#&&. drogo | the athhajar she khal | in character

[vorsakhal]

♞ | @zcldrizes​​ | Plotted Starter! | Modern Verse

Their family had held this ground for generations now. One of the longest running breeders left in the country, their Stallions were brought from across the waters as much as within them and they had never failed to meet expectations. 

Thankfully Drogo rarely needs to deal with those who seek the bred. His sister is more capable at handling people than he is, his preference is for the stables. Grooming, cleaning, training. Breaking in stubborn mounts as needed and seeing the trust that forms after. He is good at that. Good with the horses that warm to him quick as morning. He is less good at this. 

The girl looks at him like she might have a knife to his throat any second though he highly doubts it. She’s trembling like a leaf, more likely to fall over before she could knock him down but he edges back all the same, eyeing her warily as the his youngest brother leans about his shoulder in curiosity. 

“How did she get past the security?” 

Drogo tilts his head at her and notes how she sways attempting to keep them both in sight. Blood loss? No, she didn’t seem quite to that level. Maybe an intoxicated camper who had fallen in to their territory? Odd though, most knew better than to tresspass. The rich liked their horses well kept, too shoot was not uncommon. 

“I have no idea. Irri is out asking now, Qhonno is looking for holes in the fences. Do you think she’s here too steal? Got caught?” 

Drogo gives a rough sound in answer as Rakharo reaches over his shoulder, the water pale full and seeping into his shirt before he rolls his eyes and takes it from him, reaching back to press his elbow hard into the others stomach. 

It’s a possibility but none of the Khalasar have missed their rounds or duties. None of the usual watch are acting oddly and none of their alarms have gone off, the electrified fences were all untriggered last he checked.

No. He doubted it.

His brother is being his usual self, acting like he’d never seen a girl before. They each had their days to leave the ranch and Rakharo went to the city more than most, he was no idiot and the girl was injured, tired, if his guess was right potentially high as well. She needed medical help not a balless rancher oggling her. 

“Go and get me the first aid kit, you idiot. Tell Irris to come by. There are too many men here. We don’t want her to have a heart attack and die on us.” 

Dark eyes follow his brother as he stumbles back sheepishly and gives a mock salute as though they follow the flag at all. They’d been here long before the Khal family aren’t likely to move, tradition too seeped into their blood by now.

There is more at hand than handling his family however and Drogo turns slowly again to her. He doubts she can move in this state, not without throwing up and choking most likely. She needed to sit, breathe before she reached a panic attack. Perhaps they had startled her as much as she him, the Ranch is a large stretch of land, to some it might just seem an empty farm until they reach the inner stables. In the dead of night it’s no wonder someone would think to come for shelter, or to steal. 

That is to be determined when she can speak without looking an inch from death. 

He keeps his movements slow and for a moment is startled by how much it feels like trying to calm a furious wild mare. It’s almost enough to make him laugh if she didn’t seem so skittish, instead his brows draw down. Letting her see both of his hands as he inches forward, offering one of them freely.

“I am not going to hurt you, I will help you sit up now, if you let me. Do you know your name, where you are?” 

[vorsakhal]

♞ |  @storiesofwildfire​ asked: ❛  they’re chasing us hard. because we represent everything that they fear.  ❜

                                        》 memes are open!

It had opened a wound not yet closed to ask. Though he looked down on no gift from the Stallion his people were not deigned to accept it in silence. Loki and the Godling had come from the skies to them for reason and as he sat beside the child it was becoming clearer that the war of their world was not what called them. They were running towards freedom and stumbled into a place they would help, it was design but not intention. 

The boy spoke of a golden clad killer. A city among the beynd that wished to cut the hooves from under them and have his mother forced to kneel. Their night land was not a safe place for the Gods any longer and so they looked to mortality to grow their strength. But the stories were told through the eyes of a child, Godling or not and the way he shook in fear meant little detail was given for the Dothraki to know the battle that would face them. 

