Dothraki servant. “That is a Targaryen.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “The very same?”
“The very same.”
“Last I heard they have ten dragons and a whole continent subjugated.”
“And now they don’t.”
“Now they don’t.” The sorcerer concluded. Civil war would be the most probable cause, there are no weaponries in the West that can bring down dragons, even in the East a single dragon would cause great havoc in a battle until it is brought down through sheer scale. A dragon or its rider has little room of error to evade armies of hundred thousand taking aim at it with bolts and cannons.
“How far have Valyria fallen.” He muttered, “To think that they were once equals to the Eastern Realms.”
“The archons and dragon lords are gone. House Targaryen remains the last vestige of the dragon riders.” Quaithe waved to the bag hanging by the saddle of a bearded Westerosi man, his horse trotting behind the khal and khaleesi. “And the last who may yet hatch dragons.”
“What would you have me do?” He resigned.
She would have him aid the girl, that much is obvious. If dragons returned to the world once more, the decline of the Eastern realms would cease. Magic and sorcery shall once more return to dominance. For thousands of years this world has seen no progress, no advancement, men continue to hack at each other with a lump of iron and pointed sticks. They live and they die, on and on it goes. It was no coincidence that when the Valyrian shepherds of old found and tamed dragons that in the East sorcery flourished. As Valyria rise in prominence and power, so did the East, cities grow larger, more sophisticated, technologies progress, men found new ways to kill each other better and quicker. Alas, ever since the doom, the East begins to fracture, slowly breaking into pieces, men devolved to squabbling animals and the gilded cities of an age long past no longer holds the splendor that it once held.
Perhaps, the return of magic would be the catalyst of change that they have long awaited.
“Well? Be plain, no riddles.”
“To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.” Said the woman in the mask. And bowing, she faded back into the crowd.
“For f*ck’s sake.”
Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, pressed down and took another bite from the bleeding heart in her hands, her eyes firmly set on her Khal. He watches her with what seemed to be a mixture of encouragement and pride. The blood stuck in her throat, it raw flesh made her gag, yet she continues all the same, taking another bite amidst the chanting of the Dothraki and prayer of the Dosh Khaleen.
“She has to eat the whole heart?” She heard her brother in the back, mirth in his voice. “Hope that wasn’t my horse.”
“She’s doing well.” Ser Jorah remarked.
“She’ll never keep it down.” Viserys said dismissively.
She steadied and took another bite. The chanting is growing louder, her Khal leaned forward, nodding approvingly.
“The prince is riding.” The Shaman’s chants grow more powerful. “I have heard the thunder of his hooves! Swift as the wind, he rides! His enemies will cower before him. And their wives will weep tears of blood!”
Daenerys finished what was left of the horse’s heart, she felt her stomach churning, rebelling against her for swallowing the raw heart. It was then, she saw a shadow that nobody seemed to notice, a man standing behind her Khal, her Drogo. His long leather coat frames his lean figure, white with stripes of black, beneath that coat the man was well armoured. His front covered by the most exquisite steel breastplate she has ever seen, his arm covered in plate gauntlets, vambrace, his legs plate boots and greaves. His hair well kept, black and straight, what struck her, however, is his steel mask, a snake visage bore coldly into her. She fell forward, struggling to keep the heart inside her, grunting, and the tent fall silent, and waited.
The stench of blood filled her nostril, she rose, chewed, pushed it down and breath out.
“The stallion who mounts the world!” The Shaman cried and continues her chanting.
She stood up, eyes sweeping for the strange man, yet he is nowhere to be found.
“A Prince rides inside me!” She finally declared. “And he shall be called Rhaego!”
“Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!” The tent exploded, chanting the name of her destined son. “Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!”
The girl has the will, that much he will concede. The brother, less so. Viserys, the supposed rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms is far less impressive. He’d wandered about, seeking to take a glimpse of the three dragon eggs Quaithe mentioned, hoping to see some signs that they were stirring, only to come across the King quarreling with the Westerosi man, caught in the act of stealing his sister’s eggs. He had been prepared to intervene then, thankfully it hadn’t come to that.
