The Iron Throne: Essos

[Lumine]

Essos:

Overview:

Often a factor on Westerosi politics, Essos is a playground of intrigue and deception, and the home of countless exiles aiming to return to their homeland. While Khal Drogo expands and unites the Khalassars under the influence of his new Khaleesi Daenerys Targaryen, exiled prince (and proclaimed King) Viserys Targaryen returns to the Free Cities after a grueling experience with the Dothraki, determined to finally push his claim after Robert's death. Can House Targaryen and the exiles survive Essos to return home?

Currently held by: Currently divided in several City-States and Kingdoms.
Direct Players: Viserys Targaryen.

[Lumine]

Jorah

“I need a large army”, the stripling snarled, his thin lips curling as his lank silver locks cut across his overheated glance. Across the tent, noisome with tension and horse, the northen exile, tall, burly and shaggier than the bear on his surcoat, remained unmoved in word or action. His hands, weathered but unwearied, spoke for him, at a rest that was not idle on his sword-hilt.

“You swore that sword of yours to me,” the prince objected now, his voice skidding up in baulked petulance. Such appeals were scarce judged to appeal to Ser Jorah Mormont, once a lord in his own right, now a slaver and a hireling accursed to all decent society. But the pale youth’s next dart was to strike the surer.

“It was Stark who cost you your island,” young Viserys murmured as he resigned himself to a cautious step back, away from the three dragon eggs amid their warm watch-lights. “Stark who cost my father his throne. If I prevail, Stark loses everything. It could be yours yet, Mormont.”

For the first time in his brief and unsatisfactory relations with his notional king, Jorah found himself tempted to pause and think over the boy’s words. The offer was distant, even, from a certain limited angle, impossible. Its acceptance would mean abandoning all that his father and sister had taught Jorah to conceive of honour…yet was that not already lost to him already?

Then the prince’s bright hair, the main attribute he shared with his sister, so dissimilar in temperament, sheened over his eyes again, and Ser Jorah recalled his duty to the khaleesi. “Perhaps,” he grunted. “And yet here I stand.”

“Do you?” This voice was new, low and silken, and seemed incongruous in the fraught circumstances, so that it took Jorah a moment or two to remember the Lysene pleasure slave; he could not quite yet place her name. Her hand was light upon his shoulder; he found himself provoked at last to act and his knife in an instant rested at her throat, but she showed no hesitation or disquiet, her smile still a flickering tease which unleashed restless consequences irrepressibly upon him. The callow prince grinning opposite let nothing pass without comment.

“She’d be yours too, Mormont, it goes without saying, till we crossed the Narrow Sea. Then you could take a bride more fitted to pin down the North withal. We might even travel by Lys and reclaim your old mate on the way. Doreah here has heard word of her.”

“Well beyond my city there gleams word of the Lady Lynesse,” the slave-girl acceded with an undeniably graceful nod, for all the blade’s closeness. “Not even our fair menfolk think to hold her pride for long. But for a king’s right hand…”

Jorah’s experience and strength lay in his stirrups and sword-arm, but now he had to think fast. Deep within himself he knew that his service to the khaleesi was no indifferent leal duty, but encompassed an impossible desire, a desire that would lead him into variance with the greatest of the horse-lords in the heart of their power…and cost him the affection of Daenerys, the protection of the Dothraki, and undoubtedly his own skin.

Whereas if he joined the runaways…he might still reliably report to Lord Varys on the last male Targaryen, by far the greater quarry. With his aid and the Dothraki at feast, they could easily slip away, and Viserys was not wrong, at least, about the value of the dragon eggs. Daenerys would surely be lost forever to him…but if he questioned this girl, he might yet find Lynesse. He would redeem or revenge himself…and stamp his quality upon those damned stiff Starks of Winterfell.

***

The ride was dry and harsh, and girl and prince alike scarce aided it with their whining, but Jorah had not lasted amid the Disputed Lands for nothing. With several over curious or confident horse-lords left hacked down and buried in the wake of their shifting sands, when they happened on the road to Lys.

