Chapter 20: Over the Seas and Far Away, pt. 3

Vaes Dothrak was a city without walls or gates, defended by a thousand miles of grassland and the millions of Dothraki riders that would fall onto any army that thought to invade. It was a city inhabited by slaves and ruled by the dosh khaleen, former khaleesis whose khal husbands had died. The city was sacred to the Dothraki, and it was forbidden to draw a blade or shed a free man’s blood within its borders.

The city itself was massive, ten times the size of Pentos, supposedly with enough space in its halls to fit every Dothraki from every khalasar at the same time. This had not been tested in centuries, however, not since the last time that the Dothraki had a great khal, a khal of khals, to command them in their destructive ways.

Merchants were welcomed in the city and afforded safe passage by the khalasars so long they kept to the laws and gave gifts of salt, grain and silver to the dosh khaleen. After all, the savages needed some way to trade loot they didn’t want or need for things they did, and valued some of the fruits of the civilizations that they so disdained.

We had heard of this, and passed over the tribute without issue. Jon and I peace-tied our swords and spears into their holsters. Our horses and canines drew admiring glances and comments as rode in, passing under two massive horse statues that framed the road. After a bit over a month of travelling, we had arrived.

The first thing to do was to find out if Drogo’s khalasar had arrived yet or not, and so we made our way to the Western Market to enquire. The Western Market was the great bazaar used by traders from the Free Cities to the west of the Dothraki Sea. The Eastern Market which I planned to visit later was where traders from traders from the East came, even those as far away as Asshai, Yi Ti and the Shadow Lands.

The books in Westeros were dismissive of claims of magic from the east, but it was rumored that in Yi Ti sorcerer-kings ruled provinces, that in Asshai shadowbinders, aeromancers, and fire mages conducted fell and powerful rites. It was a known fact that Asshai was truly ancient, that the animals in the city died within days, that the river there was full of deformed fish and phosphorescent at night while a glistening black during the day.

Even if only one part in ten of its reputation were true I would hesitate to go there. The Shadowlands that it bordered, said to be the birthplace of dragons and demons alike, sounded like it might legitimately be inhabited by Sauron. I was by no means prepared to venture into the magical equivalent of a nuclear fallout zone to gain magical knowledge, not yet. One does not simply walk into Mordor, after all.

But one day, when I was stronger, my magics more powerful and sophisticated, I would venture into that place. I would even brave the Shadowlands if it was the only way getting a dragon as a pet. But until then, I was happy to be able to talk to people with first-hand accounts of the place. It was even possible that the Eastern Market would have some magical types present, though unlikely that anyone of true power would come to the Dothraki Sea.

When Jon and I went to the Western Market we found that we had beaten Drogo to the city, so we settled in to wait. We visited the Eastern Market, saw Zorses and Elephants; there was even a tiger that I thought about buying, but I didn’t want to risk making Togo jealous. Similarly, the Zorses looked fucking awesome.

The Jogos Nhai were this race of horse nomads, smaller in stature than the Dothraki and with weirdly conical heads. They lived east of the Dothraki Sea past the Bone Mountains in the plains north of Yi Ti and plagued that country with their raids. Unlike the Dothraki, who were content to be bought off and spent as much effort fighting each other as they did the more civilized cities, the Jogos Nhai believed that to spill the blood of their brethren was a crime and so only made war on their civilized neighbors.

They were a true blight, but their Zorses were amazing. They had bred horses with zebras, then somehow instead of a race of sterile zebra-horse hybrids managed to make a true-breeding species, the Zorse. Zorses could live on a bit of weeds and some completely non-nutritional devil grass for months, travel long distances without food or water, and were slightly larger, stronger, faster and more ferocious than any horse or horse-zebra hybrid had a right to be.

I strongly suspected magic had been used sometime in the breed’s past when I heard about their characteristics. They were just too obviously engineered. I scanned one of them, and found a particular structure that would allow them to drain a type of energy out of something; I suspected that was the ghost-grass eating adaptation. There was another adaptation that let them substitute ambient mana for food. Other than that, they weren’t particularly interesting. I did crib the adaptations though.

If they’d been available in Westeros I might have ridden one instead of a horse, but Aethon wasn’t just a mount. He was my friend, and I wasn’t replacing him with some fancy black and white striped model no matter how cool they looked.

Nor, sadly, was Aethon amenable to a cosmetic makeover, no matter how many apples I promised or how awesome he’d look afterwards.

Also sadly, I didn’t find any magical practitioners in the Eastern Market, or any texts on magic. I did bond both markets, getting a White and a Red from each, so it wasn’t a total loss magically.

Drogo still wasn’t there, so Jon and I went on a trip around the Womb of the World, a large-ish lake next to Vaes Dothrak, and the Mother of Mountains, the nearby glorified hill range. Neither really deserved their names, but the belief in those places had made the mana dense and powerful. We weren’t allowed to actually set foot on them as they were considered holy locations, but could get close enough for me to connect to them. The lake was bound for two Blue mana. The mountain, slightly larger, was bound two times for a total of four Red.

