Chapitre 2: Chapter 2
Pentos
It was midday in Pentos, with a cool breeze coming off the bay, and the sky full of white clouds when Valandil came to stand before the gatehouse of the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. His grey Numenorean eyes scanned his surroundings. The walls of the manse were twelve feet tall, surmounted by iron spikes. On the air, he could smell the tell-tale scents of a well-kept and extensive garden. Valandil cast his gaze to the skies and observed the position of the sun, by his estimation it was a half an hour past noon. His companion was late. Late by half an hour to be precise, and even though he was the son of a great lord who rarely had had to work for anything in his life, Valandil knew that it was unseemly to show up late on the first day of employment. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the leather-wrapped hilt of the finely-made bastard sword that was sheathed at his side and shifted his shoulders under the weight of the pack and the gear he carried on his back.
"Are you intending to move in? A comfortable house no doubt, but perhaps a little rich for your blood my friend" said a familiar voice. Valandil turned his head to see Ser Jorah Mormont approaching from down the road, leading a horse by the bridle, and dressed in the finest tunic and cloak he could muster. Not particularly fine, in Valandil's estimation, but he wouldn't expect more from a fellow sellsword.
"The good Magister Illyrio is hiring us to protect his wards, is he not? I must be prepared to travel where they do. You told me that our employment begins today Jorah" Valandil answered.
"Aye, that is does Dúnadan, but today is the wedding, and I know Numenoreans love your gray cloaks and green longcoats, but it isn't very festive Strider" Ser Jorah replied. Valandil smiled softly.
"Have I ever seemed very festive to you?" he said, and they both chuckled.
Together, Jorah and Valandil passed beneath the gatehouse into the manse itself. They found themselves in a broad, tidy courtyard with a pool of water in the centre. Atop a plinth in the pool was a statue of painted marble, depicting a youthful man, lithe and strong, with golden hair and a blade in hand, poised to duel an unseen adversary. Hedges and grassy lawns lined either side of the paved courtyard, and a long stairway at the end of it led up to the main house of the manse.
"I don't think you'll get much use of that steel-bow out in the Dothraki Sea" Jorah remarked, eying the tube of waxed weatherproof canvas containing the steel-bow slung across Valandil's back.
"There isn't another bow to match it in all of the Free Cities, Ser Jorah, and you know that. It's a little piece of my homeland, and that burden I shall gladly bear" said Valandil
As they stopped at the bottom of the staircase, a man came down to greet them. He was tall, though not nearly as tall as Valandil, and quite fat, even obese, with heavy jowls and rotund cheeks. His hair and beard were a striking yellow, and his beard was forked. There was a glitter of gold and silver rings on his fingers, and the man wore long robes of rich quality.
"Ah, it is good to see you again Ser Jorah, and this is the companion you promised?" said the man.
"That he is Magister. In Braavos, I saw him cleave a man from shoulder to hip, and I have traveled with him and know him to be stalwart and honourable. You would be hard-pressed to find a better bodyguard for the Targaryens" Jorah answered. 'Ah, so this is Illyrio Mopatis. Fatter than I expected' thought Valandil.
"I trust your word Ser Jorah. What is your name, Ser?" Illyrio said, looking Valandil up and down, eying the sword at his hip and the canvas bag on his back.
"Strider, just Strider" Valandil said softly.
"Strider… Curious accent you have, I can't seem to place it. Where are you from Strider?" Illyrio asked.
"Many places" Valandil replied.
"I see. The Dothraki will be here soon, and I see you have no horse Strider. I shall have one of my servants bring you one from my stables; consider it your first payment. I trust Ser Jorah's word that you will prove to be worth it" Illyrio said, turning away from the two mercenaries and striding back up the stairs into the manse.
"Making friends already Dúnadan?" Jorah said.
"Ser Jorah, my friend, I would ask that you keep my background to yourself. There is much superstition about my people here in the East, and I doubt that the Dothraki will prove much different" Valandil said, looking at Jorah pointedly.