The Goddess sat beside him at the heat of their fire as his people danced outside. Rolling in the dust, boisterous and proud but awake even past the moon rise, calling to her for strength amidst their guarding of Sleipnir. She was softer today. His people had learnt to expect her in many forms, unbound by one and always reflecting the heavens. At times Loki came to them a father, fury in his hands seeking the surety of his child, other times they could not tell where preferences lie and cared not to ask. As long as Loki’s strength carried them to victory it mattered little what they chose to fuck as. 

A shock to some but Drogo had watched in amusement as his men had either kept hands to themselves or lost them in sacrifice to inhuman blades. Oh but she was a sight in her punishment, he made little move to protect them. Fools who pick a fight they cannot win die warriors or cowards. 

Now she sat beside him shoulders heavy from war and reaching for the drink he offered to bolster her. Their days were long but it had been time since she last arrived, whatever it was that Loki found rebellion towards it had been harrowing yet she was with them now, alive, winning. He was proud for that. 

 Athrokhar ha those fin know mori hash ray lei tikh ki the ray driv.   

Little comfort it would bring but he offered it all the same. Bringing a large hand to squeeze surprisingly gentle at her shoulder. She carried wounds and bruises enough already, visible or not. It was not his place to harm his Goddess further. 

A father was the answer. Pollution of the seed. He feared Loki and what they would bring and as all unworthy kings did he looked to the children to slaughter. As the other confessed their parents treachery Drogo was reminded of those beyond the Dothraki sea that dabbled in words and lies for they held little power with a sword. 

Past the seas they had come for their fathers sight could not reach them. Loki, at least, had something of an ally at their back. Warriors small but powerful who gave shielding when she was in need and against the odds of their stars she had stolen Sleipnir away so that he might grow strong enough to withstand what may come later.

They would not do it alone. This Odin may come to their land but he would reap only what he sowed. The Dothraki died in no silence, even to Gods. Their Stallion would grant them the wind and land, they would die for both of them if need be. Tonight was not the night for it and he saw the look of worry. A mothers heart, soft and kind - she did not wish for their people to die in her name yet it was the way of their world. It would be an honor, they would be rewarded in the night lands and in their living. 

Drogo is careful as he stands, drawing closed the tent about them to cut away the sight of her worry, letting muffled quiet fall about them until little was left but the flickered light of the walls and the heat of his hand as it curls about her jaw and draws those eyes towards him instead. 

Mori ajjin. Ha ajjalan yeri hash us ma loy. Kisha zohhe  yeri akkate sandi. 

The promise is given freely, dragging a battle warn thumb over softer skin. Loki needed rest as much as the boy did, a place of strength to draw from where a thousand blades would fight nightmares that chased them. Loki may not need it but a Khalasar was one, not many, and what was an enemy to one was an enemy to all of them. 

Athchilar ma anna. Yeri ma ned mithri.

[vorsakhal]

♞ |  @storiesofwildfire​ asked: ❛  did you catch the bad guys?  ❜ - from Sleipnir :3

                                         》 memes are open!

They had come at nightfall from the freelands. Traders and raiders who sought a God that was not theirs for a coin they did not need. They had slunk through the shadows with hounds at their back and slit the throat of their women and men like cowards. No battle to be had but blood instead leaving a soul without victory and babes without protection. 

He had been alerted by a muffled cry from three tents over and it had had erupted into fire. Three barked orders and the Dothraki were tearing the hounds apart with their own teeth, chasing the weak whispers from camp towards the dawn. 

Rothaki led the charge as Drogo took to the tent of the Stallion. One had been missed and it was close, Nets in hand as if that could bound their Godling for anything more than a moment but he had ensured their death lasted far longer than that. 

Though they had not succeeded in their pathetic attempt of dominion it had the little steed to his core. Six hooves beat the ground in fear and it cried for his mother in a tongue the Dothraki did not speak but in their hearts they knew the pained sound and it brought them only fury. 