Then Hue who was on patrol at the time saw in the distance a great dustcloud. Drogo’s khalasar approached, and it was ridiculously massive. He had forty thousand riders, men capable of fighting. But he also had at least sixty thousand women, children and slaves; I put the number at closer to eighty thousand extra at a guess. And they had more than one horse per rider as well. All in all it was truly worthy of the word horde.

And it was up to me (and to a lesser extent Jon) to ensure that this group never managed to plunder Westeros.

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When Drogo and his party rode up to the Horse Gates they found Jon and I waiting for them atop our horses, fully armed and armored, Togo and Ghost on our flanks.

“I think this is the maddest thing I’ve ever even heard of,” Jon muttered.

Jon wasn’t very happy about this plan.

I snorted in amusement. “Quiet Jon, you’re ruining the moment,” I said softly.

He turned to me, mouth agape. “The moment? What moment? Two against twenty thousand isn’t a moment, Odysseus, it’s suicide!” he hissed quietly. “Even your magic can’t win against these odds!”

I smiled. “I told you, Jon. I won’t need any magic.”

“Yes, because why would you blast Drogo from a nice, safe distance? That wouldn’t make for a good enough story!” he practically growled.

“It wouldn’t!” I defended, my voice soft but insistent. “Now shut up, it’s almost time for everything to start.”

“Fine. Fine. But when this goes wrong, I’ll be telling you I told you so until we’re back safe in King’s Landing.” He was practically exuding an affronted aura. I hadn’t realized that was possible.

“If that makes you feel better. Seriously though, hush,” I said. The riders were about three hundred meters distant, and had sent out a small band of a half-dozen at a canter to find out what we were doing as the main party approached. The smaller band stopped about forty meters away and called out.

“Who are you, to block the way of the mighty khal Drogo!” their leader shouted in the harsh Dothraki tongue. Seriously, all-speech was definitely the way to go when travelling in foreign climes. 10/10, would be given by mystical accident again. I mean, could you imagine having to give a challenge through an interpreter? That just loses all the impact.

“I am Ser Odysseus, Knight of Winterfell of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros!” I called back. “I am here to tell Drogo – give up Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, the enemies of my king, or face me in combat, or be known to all here as a coward!”

That pissed them off. One of the younger riders had to be restrained from charging us. “You are brave, Andal, but foolish,” their leader called. “Make your peace with your gods, for you will soon be dead.” He turned and gave an order to one of his riders who then turned his horse about and raced back to the khal.

For some reason, Dothraki believed that all Westerosi were Andals; I wasn’t even from Westeros, but whatever.

After the messenger reported to Drogo, their party continued forward at the same speed. Jon was tense and nervous at my side, the standoff between us and the other riders uncomfortable. Finally they came up and joined the original scouts who were only slightly distant. I could see a silver-haired girl, Daenerys, and a large, armored figure who I guessed to be the disgraced knight and spy, Ser Jorah Mormont. I couldn’t see Viserys though. Drogo was obviously the leader, mounted on a red horse at the front.

Drogo asked Mormont a question. Mormont shook his head then turned to face me.

“You claim to be a knight of Winterfell, but I know of few knights that serve the Starks, none of them with your sigil,” Jorah called out in Westerosi common.

“I was knighted half a year or so ago,” I replied easily with a wolfish smile. “I suppose I’ll be taking your disgraced head back with me as well, Mormont. It’s truly a good day.”

His fist tightened on his lance. “What deeds have you done then, that would make you worthy to face khal Drogo?”

“I crippled the Hound, Sandor Clegane, while I was unarmed and he with sword and shield,” I called out in Dothraki. “My dog, Togo, killed Jaime Lannister in a trial by combat. The Mountain that Rode, Ser Gregor Clegane and forty of his men ambushed me, alone. I killed them and took their heads to show to their Lord who had sent them while he feasted. I killed Tywin Lannister in single combat the following morning. I won the Hand’s Tourney in archery, am a horse archer, and have both the most powerful bow ever made and the fastest horse; had I wanted to, I would have simply killed you and Drogo and whoever else I wanted to and left. But I am a warrior, and as a warrior I challenge you, khal Drogo, who has made himself an enemy of my king by his choice of wife.”

I could see the look of shock on Mormont’s face. It seemed that at least some of this news had not caught up with him yet, and unlike the Dothraki he knew how incredible those achievements were. Drogo turned to him, and asked him what all of that meant. Jorah didn’t look like he wanted to answer, but he couldn’t refuse either.

“You claim to have the fastest horse, and the best bow,” Drogo called out. “Prove it. If it is true, then you will fight Jorah the Andal. If you can beat him, you will be worth killing. But we will not fight hidden behind iron like cowards; no, you will be allowed your horse, your saddle, your lower clothes, and your sword. Nothing else.”