"Very well my friend, but I can't exactly conceal the fact that you're over seven feet tall, gray eyed, dark haired and carry a bloody steel-bow. It's hard to hide a Numenorean" replied the shorter man.
Soon enough, one of Illyrio's stable hands brought a bay horse for Valandil. He could see that the animal was well built as the boy led it towards him, large enough even for Valandil, but from the wildness in the eye and the flaring of the nostrils and the jerking movement of the head, he could also see that it was a spirited and wild animal. 'Of course Illyrio would only part with a useless horse for a first payment' Valandil thought, examining the horse with a critical eye as it was led. Its movement was good, and the animal had a good bend in the knees, with thick and powerful legs. The horse's head was bony, with wide nostrils that lent it a fierce aspect but, Valandil noted, would make the horse breathe easier in times of great exertion. Physically, the horse was quite fine, but in its wildness and the indignant, angered noises it made as it was led towards him, Valandil could see that Illyrio was using him as an excuse to get rid of this animal.
"My apologies Ser, but the Magister told me to give you this one" said the stable boy with an apologetic look.
"What is his name?" Valandil asked.
"We call him Velo" the boy replied.
Valandil walked towards Velo, talking the reins from the boy and gently pulling Velo's head down so that he could stroke the animal's nose, and he spoke to the horse with soft words in the Elven tongue, and gradually Velo was calmed, and lowered his head. It was clear there was no great affection from the horse for the men around him, but he did not shy nor fuss when Valandil took the saddle from the stable hand and placed it upon Velo and set to securing the harness and the girth, and placing the gear from his pack into the saddlebags.
"You know if you keep doing things like that, you're going to make hiding your heritage very hard" Jorah said.
"Too true, I shall have to restrain myself" Valandil laughed.
There was a great clatter of hooves on cobblestones as a conroi of riders came thundering up the road and through the gatehouse of the manse, stopping in the courtyard before the fountain. They were large people, with swarthy skin of a copper colour, and dark eyes to match their dark hair. Their chests were bare, exposing powerful muscles, deeply tanned by the sun, and none of them wore armour, instead only vests and breeches all of horsehair and leather. At the forefront of the group, upon a snorting reddish stallion, sat a large and powerfully built man, with long moustaches and a long braid of black hair that reached his thighs, decorated with small bells.
"That's Khal Drogo. They say he has is the most feared khal in the whole Dothraki Sea" Jorah said out of the side of his mouth, leaning towards Valandil.
"Why are they here now?" Valandil replied.
"To take the Targaryen girl to her wedding to the Khal. They believe that any important event in a man's life must take place beneath the open sky, so the wedding will most likely be outside of the city at the horde's encampment" said Jorah.
The doors of the mansion were opened once again, and Valandil glanced over his shoulder to see Illyrio coming down the steps, leading two others: A young man and woman, both with white-blond hair and the violet eyes of House Targaryen, dressed in fine clothes. They were led down the stairs towards the Dothraki, and Valandil could see the Khal's eyes fixed on the girl. She was delicate and petite, quite beautiful even in Valandil's estimation, but appeared timid, scared even.
"She's frightened" he whispered to Jorah
"Who can blame her?" the Andal replied.
More horses were brought out from Illyrio's stables, and the Magister and the two Targaryens mounted. At a nod from Illyrio, Jorah and Valandil swung up into the saddles of their horses, and fell into position behind the Targaryens.
"Your Grace, these are the bodyguards I promised you, to safeguard you and your sister until you sit upon your Throne again. This is Ser Jorah and his companion Strider" Illyrio said to the young man sitting on the horse next to him.
"You have my thanks Illyrio, and your loyalty will not be forgotten when I come into my throne, and neither shall yours Ser Jorah and Ser… Strider was it?" said the young man. 'This must be Viserys' thought Valandil.