Viserys inspires no love, no loyalty, he lacks cunning, will and might. The man is a disappointment, it would not be him the eggs will stir for. With a Khal such as Drogo for a husband, the girl would be a formidable force in the world indeed.
The sorcerer took a sip of the airag, the famed fermented mare milk of the Dothraki. Kicking his leg on the table as his fellow merchants peddle away silk and goods to passerby.
Quaithe have disappeared, leaving him with a cryptic riddle. To go forward, you must go back. Back where? Old Valyria? They both intends for magic in the world to wake, that much is clear, and the dragons must hatch, somehow, someway. Sorcerer he may be, even he does not know how to hatch a dragon of centuries past. What aid could he possibly offer the girl? Old Valyria would surely hold some kind of answer.
To reach the west, you must go east. East? He’d spent his entire life in the East and the Shadowlands. If he goes any further east, he’d end up at the far west. Perhaps that’s the point? Why not simply go west then? Riddles, riddles, and more riddles.
There is a reason, of course, that practitioners of magic, especially those who dabble in talks of visions and futures, pain in the arse that they are, all talks in riddles. Future are everchanging, they can nudge things toward the right way, but they cannot force it into being. If they were so blatant in their prophecy, it would never come to pass, prophecies do not mesh well with human nature, namely human’s stubbornness to avoid it or human desires to see it achieved.
“Excuse me, ser.”
He snapped out of his thoughts, turning to the soft voice.
Silver hair, purple irises. Of course, troubles always seem to find their ways to him before he could prepares for it.
He blinked, pondering if he should feign ignorance of the Common Tongue.
“How can I help you?” He decided not to, after a moment.
She seemed to be taken back that he’d returned her question in the Common Tongue, but she recovered quickly. Two servant girls and a Dothraki man behind her gazing at him. “You have the honour of addressing Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Khaleesi of the riding men, princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” One of them announced to him.
He, for his part, simply looked on and wait.
The young khaleesi regards him with a mix of caution and curiosity, not the least offended by his reaction. “Are you from my country, ser?”
“I am not.” The sorcerer replied evenly. “I hail from the far East, from the island of Leng.”
She blinked. “I have not heard of this… land before. Some merchants spoke of Yi Ti, the source of all the silk in the world.”
“We’re just a bit south of that, Khaleesi.” He said, “Are you here to sample our wares?”
“I saw you in the shaman’s tent.” Daenerys’ brow furrowed. “How did you get in, no one save my Khal’s servants and bloodriders could pass.”
“I was never there, khaleesi.” He smiled, though he doubts she could see it, but she heard the mirth in his voice all the same. “It is as you said, no merchant may approach the Khal’s company.”
“But I-“ Daenerys turned to the Dothraki man, flustered. “Jhogo, did you see this man with us and the shaman?”
Jhogo face scrunched up in confusion, “This is the first time I see someone this strange, khaleesi.”
Daenerys didn’t give up, gazing toward the suit of armour hanging by the side of his tent “You have a suit of Westerosi armour. You spoke the Common Tongue without a hint of accent.”
“I do.” He confirmed curtly but did not elaborate.
“Forgive me, I have never seen a Yitish man or armour before, are they so similar to Westerosi armour?” Daenerys continued after a time, her patience wearing thin.
“Lengii.” He corrected. “Though, I suppose we’ve been a part of Yi Ti for so long our people are indistinguishable from one another. Most of us are part Yitish.”
“Lengii, then. My point stands.” She pressed.
He nodded, a smile on his lips still. “Not at all, we don’t wear plate armour in the manner of Western designs, they are far too expensive to outfit armies in the hundreds of thousand when lamellar, brigandine and chain will do.”
Especially when everyone and their mother have polearms and halberds to pierce and smash plates.
“Hundreds of thousand?” Daenerys muttered in disbelief.