Drogo had wanted nothing more than the thrill of hunting them himself. Of cutting through their cowardice and fucking their view of power and superiority until they wept their apologies into the dirt they soiled but he knew that leaving was a fools choice. His people were strong and proud but he was Khal, to risk the Godling in the hands of any less capable would risk his death - it was not something Drogo would take chance with for when the stallion was grown he would be their leader and should they fail the great one would charge the sky and the night lands would be lost to them forever. 

He sent his scouts. Six warriors strong, his best archer and his best rider among them to track the shadows themselves and not to return until they had obtained the blood of each and every participant in this game. Until no outlander could close their eyes without picturing the vengeance the Dothraki would seek for their scheme. 

At the boys side he had sat then, for days. Giving council from his tent, speaking old tongue to the pyre as he looked to give comfort he was not adept in. Through the days the odd slave girl would come to nurture. She was not his mother but the stallion took comfort in a more feminine hand and Drogo watched over them with his fingers on a curved blade and destinations in mind. 

It was no longer safe to remain. Their herd was large and their bounties plenty, they would need to teach the little one how to move. How to chase the sun and bow to the moon as his people did, it was time to leave the oasis for both Sleipnir's protection and his learning. 

They are two days ready when the scouts return victorious. Their cries soak the field and are met with cheers and roars of approval. Already the drink flowed before they even reached his tent and he gave promise that that night they would each receive a moment of thanks from the Godling, for now, he had good news that must be delivered. 

The boy is resting well when he returns. He had been gone only a moment in the light of day to relieve and with him sat a small band of mares who would braid his hair and tell him stories of lands far beyond on the Dothraki seas. He had them leave with a flick of hand until the pair were alone and carefully he sank down, lifting the brush to continue where one had left off. 

As a boy he had taken the best of care to his steeds, braids and painting for war but also caring for their young. The warlords were not only a brutal people, they were a people of the wind and planes, they knew how to grow and nurture and it came ot him now as he brushed away the hurt and ensured the boy was growing well. 

The question brings him a rough sound of acknowledgement, bringing up a hand to press it to his nose in soothing.

Kisha hash vo catch them vosma mori will vos come ha yeri save. Ajjalan kisha found najaheya. 

In their success the stallion had survived his first fight and that was a victory and so with pride in his smile the Khal reaches for the band that would tie his first bonding into the braids. Working a knot of a warrior into the strands until the boy looked all the gods steed he would grow to be when he mounted the world and led them to their lands once more. 

yeri did chek ma ajjalan kisha . Silokh kisha will move she. Yeri mai will be proud.     

[vorsakhal]

♞ Plotted Starter for @storiesofwildfire​

Three winters ago their people had received a gift.

Past the planes they had ridden to an oasis, the water clear for the Stallion itself had left it for its mares. It was a stop before Vaes Dathrok that bore plenty of rest and renewed the spirit of his Khalasar. They would sing, dance and fuck for three nights before moving on to meet the Dosh Khaleen in their gathering. The warriors who survived celebrations would wed their found in the sacred land. Their Khalasar would find the end of their term there. 

It was a migration of pillaging, plundering and joy yet they had little reason to expect what would await them. It was a scout who’s cry had alerted them. Riding hard across green fresh ground to where they fell to their knees in awe. A Dothraki bowed to none but their Khal, and to their Khal only if they held worth yet what reared before them was something to fall before.

Though their belief never wavered the Great Stallion had seen no reason to join their ride. He guarded the stars and the moon, led them in their path and welcomes them in their death. Before now only stories spoke of meeting him, half fallen warriors and mad men lost alone. 

But before them there was no question. Strange the night had been with lights falling from the sky, lighting fire above their heads in a display that had slowed the band cautiously but it seems the fall of stars was only a greeting as the Stallion stood before them, multiple legs high, fury in it’s cry. 

The murmurs spread through his band, some disbelieving, others questioning if they should attack or fall to their knees. Drogo knew of the illusions that cast in their land no fool enough to kneel until he was pushed so he raises a hand as his own mare storms harm on her hoofs and circles the other. Sliding from his saddle with no weapon in hand. 