“Against Jorah as well?” I asked.

Drogo shook his head, the bells in his braids faintly tinkling. “No, against him you may fight as an Andal.” Again with the Andal thing, I would be feeling very microaggressed if I bought into that BS.

I nodded, smiled. The conditions weren’t outside of expectations. “Very well. We are in agreement, Khal Drogo.” Then I turned to Jon. “Jon, I’ll ride off a few hundred paces, then signal for you to throw the shield into the air. Do remember to give it a decent bit of height.” We had bought an extra shield just for demonstration purposes if that proved necessary. I wasn’t damaging one of ours, after all, especially after I enchanted it. That was just profligate.

Aethon turned to the side so they could see just how fast he really was, then I bent down and grabbed hold of the special handle-straps I’d had added to the saddle. “Show them what you can really do, Aethon!”

And like a shot he was off. I couldn’t measure it with a great deal of accuracy, but I knew that Aethon could manage a top speed of over a hundred miles an hour. Even he couldn’t keep that sort of speed up for long, or on anything but good terrain, but it was damned impressive. Six or seven seconds later, when we were a few hundred yards away from Jon, Aethon slowed and stopped. I drew my bow and three arrows, and used all the temporary spell buffs to make myself even faster and more accurate, then burned Blue to warp destiny. I would not, could not, miss.

Literally. With that much destiny manipulation, missing was quite literally impossible.

I told Jon through the communication link to throw it. The round shield went flying up into the sky, it’s face towards me. And then with a thwack, thwack, thwack the arrows were away. A moment later they landed on the target, a crack, crack, crack audible all the way from where I’d shot.

It was an impossible target and they all knew it. The first arrow had slammed into the shield, moving it and giving it spin. Then the second hit where the shield moved to, as did the third. I moved back to Jon at an easy canter that was still faster than their horses could gallop. I could see how impressed the Dothraki were by my stunt.

When I rejoined Jon, I called out to Drogo again. “Was that proof enough, khal Drogo?” I asked.

He nodded. “It was. Rather than have such a man die, I would offer that you join my khalasar. I will give you horses, women and riches.”

I shook my head. “My apologies, khal, but I have a lord and king already.” Plus, I don’t want to be some slaving, looting, barbarian nomad, but I was diplomatic enough not to tell him that.

“Very well. Jorah will face you, and if you beat him, I will,” he announced. I took off the saddlebags for my arrows and the holster for my bow and passed them over to Jon on Shadowfax.

The difference between Mormont and I was striking. I was in a relatively open helmet designed not to obscure my vision, and wore chain mail over a leather and cloth gambeson. My gauntlets were only half-plate. Mormont, while not in full plate, did have a breastplate, a heavier helmet, and was in general equipped more like a proper knight than a rich man-at-arms.

He took up his lance, got his shield in position. I did the same. Unlike in a joust, where there is a divider, and each party passes with their shield facing their opponent, in a true battle it wasn’t unusual to charge straight at each other, playing a game of chicken where whoever balks first loses position. Or, of course, the knights crash together and – assuming no one’s horse goes down in the impact and both riders stay in their seats – try and smash the enemy apart as quickly as possible before he returns the favor.

I was a good rider, good with a spear, and with all the practice I’d gotten with Jon, actually good at fighting on a horse now too. Skills wise, I was around the level of a veteran but not renowned knight, the kind of warrior that formed the backbone of Westeros’ armies. Jorah was a champion, the sort of man who could match and beat the best knights in Westeros in a fair competition.

Unluckily for him, it wouldn’t be fair. I was far stronger, faster and tougher than Jorah, and Aethon was far stronger, faster and tougher than Jorah’s horse. Beyond that, Aethon was smart enough to learn how to fight, to overcome his instincts as a herbivore (though I had cheated a bit with magic for that part) and become absolutely lethal in a brawl. Meanwhile I could, even one-handed, pull off tricks to parry his lance with my own that I shouldn’t have had the leverage or strength or speed or timing to manage. But I wasn’t limited to human strength or senses, and could.

Jorah began to trot then canter at me. I did the same in return with Aethon on a collision course.

We got closer and closer, faster and faster.

I could see it in the other horse’s eyes, the moment it decided to veer off slightly.

“Now, Aethon!” I shouted. Aethon exploded forwards, his head lowered to ram into the other horse. Jorah tried to hit me with his lance but I parried it to the right-side of my body. Then Aethon hit and sent the other horse tumbling away, its stance and speed nothing against Aethon’s power. Jorah went tumbling, clattering along the dirt.

Aethon came around and I hopped out of the saddle, drawing my sword.

I kicked the groaning body over onto its back. He had lost his helmet sometime in the fall and was too stunned to recover fast enough.

In a bout of theatricality, I decided to go all into the absurd local chivalry. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm, by the sentence passed by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I carry out the sentence of death to the slaver and traitor Ser Jorah Mormont.”

Then my sword swung down, and off came Jorah’s head.