“However, western plates are wonderful for the elites few that could afford it, whilst expensive and time-consuming to produce, it does offer unmatched protection. We imported some as novelty, and at times a Western armourer from Volantis or Mereen makes their way to us.”
“Armour makes a man...” Jhogo stopped for a brief moment, “Slow.” He drawled out the word in the harsh Dothraki tongue.
“Slow.” Jorah said helpfully. Moving toward them from the Western Market’s square.
“Slow.” Jhogo repeated, this time, in the common tongue.
“Jorah?” Daenerys looked to the older man, Jorah appeared pensive, throwing the sorcerer a look of suspicion. “Where have you been? Have you seen my brother?”
“I have, princess.” Jorah replied with a small smile, “His grace opted to leave early to look for some drinks.”
“Quicker and more agile than you’d expect.” He replied in strides, paying no heed to the knight. “Westerosi smiths have… stagnated, I have travelled and seen the work of some Stormlander smiths in Qarth, they are the exact same as that of 300 years prior. Those we paid and remained in the East have continued to advance in metallurgy techniques. They call these armour Gothic.”
Daenerys seemed taken back, and rightly so, for all her life she has never given a thought about weapon and armour, soldiers, and armies. It wasn’t what she should be concerned about, her brother said.
“How would you know what armour look like 300 years ago?” Jorah asked, and the sorcerer seemed to halt for a brief moment.
He recovered quickly. “Some were… preserved, by our forefathers for studies.”
“I see.” Daenerys seemed to notice his pause, but did not comment on it, “You say yours are superior, how so?”
He turned to grab a helmet, tracing his fingers over it. “This one here, is called a Hounskull.” He pointed to another, “And that one, is a Sallet.”
“These are designed to deflect blows instead of absorb it, a sword or arakh blow would glance right over the helmet due to its shape and structural strength. The blow of the strike would be dispersed all along the helm.” He tossed one to Jhogo and one to Jorah, allowing the khaleesi’s party to feel it for themselves. “Current Westerosi helms, though designs vary, most are not designed to deflect blows and would have to absorb the full impact of the strike. Most save for the wealthiest of lords also lack an aventail or a gorget to protect their neck and throats. These late plate armour also is made to distribute weight all over your body, they would not limit your movement as much as you’d think. Would you both like to try?”
Jhogo perked up at the question, Jorah have been translating for him as he listened. Jhogo looked to her for approval, and she nodded hesitantly.
“You’re right.” Jorah nodded in agreement, “Most Westerosi knights opted for a barbute, and few have neck covers so that they may breathe. Perhaps it is better to have some difficulty breathing than having a dagger in your throat.”
He snapped his fingers, and his caravan guards moved to help the Dothraki and the Westerosi knight put on the suit of armour.
“You have been most generous.” Daenerys smiled, “What are your name?”
“You can call me Angui, khaleesi.” He tilted his head, “Perhaps I can offer you some of my wares? Aside from a few suits of armour, we have the finest silk in all the world, and all manner of spices you can think of. I imagine it would have helped quite a bit with that horse heart.”
The last part he mumbled so quietly she didn’t catch it. The princess gave the goods on display a look of interest, a smile on her face as she takes in the dazzling colours of the spices displayed on the table.
He unlocked one of the crates laying beneath the table. Pulling out a beautiful box of silk linen and offered it to Daenerys. “Dothraki think them frivolous and impractical, and I do not have a dress that may fit you. However, should you one day return to the busting cities, these will serve you will in the hands of the right tailor.”
Daenerys allow her hands to weave through the fabric, feeling the velvety, smooth, silky linen. Compared to the rough leather dresses of the Dothraki, the differences are day and night. However, it would not do for her to be sauntering about in a silk dress as a khaleesi. Perhaps, one day, when she and her brother were to return her home.
Jorah seemed fascinated with the inner workings of the suit of Gothic armour, Jhogo were sprinting up and down the square, unable to believe the surprising mobility of something so heavy.