The God knows their tongue. It is said he knows them all, giving them their war cry and their victories on the same breath, it backs before him, whinnies and snaps strong teeth but his hands do not look for blood. Only confirmation. 

Zin little vojjor, tih people will vos harm their zhorre 

Their God was older than the lands they walked upon but this one was young. A child of the moon and stars come down to guide them again. Was it the war that had called on him? Or had their offerings been just enough to grant reward.

Drogo cannot speak for him yet his throat does not form the words. Eyes wild as their battles calming as he reaches a hand and draws his nose down, a rough hush leaving him in soothing. A boy, nothing more. A golding - a child of the Stallion they would rear and protect. 

Konrai build anna shelter. Kisha reri.  

His orders are barked twice before his people move quickly. The Dosh Khaleen would need to be heard, his mother told of this. From all corners of the Dothraki sea they would come to pay tribute and give blessing, to protect what was theirs now to follow but that would be in time. Drogo could not remove the Goldling from his home, too young to know the harshness of the lands outside. The Dothraki moved as a herd from place to place yet tonight they would build a new city, a new camp and remain. 

It took nightfalls for the Stallion to warm to him enough to give his name. Dutifully Drogo remained at his side, protection of the Khal of their Khalasar to ensure none thought to steal it’s power. Sleipnir had come from a land of gold and starlight he said. Speaking names the Khal did not know with each press of their temples in understanding. 

Strange though it was to remind stationary it was an honor. He sent his people out in bands to retrieve their needs and within fourteen suns his mother and the Khaleen had settled in amongst their band. Their presence a delight that joined the songs sang upward, their peoples clashing swords and joyful laughter a cacophony better than any battle he had yet to face.

Drogo asked why it was the Godling came but it could not give him answer. The boy preened and pawed at the ground and asked only for its mother. Whatever he had ran to them for would be a fight against Gods yet the Dothraki would not loose. No harm would come to their Sleipnir as he breathed. 

Try as he might, however, he could not find this mother of which the boy spoke. No mare brought him happiness, no woman enough from any town. He would sigh and stomp, circle until Drogo had a hand between his ears, petting lightly at the tension within him. They would find her, that was his promise. For better or worse.

The signal is lit for an unknown one night as he sat beside the Golding, working braids of power and pride into long strands. As quickly as it lit it vanished. A flaring green and gone again as if something sought to place darkness where they lit light. 

His hand on his blade is a weary gesture and he presses forward from the tent to demand answers. The slave girl before him wide eyed and trembling. A Maegi had found their camp and it demanded their God with blades of air and fires no colour in nature. It would have to kill him first. 

The knock to his shoulders ends the thought. Barely moving as the young stallion bucks again, excitement in his prancing. He shoves the slave girl towards the front lines, tells her to let the Maegi come to him, tells his warriors to stand down but ready as he listens to the words he whispers.

Mai! Mai, mai -    

So she had found them. Little did he know what to expect. If she would be mare or mortal, a Goddess of the moon who found her way to ground and as she walks head high down the path that separates for her he sees the same pride and grace as the khaleesi that walked among them. 

Drogo walks the dirt between them though his body remains between her and the Godling. Guarding until a name is given, guarding until his last breath. 

Fin are yeri, goddess?        

[vorsakhal]

@zcldrizes asked : it's appropriate i leave the first ask because #WIFE.

♘. you are absolutely correct so let me give the wife *drogo voice* a GIFT

The free lander had promised to him a Dragon. A claim so bold that should he lie his people would carve his tongue from his head and make him swallow it down with nothing but his bulging eyes as comfort. After that the men would have their way with him. If he acted like a breeding bitch, let him be one. He had spoken for a wife. A beauty rare and loyal as any mare. This Mormont called the man a trader, reliable, it was on his head if he failed. 