"Just Strider shall suffice, Your Grace" Valandil said. Viserys looked at the Numenorean strangely, with furrowed eyebrows, and internally Valandil cursed his accent.
There was no time for further introductions though, as there was a word from the Khal, and his riders reined their horses around and set off at a canter again. Nudging Velo into movement, Valandil followed behind Illyrio and the Targaryens, and within moments the whole cavalcade had left the manse, turning east at the road and swiftly heading towards the plains outside of Pentos.
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The Dothraki were savage. Valandil had heard tales of their almost animalistic brutality before, but nothing compared to the reality. As a boy, his father and older brothers had told him tales of the wicked men of the East that served in the legions of the Black Enemy, and though the Dothraki carried no sign or sigil of the Enemy, there was no doubt in Valandil's heart that they were similar to the Easterlings in spirit if not in mind.
Along the coast of the sea some miles from Pentos, beneath a brilliantly blue sky, tens of thousands of Dothraki had gathered for the marriage of their Khal to the pale young Targaryen girl. Valandil sat upon the raised platform that the Dothraki had erected for Drogo and his guests, sitting near to Jorah, beneath Drogo and Daenerys, the bloodriders and the other, more honoured guests. The thumping of the tribal drums resonated in Valandil's gut, and a cold bile rose in the back of his throat as he watched the "celebrations" below him.
Women gyrated and danced as if possessed by wights, and the men bent them over and took them as a stallion takes a mare, like animals. The air was rent with the moans of women and the shouts of men, with screams and shrieks and grunting. They copulated like beasts, with neither love nor care, out in the open, before thousands of eyes. Their sense of sin or shame appeared to be non-existent.
A sudden commotion amongst the dancing drew Valandil's attention. One of the Dothraki men had interrupted another by hauling him off the woman in the middle of their copulation and replacing him behind the woman. A wave of eagerness seemed to run through the crowd as they shifted closer to the scene. The insulted man, enraged at being interrupted in the moment, rose from the ground and struck a terrific blow to his opponent's face, knocking him back into the dust. With a savage snarl, the other man rose from the dirt and tackled his foe, smashing into his stomach with a shoulder which would have driven the air right out of him. Entangled, the two men fell to the dirt onto a cooking fire, hot coals hissing as they burnt bare skin and the two combatants rolled from the flames. The excitement in the crowd became palpable as the two Dothraki rose to their feet, and one of them smashed his fist down onto the jaw of the other, knocking him down to his knees. Roaring a bestial warcry, the man swept out his Dothraki scimitar and swung it upwards for his enemy's belly. Valandil shifted forward in his chair, but felt a strong grip on his forearm.
"No," whispered Jorah from his own seat beside Valandil.
Both men had now unsheathed their swords, the wickedly curved blades glimmering as they turned and slashed in the air, each man seeking a quick killing blow. Unburdened by any armour, the lean Dothraki leapt and bound, circling each other like fairground acrobats, each movement swift and deadly. The razor edges of their scimitars glinted in the bright sun, as savage battlecries erupted from the throats of the two combatants. Valandil glanced upwards to the Khal, but saw only an eager glint in Drogo's eyes as the great Dothraki warlord sat forward in his seat, watching the fight intently. Biting back his desire to speak, Valandil turned his eyes back to the two fighting men.
One of the Dothraki brought a vicious two-handed slash down from a high guard towards his opponent, but the other man swiftly moved back, the scimitar whooshing in air as it passed him. Quickly, the miss was turned around and the edge came hurting back up, but again the fleet enemy avoided it. Valandil's breath caught in his throat, the Dothraki man had over-extended himself from the upward cut, and his enemy saw it just as Valandil did. Seizing his chance, the scimitar did its butcher's work as it came slashing straight into the other man's stomach. With a great cry, the victor dragged the edge of his sword out across his stricken foe's belly, spilling coils of bloody, pink-purplish intestines onto the dusty ground. Seizing his fallen foe's braid, the victor cut it off with a flourish of scimitar, and then tossed it to the foot of the dais where Khal Drogo and Daenerys sat. The loser was still twitching and convulsing on the ground as the other man seized another Dothraki woman.