“The Dothraki do not believe in money.” She said, “But if there is anything I can grant, name it, and it will be yours.“
“I would like to see your dragon eggs.”
The reply stopped both Jorah and Daenerys in their track, their guard instantly brought up.
“How did you know I have dragon eggs?” Daenerys eyes narrowed; Jorah have his hands on his sword, or he would, alas Vaes Dothrak forbids all weapon.
“Rumours, princess.” The sorcerer answered cordially. “Everyone in the khalasars know you were gifted dragon eggs for your wedding day, words get around fast.”
The princess remains still for a moment and watched him. Finally, after moments of deliberation, she motioned for him to follow as the caravan guard assist Jorah and Jhogo in taking off their armour.
They made their way through the sea of people that make up of Drogo’s khalasars, to a spacious and decorated tent, at least, spacious for Dothraki standard, he mused. As it is, the Dothraki isn’t the sort of people that proves a threat to any organised army. They’re quite good at trampling shepherds and unassuming cities, alas they possess no knowledge of siege, no armour, their weapons the arakh and bows are well-suited for light skirmish, less so for pitched battle, where lances, armour and heavy lancers are instrumental to victory. Should the Dothraki ever meet a foe disciplined enough to not be intimidated by their screams and size, there will be trouble.
From what he has glimpsed from idle chatters of merchants, Westeros is now ruled by House Baratheon. The details regarding how House Targaryen have been toppled and why is rather lacking.
Quaithe’s summon hadn’t been the only reason he’d journey so far away from home. It has been a long time since he had travelled, and what’s life without some adventure? The Yitish are content to sit in their golden cradle, believing they were the center of the world now that Valyria is gone. Generations after generations, the East grows more fractured by the day, decadent, weaker. Then, from the north between the Bleeding Sea and Mountains of Morn, from the Five Forts that guard the realm of men, news is beginning to trickle in, disturbing news.
It is time for dragons to wake, it is time for the Great Leviathan to wake.
The box unlocked with an audible click, and within lay three eggs, of black, gold, and green. He has seen many dragon eggs in his life, most were resigned to be nothing more than exotic jewels to decorate estates of nobility. Some tried to hatch them, some tried to smash them apart to see what is inside, though he’d never heard from them what they’ve found. Perhaps just a yellow glop of tissue?
Daenerys and Jorah watched the sorcerer gazing pensively at the eggs. The silence became unbearable, and Jorah opted to break it.
“Lord Angui.” He addressed the man.
“Am I a lord now?” Angui replied, his attention fixed on the eggs, as though he is searching something beneath the scales.
“I have lived for many years in Essos, some of them in Vaes Dothrak. I have conversed with Asshai’i from the Shadowlands in this city.” He stepped between the princess and the man. “I have seen the shadowbinder, I’ve heard stories. I can recognised those who practice magic when I see them.”
Shock settled into Daenerys’ countenance, she looks at him worriedly, a slight panic crossed through her eyes. She looked damn near ready to throw herself between the eggs and the sorcerer.
“If you hail from the Eastern lands, Yi Ti or Asshai, then you’re a shadowbinder or a sorcerer.” Jorah concluded, his eyes narrowing ever slightly. “I found this when they were taking off your armour from me in your tent.”
Following his motion, Jhogo stepped in the tent and set a bag down with a clank. Inside lies an obsidian candle. “Glass candle. That makes you a lord, an eastern sorcerer lord.”
“What’s a… glass candle?” Daenerys asked
“A candle.” Angui quipped, mirth returned back into his voice, his face hidden behind that snake mask. “That looks like glass.”
“I can see that.” The princess says incredulously, “What is it for?”
“To provide light when the night is dark.”
“They say when it is burning, it allows sorcerers to see across mountains, seas, and deserts. They give men visions and dreams, even enter each other’s dream, khaleesi.” Jorah sighed, if the sorcerer wanted to get on her nerve, he succeeded.
“Do you believe in magic, Ser Jorah?” Angui asked, almost mockingly.