So when the man ventured meek into their camp, hiding his fear behind smiles and false soothings as though the horses could not smell it, as though they did not kick his truths to the winds - the Khal expected answer. He expected a Khaleesi worth his power and his name. A Khaleesi who’s light would guide his Khalasar to their greatest victories, reflected in the stars.

A Dragon. That was promised to him. 

A Dragon of moonfire, white and deadly. She would give him flames to mount the world if he in turn would give her strength. An army to take and pillage what was hers. A pleasing thought. No Khal had yet to cross the poisoned sea and ride for the lands beyond them but if his spitfire demanded a golden crown and the might of his many to her pleasure then perhaps she was a worthy one indeed.

But he was no fool despite the tradesman's views. Foreign and strange he might be but he could not lie to the one who watched before he spoke. The Gods gave him mercy in a chance, they would not again. Drogo gave a place for a meeting, the man gave him a length of the suns shadow to be there.

When he arrived it was not a creature of fire and power waiting for him but a blue eyed fowl. She was trembling on the steps, breaths so quick she would fall if they stopped now. Beside her, not a Dragon, but a beast in mans clothing. The hands he laid on her were ones of possession, tight, cruel. He did not own the reigns yet he sought to control them. 

To hold what was his now. 

Anha see vo zhavorsa khal.

Nor did he. The disappointment comes in a twist of hooves as the muscle beneath him breaths his own anger and still the foreigner talks. Insist. She is pushed on little steps to come closer but she does not tumble, she does not fall as he expected. 

She lifts her head as it catches the sunlight and when she walks to him though she shakes it is silent. Sure. She fears him but she fears failure more. 

It is death to look on a Khal with such distaste. To hold his gaze and expect not to be cut down for it. She does. She looks to him in defiance with a sneer that quivers but holds. There is fire in her belly yet, bravery stupid enough to stare him down, strong enough to do what her beast of a brother would not. 

She would take a Khal for her family, no fowl, no child. A warrior in spite. She could be, at least, if she learnt how to fly. She would need speed to elevate her, she would need power to teach her and she would need to burn away her brothers shadow if she had any hope of either. 

The silence between them is longer than he would have granted even those he took to arms but she does not turn away. She stays her ground a stubborn thing and she is expectant the way he had been. Angry at the world about her for this position but facing it with death in her eyes.

She would do, his Dragon. Though she did not know it yet. 

He would not cross the poisoned seas for the coward that held her or the talker at his back but should she grow into something fierce and loyal, should she spit fire where she saw it - he would find the wooden horses for her. 

Drogo turns with the wind at his back and a whistle of victory to his Khalasar and though their surprise is clear they follow. They always do. And as he leaves she calls to him a battle cry, demand, fury at his dismissal. Though she was afraid she wanted to face it for all it was, enough to dare to call him back, enough to try and take it, stopped from following only by the chains at her back. 

If her promise was true and his Stallion chased the stars as it should he would have what was promised him and so would she. His little Khaleesi.

[vorsakhal]

♞ | @zcldrizes​ asked: ❛ “ he can’t talk! you ripped out his tonsils, love! ”

                                       》 memes are open!

They had become arrogant these Westerosi. They think that Dothraki on their lands without bloodshed is an alliance, a weakness. Potential to turn them on their Khaleesi and bring power to their own armies.

But his people were no fools. The Stallion may follow power but it was not unwise to show loyalty to strength. Deanery’s had learnt the Khalasar and many had followed despite previous failure. They looked to her and they saw the evening stars across the night lands shining before the dawn. They saw victory, they saw - they saw change. 

That is not something his people had taken kindly but here they were outlanders. The paler ones who wore faces like death hidden in jewels though they could speak to him like an invalid. They could talk of him before his face and he would be none the wiser, a jester in court, and their tongues did not lash at only him. 

Drogo had played civil more than any would expect, his patience was long from years breaking more stubborn mares than the witches of this court. He had fed ponies with more bite than half the whores who spat him now and he could wait longer. His endurance would last countless years if his moon only asked it of him. 