"Savage beasts," Valandil muttered as Jorah released his grip.
"It is the Dothraki custom. They consider a wedding without three or four deaths to be a boring affair," Jorah replied.
"But why?"
Jorah could offer only a shrug: "It is their way".
Valandil carefully watched as the constant stream of dignitaries from magisters and nobles in Pentos and the other Free Cities made their way before the Khal and Daenerys atop the dais, each offering a different wedding gift. The couple were offered large chests of gold and silver, bridles and saddles richly embroidered and decorated with precious stones, ceremonial armour and robes inlaid with gold, decorated pottery, one magister even brought a whole box of snakes which hissed fiercely yet did not bite him as he handled them before the eyes of Khal Drogo.
"Come on, it's our turn" Jorah said, collecting a stack of leatherbound books from where they sat beside him.
Swallowing a nervous lump in his throat, Valandil stood together with Jorah, and under the watchful eyes of the Khal's bloodriders, they walked to the front of the platform, and in unison the two of them bowed their heads respectfully. Valandil could feel the steady gaze of Drogo boring into him. Valandil cursed the fact that he was easily a foot taller than everyone else present at the wedding, including Drogo himself, and the Khal was a powerfully built man. Raising his head once again, Valandil met the Khal's gaze, and found Drogo giving him a look that was not quite suspicion, but more than average curiosity either.
Jorah and Drogo exchanged a few words in the Dothraki tongue, the only ones of which Valandil understood were "Jorah" and "Andal". Then Jorah began to step forward, up across the platform, and Valandil followed a few steps behind.
"A small gift for the new Khaleesi" Jorah said earnestly, as he bowed his head again and offered the stack of books to the Targaryen girl. Tentatively, she reached out with tiny, pale hands and took them.
"Songs and histories from the Eight Kingdoms, even a few from the Dunedain Realm," Jorah explained as she took them.
"Thank you ser" Daenerys said, her voice quiet and soft amongst the loud revelry of the wedding party. "Are you two from my country?"
"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I served your father for many years, Gods be good, I hope to always serve the rightful King," Jorah said, as he looked towards Viserys and nodded.
"And you, ser?" Daenerys said to Valandil.
"Strider, my lady, of the North," Valandil replied with a bow.
"Thank you as well Ser Strider," said the Targaryen girl with a shy smile. Valandil felt Jorah tap him on the shoulder, their time was up. Bowing once again, the two men backed up, down the dais, to their own seats. No sooner than they had sat down, Valandil saw Illyrio was already up, gesturing for his servants to bring up a large, heavy, locked wooden chest. Two burly, bare chested men carried the chest, and they set it down before Daenerys, who looked at it curiously. At a nod from the Magister, the servants opened it up, and Valandil was grateful for his great height which gave him a clear view of the contents.
The chest was filled with fine, soft sand, and sitting upon the sand were three large, oval objects, one in a jet black, one a creamy-tan and the last a deep forest green. They were the shape of eggs, but not any egg Valandil had ever seen, for they were not smooth, but rather their shells were covered in lizard-like scales. Daenerys' eyes were wide with wonder as Valandil watched her gently pick up the green egg and hold it before her, examining it with an entranced fascination.
"Dragon's eggs, Daenerys" Illyrio explained with a smirk "From the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful"
At that moment, as Daenerys set the egg back down on its soft bed of sand, the Khal stood up. Immediately the drumming stopped, and the singing ceased, and the dancing and lovemaking below the dais stopped in place, and all was silence. For a moment, all Valandil could hear were the sounds of the sea, and waves crashing against the rocky shore. Then, stretching his neck, Drogo stepped down the dais and began to walk briskly and purposefully through the crowd, without even a glance backwards at his bride as she followed him more slowly, more hesitantly.