“I believe in what my ears and eyes report.” Jorah replied.
“A practical man. Have you heard or witness feats of magic?”
“I have not.” Jorah confirmed.
“Well, then.” The sorcerer replied jovially, patting Jorah’s back much to his discomfort. “Nothing to worry about!”
The princess breathed out, biting her lips. “I believe I’ve delivered my end of the bargain, my lord.”
“Ah, ah.” The sorcerer wagged his finger, “I have one more request.”
“I do not believe I own you such a thing, Lord Angui. Step away from my eggs.” She growled.
“Allow me to touch them.”
“Absolutely not!” She protested loudly.
Angui turned to Daenerys, hands behind this back. “Allow me this, and I shall serve you for a moon’s turn, all my expertise, worldly knowledge and arcane wisdom shall be yours.”
The offer brought an immediate silence to the tent, Daenerys looked into that unchanging steel mask, contemplating the offer.
“Khaleesi,” Jorah warned, alarm in his voice. “There is no good end for those who dabbles in magic. Say the word and I will escort him out.”
“Magic is forbidden in Vaes Dothrak, khaleesi. Bloodmagic, it is evil.” Jhogo said.
The sorcerer chuckled, “I have no need for blood. I am not so weak as the fanatics of R’hllor to rely on such crutch.”
His Dothraki tongue brought about more than a few raised brows, and they looked to their khaleesi, shaking their heads.
“Very well, can you see the future? Can you tell me what the future holds for me?” She asked, much to her two companions’ exasperation.
“Future are… a fickle thing, princess.” The sorcerer sat down by the eggs cross-legged, looking up at her.
“Fickle how?”
“When men, or women, hear of the future. They try to make it a reality, or steer away from it, consciously or not, such is human nature. Then the future would not come to be or twisted beyond recognition.” Angui raised his hand before she could reply, “But I shall tell you one thing, if you insist.”
Daenerys fall pensive, her arms crossed as she considers the sorcerer’s words. They could see the sun setting, as torches flare up around Vaes Dothrak and hear the laughter of men and women alike. The celebration that follows the wake of the Dosh Khaleen’s prophecy will commence soon.
“Go on.” She finally said.
“Eggs first.” The sorcerer tilted his head.
The desire to strangle him crossed her mind.
“Fine.”
Angui seemed almost giddy as he rubbed his hands together, Jorah bit his lips as he watched the sorcerer took off his gloves and run his hands across the scaly egg, black, then gold, then green. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, thanks the Seven.
But then it began.
First the howling wind that blow into their tent, he hadn’t felt this cold since he left Bear Island. Then it started to shake, first the statues and carvings hanging from the roof of the tent, then the pottery, then the silver chalice Daenerys had received from her wedding in Pentos. It started to crack, from its edge the cracks grow, woven into being by an invisible spider. Then it rose, floating in the air as though lifted by an invisible hand.
Jhogo cursed, pulling Daenerys back, his form crouched and ready to fight or flight.
With a terrible noise, the great chalice shattered into a thousand pieces.
The wind ceased, the howling stopped, yet unnatural shadows still gave the slightest of twitch from the torches outside the tent. The sorcerer sat, unmoving, his arms crossed, lips mumbling some incoherent tongue they do not understand.
“What did you do?” The princess approached him, shaken.
“A test.” Angui stood up, a full head taller than her, though not quite as tall as her Khal. He looked down at her, and she saw his eyes, emerald, a ghostly green, glimmering in the dark. “Smile princess, you passed.”
“Passed what?” Daenerys asked, her voice uncertain.
The sorcerer put back his gloves and waved his hand, “Now, as for the future. Your future.” The mask gave off the hint of the slightest twitch of smile, he was smiling, if not sinisterly. The sun has gone down, soon, her Khal will send his bloodriders to escort her to the feast of her honour.
“When the sun rises, you will no longer be a princess of the Seven Kingdoms. A golden crown your brother shall receive, but you shall be queen.”