Barbs and blades at his throat were nothing. He knew his power, he knew his strength. He the Khal who had walked from the dead, who had loved a Dragon and been loved in turn. He had no ignorance of how gifted he was -- but a slight to what was his? That no man would stand. 

And they did not. He noted the way the knight and the watcher move the same. Fingers twitching, eager to guard what they thought was theirs to do so and his wife looked to them with amusement, fondness. She knew these men and their want from her and she wielded it as a weapon. 

The pride in that thought is not unnoticed. A woman worth her weight in gold who could level cities, he would feel only offence if did not look to her with open awe. 

But neither were quick enough to strike. Not like he was. Soft in their mercy, blinded in their lust. It was good to note, he would need that later when he came for them in their beds and he reminded them that whilst his Khaleesi was free to love as she wished they had no hope of owning her. 

Everything is so delicate in foreign lands even the skin on his throat parts like silk beneath his fingers and when he closes his hand around his insides and wrenches back it is not even enough force to bring a cart horse to stop yet it has the man on his knees gurling, gasping. He would die tonight, bleed pathetic and forgotten on the floor. Another bone for the saddle she rode, another meal for his children. 

They were growing after all, their mother would want them cared for. 

Be ghi t yeri khaleesi  

The warning comes from him a snarl. Caged in gilded manners. He did not ask for this, their lies and heavy tongues. Enchanting colours the work of darker magics and politics as polluted as the lands that led him to cross the poison sea in hope of more. 

Disgust guides him to throw gore to the floor at his feet and bring his boot to the mans head, pushing failing limbs back and watching him crumple under the weight. Someone in the halls is gagging, stomach weak, their lust for battle nothing but a sickness. 

He mourns for their children who would grow broken and bent. 

Her voice is moonlight through the haze and dark eyes raise up to where she stands, glowing on the steps. His wife so soft and beautiful but her hands speak of wars and her smile is sharp with hunger. Had she missed his brutality? His efficiency? Drogo would hope. these men would bring her only ruin. He would bring the world to ruin for her.

Vo mae. Yeri guar. To mae hatif yeri,  yeri ar vroz, ki yeri cokka ma vos ki ma yeri atthar. 

The challenge is spat before them, rising on his feet to stalk past the so called fighters and their panting breaths, sinking down to press a kiss to her brow with a low hum of appreciation. The scathing gesture over his shoulder one of dismissal to this false kahlasar - this court.

Yeri  tih athfiezar       

[vorsakhal]

♞ @zcldrizes​ asked : ❛  i’ll bring the fires of hell on them myself.  ❜ 

                                          》 memes are open!

The wooden horses are an uncomfortable ride. No saddle for stability, the wind at your front and back, disloyal, uncontrollable but they had taken him far and fast. The shores were new and soft, unridden by the great stallion until that moment his men they tore through them so easily. Silk holds no bar to leather, it rips and frays without thought. 

Days it had taken to get to her. Countless screams in his ears before answers were given and then they arrived at the Dragonstone she was moonlight rising in the darkness, racing down the steps to him as though they had been parted a night and nothing more.

The Dothraki are not to be a welcome surprise but they are greeted as one. the blades at their back a calling, their numbers stocking battle before the battle has even begun he cares little of the talk for it. For once the taste of blood and thrill of fight is not the front of his mind but the back of it, lifting her with ease as she laughs his return and holds him with a strength he knew would come to her one day. 

His Khaleesi tells him of her story. Of the son they lost through his trembling, of the witch who bore them. She tells him how she reared dragons in their name for their honor so great it would burn down cities and she had done in it all with his weight at her back and only her smile as a weapon. 

The night is long but between them it is not dragging. A blessing to breathe and endure. Their bed is too soft, no hay or furs but he takes it with a rough hum as she recounts her battles and her victories - as she recounts her losses.