Jorah rose from his seat, and Valandil followed his lead as Daenerys passed them by. All the Dothraki were silent as they closed around Daenerys as she walked, thousands of eyes boring into her. A full head taller than anyone else, Valandil watched her from above the rest of the crowd as she followed her new husband. Her head was held high, yet there was an unmistakable sense of shyness and fear in her step. Her pale blonde hair stood out like an island of gold amongst the sea of brown and black Dothraki hair. With slow steps, she walked to where the crowd had parted, and Drogo stood waiting by his own gift: A tall, demure mare of the purest white, a magnificent animal with a shapely face and strong limbs, yet Valandil could tell by how quietly it stood that it was calm and kind in temperament and very well-trained. Nothing but the finest mount for a Dothraki khaleesi. Drogo stood silently, holding the reins of the mare, as Daenerys approached him. The great Khal appeared like a mountain of deeply tanned muscle before the petite girl in front of him, and he held out the reins towards her. Following Jorah, Valandil moved to the front of the gathered crowd.
"She's beautiful" Daenerys spoke at last, stroking the mare's nose. She turned to look over her shoulder at Valandil and Jorah.
"Ser Jorah, I don't know the word for 'thank you' in Dothraki,"
"There is no way to say 'thank you' in Dothraki" Jorah replied.
Drogo released the reins, and he seized Daenerys and lifted her up into the saddle with ease, as if she was just a child. One of his bloodriders brought up Drogo's own horse, and the Khal swung up into the saddle with the practiced ease of a man who had spent most of his life on horseback. Valandil observed the Khal: He was unrefined, but skilled, lacking the formal grace of a Westerosi or Dunedain horseman, but clearly in absolute control of both himself and his horse.
Out of the corner of his eye, Valandil noticed Viserys approach Daenerys. She looked down at her brother.
"Make him… Happy" Viserys said with a small smirk. Drogo set the spurs to his horse, and first at a walk, then a trot, then gathering into a canter, the newly married Khal and Khaleesi rode away towards the sun as it sunk towards the horizon.
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"'Make him happy'" Valandil spat, not for the first time, as he sat near a crackling fire in the Dothraki camp. Across from him sat Jorah, sipping from a wineskin. He had changed out of his formal tunic into more comfortable travelling clothes, and Magister Illyrio had been good enough to have their belongings taken from their inn in Pentos out to the Dothraki encampment. Jorah shook his head as Valandil fumed.
"Try to look at it from his perspective Dúnadan, Viserys believes he is the Blood of the Dragon, the rightful King of Westeros, and his only tool to help him reclaim his throne is his name and his sister. The Targaryen name doesn't go very far these days, so he must use his sister. Unfortunate though that is, she seems a sweet girl," Jorah said.
"She can't be much older than eighteen or nineteen years. For her own flesh and blood to use her in such a way. I hope the rule of this Viserys shall be worth it. I pray he is a rightful king in action rather than just the rightful king in word and law." Valandil replied with a shake of his own head, and then accepted the wineskin from Jorah and took a long drink. He looked all around him. The encampment of Drogo's horde stretched in all directions for as far as even his Numenorean eyes could see.
"I hear it is the largest khalasar in the whole Dothraki Sea. Forty thousand warriors or more, and many thousands of women, children and slaves" Jorah explained, noticing Valandil's look.
"Do you think it shall follow the Targaryen boy across the Narrow Sea?" asked Valandil. Jorah shrugged as he took the wineskin back from his Numenorean companion.
"Depends. Depends on when Dothraki omens favour war, and how patient Viserys is. He has given the Khal a great gift with Daenerys, and he shall get a gift in return in the Khal's good time. If he understands that, and waits, then yes, eventually they will cross… The first Dothraki khalasar in history to cross the sea" answered Ser Jorah. Valandil grimaced; he had heard many tales of the Dothraki ferocity in battle and their skill on horseback with whip, sword and bow. Yet they seemed to him to be raiders, not conquerors.