Before she could regain her composure, he strode away, coat fluttering in the wind. Two men entered the tent, Drogo’s bloodriders, but it was as though they did not see him. He simply waited for them to enter and stepped out.
“Khaleesi, it is time. We must go.” They told her and held the tent open.
She gave one look at Jorah, who still stood there with his eyes on the shattered chalice, before leaving.
Viserys shouted in pain, the sounds of his bone breaking audible across the feast.
“No! No!” He thrashed, “You cannot touch me! I am the dragon! I am the dragon! I want my crown!”
Drogo’s belt of golden medallions bubbled in the pot, fire roaring angrily beneath. Jorah moved to her. “Look away, khaleesi.”
Her brother looked at the bubbling pot, eyes wide. “No. Dany.”
“Dany, tell them.” He pleaded, “Make them!”
Drogo grunted, lifting the pot, and walked to the Beggar King.
“No! you can’t.” He begged; fear consumed him. “Please. Dany, PLEASE!”
“A crown for king.” Drogo snarled, and along with his anger came the molten gold. Viserys roared in pain as the gold burns, as it sears him, burning away flesh and seeping into his very skull.
The sorcerer’s words rang in her head as she watches her last living relative burns.
It’s a beautiful day outside.
Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. The sun graced Vaes Dothrak with its gentle light, the sky cloudless, the wind carries warm summer air to its nomadic inhabitant.
And Jorah hasn’t had a single speck of sleep.
For all his years, he has never witnessed such a thing. Viserys’ death was inevitable, the man was reckless, disrespectful, and arrogant. From his attempt to steals his sister’s eggs to antagonising the Dothraki, he would’ve gotten himself killed eventually. It does not take magically foresight to tell that. Perhaps the young, impressionable princess would think highly of the sorcerer’s words, but any perceptive man could see Viserys’ fate and its inevitability.
No, what bothered Jorah is the chalice. It was there, as real as the water he drank, the food he ate, the clothes he now wears. Never has in his long years did he witnessed such a thing. There was life in the shadows, it moved when they did not, it slithered ever so slightly. Perhaps it was a trick of the flames, fear in man’s heart that made him see things. But the chalice, it shattered when nothing touched it, suspended in the air, held by some terrible force. The result undeniable.
This eastern sorcerer wields power, real power. He does not know which god the man worshipped, which god that granted him such power. The red priests claim the Lord of Light grants them power, the septons pray to the Sevens, the First Men listened to the Old Gods, the Ironborn the Drown God. This man spoke of no gods, no prayers to chant his spells, from whence did he draws his power?
Few have heard of tales from the land of Yi Ti, fewer manage to pass through the endless Red Waste that separate the East from the far East. Most merchants of the Jade Sea stopped at Qarth, who guards the route jealously from travelers and any merchants west of them.
“Jorah the Andal.” Jhogo called, peaking his head into his tent. “Khaleesi calls you, come.”
He snapped out of his thoughts, downing what was left in his cup and stands to follow the Dothraki man.
The princess has retired that night with her khal. He could not read her, she kept her face impassive through the whole ordeals, with strength worthy of a khaleesi. The Spider should receive his missive regarding her child by now, and he wondered if he should make the presence of this sorcerer known to Varys.
The trip toward the khal’s tent were pleasant, the weather is more agreeable than ever, the gloomy downcast clouds have been swept away. Dothraki men, women and children alike basks in the sun, the markets more bustling than ever. Wrestling, playing, drinking, f*cking, they do all these acts in public in equal abundance, without a care in the world.
Soon, they arrived at khal Drogo’s tent. The entrance watched by two of his bloodriders, they nodded to Jhogo, letting him pass as he approaches.
“Jorah the Andal!” They turned to greet him, grinning. “Did you see what the khal did to the sorefoot king last night?
“Qotho, Cohollo.” He acknowledged. “I have.”
Qotho a muscular and malicious man, though not an exception for a Dothraki, spits on the ground. “He was lucky that the law of Vaes Dothrak protected him. I would have done worse things.”