She had freed the slaves, that brings him a sight that earns him a light hit to the chest. She had earned an army with her heart and not her muscle and he could not have thanks the fires for her more. A choice he had made, a risk he had taken with a reward greater than any cunt or riches to afford.

Drogo lays now a Khal having done as no other had with a dragon for a wife, his hands worn from battle and blood gentle as they follow the line of her hip and his eyes laced in fondness as he watches her speak. How he had missed her Dothraki soft and tilted but carrying his own so clearly. 

Yeri hash made yeri way ha the lekh dothraki havazh to the haf lands, built an lajasar ma birthed dragons.     

Raising on one arm he brings a hand so large to cup her face, turning it to him with pride in every note and a smile sharp with promise. The Gods had gifted him vision of her might when first they met yet it was never enough to compare to the truth of it. 

The kiss is warm, followed by a press of temple to her own. He may have failed her past but his power would fuel her own and should he die tomorrow it would be honor to die at her side, outside the sacred lands, as no other could have dared.

“I know you will.” 

[vorsakhal]

♞ @tymptir​ asked : ❛  i’ll bring the fires of hell on them myself.  ❜ (from Euron ofc)

                                            》 memes are open!

This Foreigner was an odd one. Were he not fucking false Gods and stinted in tongue Drogo would almost dare to think the blood of Dothraki lay within him. He was a warrior, capable enough to take out five of his scouts before they detained him. Capable enough to impress the Khal - no easy feat indeed. 

He asked for little. A woman to fuck, a bed to lay in and he joined their feast with equal vigour. The fights were something to watch, though he lacked tact and respect, lacked sane mind that is, he knew how to handle a charge. 

Less so a stallion but he learnt quickly. A trait that would keep him alive.

He would not stay long. The Dothraki were not an open church. No free citadel of sanctuary like the soft lands have. If he wished longer than a night and to avoid the gaze of their men he would be gone by nightfall or offering something worth their time. 

Even then, Drogo doubted he had honor enough to be allowed respite. He could see the desire for the saddle in his eyes. How eagerly he would take the Khalasar if the opportunity came, he was not foolish enough to trust the man at his back but his people respected power and this one had it for now.

He was a talker, this Euron. Though he spoke in mad tongues of the sea and some part of the Khal wondered if the poisoned salt madness had struck him when he was a child - part of it held intrigue. He spoke of places past the seas, lands of riches and spoils, places Drogo had thought to wonder should he ever wish to outshine the Khal of old and unite the Khalsar at Vaes Dathrok. 

Such ambition, beyond his years many claimed but it was weakness to dream of any less.

Yeri athtihar ha vengeance, che power? 

The question is blunt and he expects honesty to match it. This boy before him looked for an army, with each passing smooth word that was clear. A gleam in his smile that spoke of war hunger and a scent of blood but Drogo had not come where he was by ill choice and early swings. To kill the beast you must first learn it, strategy is as necessary in battle just as much as brutality. 

Curious was this blue eyed ilk from across the water yet he offered something the Khal had thought of since he was a boy. A prize previously out of grasp yet now it lay before him ripe for the taking. 

If this one had the mind to offer right. 

Yeri come to tih people knowingly. Yeri sought us, yeri sit ma us. Yeri want ha ato, speak anna. Hash vos graddakh tih kashi she false stories.  

There is a pause as he downs the last of his drink and tosses it aside. Hearing the squeal of a piglet girl they had caught not a week ago as she rushes to clean it, bowing to his name. Many would, in time. With the stars as witness the Dothraki would hold their land again and his fathers name would not be forgotten in loss to the outlanders.

Not long ago they had crossed the sea and brought with them an expectation of surrender. They had learnt so fast how the Dothraki would not kneel but slaughter until their last breath. They butchered, maimed and raped the ships that had come for them until the fluttering little sword bearers raced home to their mothers breast and the Dothraki land names savage and inhabitable. 

They had taken from him, from the Khal and he would so love to see them burn for it if the Gods would lend their fire.

“How do you intend to do it.”

[vorsakhal]

tag drop - character