The prince, or king, grew leaner and soberer-tempered after near a moon’s turn of hard riding; he had even finished his first man when a few Tyroshi bandits underestimated their quarry. All three fugitives thought the time well chosen for a celebratory slug of their defunct foes’ pear-brandy.

On a sudden Jorah felt a thud that reminded him of a brawl with a screamer gone badly wrong; he shuddered, and knew no more. When he awoke, there was no sign of the last Targaryen, the fork-tongued silver whore, or the three dragon eggs; he was chained among men cowed and branded, and his haltering queries elicited only after many beatings the news that he was headed for the manse of his new master, the most noble merchant prince, Tregar Ormollen.

[Lumine]

DAENERYS:

It had been a difficult birth.

She’d been told as much by her remaining handmaidens, but it was something to be experienced before being able to fully describe it. Many thoughts crossed Dany’s mind through the hours, many of them devoted to the mother she had never known. Queen Rhaella, as Viserys always referred to her. Did you suffer the same as me, mother? Or more? She wondered how hard it would have been for her mother to give birth knowing her eldest son and her grandsons had been killed by the Usurper, with his troops ready to land on the island. It took away some of her pain to know she was in a much better position, her Sun and Stars close to her – while not in the tent – and the Dothraki awaiting the birth of his heir. Only Viserys and Ser Jorah were absent, and their betrayal still cut deeply into the young girl’s mind. He was my King… he only had to ask me for the eggs… and Ser Jorah…

-Are you okay, Khaleesi? – Irri asked –

Dany left her thoughts behind, willing to look ahead. She was reclined on the tent, her baby held on her arms as the handmaidens looked with a satisfied expression. While a difficult day and night, her baby had been born strong and healthy, a true Dothraki… and a true Targaryen, judging by the black hair and his violent eyes. Her son could one day be heir to both cultures, a man grown to unite the might of the Valyrian dragonlords and the Dothraki horselords. The idea made her proud, and happy. It did not take long for the Bloodriders to honor her and the birth, before Khal Drogo entered the tent to celebrate and embrace her. She was truly happy, wife and mother and a Khaleesi on her own right, and the love and pride she saw on Drogo’s eyes encouraged her even more. It was hard to move with the Khalassar to such far-away places, but it was worth it.

She had to rest for a few days until her health recovered, and soon she was healthy enough for the feast. The Dothraki spared nothing of the animals leaving besides the tents of the Khalassar as prodigious amounts of meat were served, all laughing, drinking… and fighting, for no less than three Dothraki honoured Dany’s baby by dying in combat. If Ser Jorah was around, she thought, it would have probably described it as a successful event on Dothraki eyes. She pushed ahead the thoughts of her brother and the knight, hoping to focus on her own happiness much as their actions still hurt. The Khalassar continued to grow judging for all the new riders on the main tent, and the new Ko’s Drogo had around him to gather their council. She knew well how many Dothraki could not conceive the idea of crossing the Narrow Sea via ships, how much convincing and displays of strength it would take for all those riders to attempt that their fathers and grandfathers would have never dreamed of doing.

-Khaleesi. – One of the Ko’s stood up, raising his cup of wine – There is a question amongst the Ko’s. How will the son of the Khal and the Khaleesi be known as? –

Dany looked at Drogo, and he nodded his head approvingly. She’d come up with a name a few days ago, one which Drogo had approved and one she’d felt proud of coming up. Despite the pain she stood up, and to the look of the Ko’s and the Bloodriders she raised her child and announced:

-This is Rhaego, son of Khal Drogo and Daenerys Targaryen. And as the Dosh Khaleen proclaimed at Vaes Dothrak, he is the stallion who mounts the world.-

The men cheered wildly, raising their cups to drink as their noise grew, and Drogo stood up as well to promise that his son would sit the iron chair his grandfather had sat upon. As the Dothraki drank, danced and celebrated the coming of Rhaego and their dreams of future glory and riches, a few riders entered the tent with news from Volantis. It appeared the campaign was about to resume. Drogo looked at her with an odd look on his face:

-Khaleesi. – He said – It appears we’re headed in the direction of the Khal Rhae Mhar.-