Jorah remained silent as the two converses among themselves. It did not take long for the khaleesi to appear, with two more Dothraki guards and Jhogo in tow.
“Jorah.” She greeted him, though she did not smile. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going, khaleesi?” He asked, matching her pace.
“The sorcerer.”
“Princess…” He sighed. “I would warn you against this again. It is not safe.”
“He has offered to serve me for a moon’s turn.” Daenerys said sternly. “He has done as he wished with my eggs; he owed me service and I am collecting it. If he harmed me in anyway Drogo would have his head.”
Jorah fell silent, the princess could be stubborn and headstrong when she wanted, and there’s no talking her out of it. Better that he is here to protect her, and if necessary, listen to anything of note so that he might report to the Spider. As lately, however, he felt conflicted, his loyalty wavering between the desire to return home and to the princess he’d swore to protect.
It took them some time to ask about the Yitish caravan, but eventually they made their way to a large unassuming tent in the merchant quarters. Some four Yitish caravan guards moved to intercept them before they could enter.
“Halt. Who are you?” One of the guards asked, his Dothraki flawless.
“This is Khaleesi of the great Khal Drogo.” Jhogo answered. “Step aside, she wants to meet the sorcerer.”
“Daenerys Targaryen?” The Yitish guard muttered, looking at her thoughtfully. “Our lord is expecting you, but not so soon in the morning.”
“You will not make her wait.” Jhogo growled, but before he could escalate, two Dothraki women exited the tent, giggling as they go, throwing a glance at them before they left.
“Ah, the queen herself.” Angui followed them out a moment after, his attire disheveled and seemed to be put on in haste, though his mask remains. “Come in.” He beckons.
Daenerys face darkened, anger brewing as she followed him. “Wait outside.” She turned toward Jhogo and her guards. “You come with me, Jorah.”
The inside of the tent is well furnished, filled to the brim with strange eastern objects Jorah hadn’t a clue as to where to begin. Wooden lamps intricately carved with Yitish and Lengii symbols, chairs and table made of red wood that seems to glint in the sunlight, cushioned with pelts of tigers and leather made from basilisk skins. Books and scrolls stacked by the shelves in languages they do not understand, and two suit of Gothic armor stands proudly next to it, a longsword held between their hands.
“Now, how can I help you?” The sorcerer seated himself by the low desk, pouring from a flask into silver cups.
“You know my brother would die.” Daenerys accused, towering over the seated man as she leaned toward him.
“And you did not save him.” Angui returned, leaning back into his cush chair. “How am I the one at fault?”
“I-I could not have. He brandished a weapon in Vaes Dothrak and threatened me with it.” She defended.
“And Drogo’s son.” Angui mentioned offhandedly, hand stirring his drink.
“You could have warned me.” She continued exasperatedly. “You could have told me he has a sword, perhaps then they would restraint him and that would be it.”
“So did ser Jorah here.”
Jorah’s face paled as they turned toward him. Daenerys said nothing, but her glare was more than enough to make him falter.
“It is… true, Khaleesi.” He conceded, he dares not to look into her eyes. “I came across his grace in your tent during the shaman’s ritual.”
“What was he doing there?” She asked.
“He was trying to steal your dragon eggs.” Daenerys gaped at the answer. “So that he might buy an army with them, Khaleesi.”
“And you stopped him?”
“I did.” He confirmed. “But I could not raise my hand to his grace, I’ve sworn to you both, Khaleesi. I let him go.”
“I know my brother was a fool, he’s no dragon.” Daenerys said ruefully, sitting down to steady herself. “But… he’s still family. My last family. Now I’m alone in this world, truly alone.”
“Wine?” Angui offered nonchalantly, turning to him. “You too, Jorah. Sit down.”
He waited for permission for some time in the contemplative silence that followed, and once the princess gave him a nod at last, he obliged. The only noise in the tent was the trickling of wine into the three cups in front of them. The sorcerer downed his cup, and they followed suit.