"And do you think it will be enough against Tar-Robert?" he said.
"No," Jorah replied immediately "Against a canny old warrior like Robert Baratheon, with all of Westeros including your people on his side, no it won't be enough. The Targaryens need to build up alliances in Westeros to reclaim the throne. This union with the Dothraki is a start, but it is not enough by itself. Do you think this boy will be equal to the task?" Now it was Valandil's turn to shrug.
"We shall see" There was a long moment of comfortable silence as the two sellswords sat in thought, the fire crackling merrily. In the gloom outside of their little circle of light, they could see the shapes of many Dothraki moving about the camp, the night fast growing darker and darker, while a pale half-moon rose in the sky above them, accompanied by many bright, shining stars.
"How do you know so much about the Dothraki Jorah?" Valandil asked at last.
"I've been in this sellsword's business for a lot longer than you my friend, I've been to a lot of places amongst many people before I met you in Braavos, and I have spent time with the Dothraki before, sometimes as their enemy, sometimes as their prisoner, other times as their friend," Jorah said with a smile. "How did a Dúnadan get into the life of a sellsword anyways? Your people are a rarity east of the Narrow Sea"
"I came east to travel, to see the world, I confess I had a thirst for adventure, and I needed a way to make a living while I traveled and the life of a sellsword offered me that and a way to whet my wanderlust… Though, truth be told Jorah, I do not relish the killing, but one does what one can with the gifts you are given" replied Valandil, staring hard into the fire.
"To be as good with bow and blade as you are, and yet take no pleasure in it, is the mark of a true warrior my friend," Jorah said with a nod towards the Numenorean. Valandil could only give a rueful chuckle.
"And yet Tar-Robert, a man who by all the stories loves to fight and kill, sits on the Iron Throne and I sit here in the muck of a Dothraki camp with an old man from Bear Island" he said with a grin.
"Old man? I think you're the old man here! I may be old, but I know a thing or two about these Dothraki that you don't, and I might just able to keep you alive" Jorah shot back with a good natured laugh.
"Actually Jorah, I was hoping that you could teach me the Dothraki language, and their ways while we travel with them. They are a savage people, but I need to understand them if I am to protect the Targaryens amongst them" Valandil asked, scratching the back of his head.
"Of course my friend, if you are willing to learn from an old man from Bear Island" Jorah laughed.
"Your first lesson" he continued "Is that you will have to find a better moniker than 'Strider'"
"Why? It suits me rather admirably" Valandil said, stretching out his long legs to warm his feet by the fire.
"That may be true, but amongst the khalasar, only the slaves walk. You never told me your true name Strider, and I never asked, it is your own business what name you travel under, but 'Strider' is not a wise name to use if you want the respect of the Dothraki," Jorah explained. Valandil mused over this, and sat a while in thought, staring into the fire, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering tongues of flame. He reached up on his chest and removed a small silver brooch which had fastened his cloak around his shoulders, holding it in his hands as he examined it. It was small, but finely wrought in silver, made in the shape of an eagle, wings outstretched, with an eight-rayed star engraved on the eagle's chest. He handled with his fingers for a while, his face deep in thought, and then looked up at Jorah.
"Dúnadan will suffice," he said at last, replacing the brooch on his cloak "But if you think a different name is necessary, then call me Thorongil"
"Thorongil it is" Jorah agreed "But between you and I, I liked Strider better" . Valandil smiled and laughed.
His smile died immediately as they heard a woman's screams, distant but not far off, shrill and full of terror. Valandil sprang to his feet, his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, every sense in his body on alert. For a long moment all was silence except for the sounds of the khalasar, the crackling of fires, and laughter and sounds of Dothraki speech. It seemed they had little care for the sounds of a woman's screaming. Then the scream came again, louder, more fearful.