“What a strange… wine.” Daenerys commented, breaking the silence.
The sorcerer refilled their cups, “Rice wine. Not as fruity as your typical wine, sweeter, though quite sour.”
“Rice?”
“A sort of grain from the East, Khaleesi.” Angui replied. “I do prefer Western wines more, but as they say, variety is the spice of life. Now then, surely you did not come all this way just to vent your anger?”
She stopped a moment to gather her thoughts. Angui for his part, reached for a white pot engraved with a green forest of strange, segmented plants. With a snap of his finger, blue flames burst to life at the tip of his finger.
They both stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.
“What? First time you see firemagic?”
“For many of us it would be the first time for any magic at all.” Jorah muttered as he watches the sorcerer tend to the woods beneath the pot. The man put in a bag of leaves then poured water in and let it rest.
Daenerys stared at the flame curiously, “How did you do that?”
“Magic.”
Her irritation immediately returned to her.
The sorcerer titled his head, then continues. “Firemagic has its root in Valyria, many Valyrians are mages who controlled flames through elaborate rituals, they tend and temper the Fourteen Flames of the Valyrian peninsula. Some theorised that political upheaval that see many mages killed are the cause of the Doom.”
“Can I… do that?” Daenerys pushed down her anger, swallowed her pride and asked.
“Absolutely not.”
Her eyes twitched.
“It has been a long time since the prime days of magic.” Angui explained, sipping on his drink. “I understand you are of Valyrian stock, however, unlike us Easterners, shadowbinders of Asshai and sorcerers in Yi Ti, those in the west have allowed magic to fade into obscurity instead of practicing them. Some old lineages such as purebred Valyrians and the First Men have magic in their blood, they however lay dormant, rarely showing a glimpse of their power by mere accidents.”
Daenerys watched the blue flame flickers as she racked her brain. What the man have said does line up with some… strange phenomenon she’d encountered. Scalding hot baths did not harm her, fire doesn’t seem to hurt her as much as those of her servants.
She returned her attention to the sorcerer, his mask remains unreadable, yet his cup is once again empty. “How do you drink and eat with that mask in the way?” She asked.
“Magic.”
Perhaps she’ll have this man strangled after all.
“I do take it off from time to time.” Angui admitted, taking the boiling pot and pour in a generous portion of the dark brown liquid. “When I make love, for example. Tea?”
Daenerys nodded, accepting the cup of tea, an expensive commodity, she and Viserys occasionally were treated to it in the manor of magister Illyrio.
“You owed me service.” She stated as a matter of fact. “Fulfill your bargain.”
“Indeed, one moon, wasn’t it?”
“If I command you to take your mask off, would you?” She asked, arms crossed.
“I don’t know, Khaleesi. Are you getting into bed with me?” Though they can’t see it, his voice is one of smiles and haughty smirks.
“Watch your tongue!” Jorah warned sternly.
Daenerys rolled her eyes; the man is a trickster if nothing else. “If you’re going to serve me, I expect a certain degree of respects.”
“Of course, my dear sovereign.” Angui nodded solemnly. “Already you have 3 titles, soon you will have so many I wouldn’t know how to address you.”
“Khaleesi will do.” She smiled, “I’m no closer to being queen of Westeros than yesterday, and you’re going to help me get my throne.”
Jorah stared at her, a mix of pride and conflict brewing inside him.
“Ambitious, aren’t you? I shall only be here for one moon’s turn.” Angui raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Perhaps I will have Drogo chase you down and bring you back.”
“Careful now.” The sorcerer said lazily, plucking some grapes from a shelve. “If you play with fire you may get burnt.”
“I am Daenerys Targaryen.” She stood up and declared. “No fire can hurt me.”
That night, as the full moon grace the world with its tender light, a certain avian guests made its way to the sorcerer’s tent. Wings dark as night, the bird landed at the tip of the tent, cawing as its crimson eyes snapped open, all three of them.