"Thorongil…" Jorah said in a steady, calm tone of voice, but Valandil did not heed him, for he was already off, long legs striding purposefully as he headed swiftly towards the direction of the screams. Valandil shouldered his way past many Dothraki, an easy task with his size, and headed towards the eastern edge of the encampment. The screams grew in intensity and duration, before suddenly cutting off. Valandil felt a cold sweat rise on the back of his neck, and he increased to a jog. There were innumerable Dothraki tents and yurts, some larger, some smaller, but they all appeared identical to Valandil's eyes, and the Dothraki did not seem to make camp with any kind of order or organization.
Now running, Valandil listened for any more screams, but they seem to have stopped, and finally he reached the eastern edge of the camp. Before him stretched a wide expanse of hilly plains covered in long grass, devoid of any building or person, lit only by the pale moonlight. Valandil stood there, heart pounding in his chest, and felt despair. Then, suddenly, one more scream came from away to his left, much closer now than any of the ones he had before, and he tore off towards it.
The sounds were coming from behind one of the larger of the tents, on the edge of the camp. Moving softly and silently up to the wall of the tent, Valandil silently crept up around it, one hand on the hilt of his sword. From behind the tent, he could hear the sounds of struggling, labored breathing, and the harsh laughter of several men. Finally, he came around to the back of the tent.
Before him were four men, Dothraki warriors by their long braids, three standing with cruel smiles on their faces, the four on the ground. Beneath the fourth one, Valandil could see the struggling legs of a young woman. With one hand, the Dothraki man was holding both of the girl's wrists against the ground, above her head, while with the other he was fumbling with his riding breeches. His braid was long, coming down to halfway down his back.
Valandil watched for only a split second before he decided what he must do. Covering the distance between himself and the Dothraki in four swift strides, he seized the Dothraki on top of the woman by his braid with both hands and hauled him off, sweeping his legs out from under him as he pulled. The man cried out in shock at the sudden surprise and pain, landing heavily on his back, and Valandil kicked him hard in the ribs as he lay there.
Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the side of his head as he felt the fist of another Dothraki punch him in the side of the jaw. He staggered back a few steps and looked up to find himself facing the second of the rapists. Cranking his arm back, Valandil punched him straight and hard, knocking the man backwards a few paces. With wrath in his eyes, the Dothraki looked up at Valandil, blood seeping from his nose, and he charged forward, leading with his shoulder. He was aiming for a tackle, but Valandil seized the man's forearms in a strong wrestler's grip, receiving the impact on his chest and stepping back to avoid losing his footing. He could tell that this Dothraki was an experienced wrestler, as he slipped from Valandil's grip and went for his leading leg with both arms. Shifting and turning his whole body to the side, Valandil used his leading leg and hooked it around the Dothraki's rear leg, at the same time he seized his enemy behind the neck, and using his leg and arm together, gave a great hooking throw which sent the Dothraki sprawling to the ground hard. Immediately Valandil was above him, hammering down into his face with hard punches.
Glancing over his shoulder, Valandil spotted one of the Dothraki seizing his scimitar from where he had left it by the side of the tent. Scrambling, he hauled out his own sword as the Dothraki came charging at him, scimitar raised. Throwing up a guard, Valandil blocked the opening blow and felt shockwaves of force travel through his blade and into his hands and arms. The Dothraki didn't hesitate, following his first stroke with more and more quick, vicious, slashing blows, the speed and ferocity of his assault forcing Valandil to back up, avoiding several of the slashes, and blocking the ones he couldn't with the flat of his blade. Locking their blades together in a bind, Valandil pushed the Dothraki back hard, moving his enemy back several feet, and then he dropped his sword into a low guard, the hilt down near his waist. The Dothraki was breathing hard, but he wasted no time and charged again, striking for the left side of Valandil's body. Raising his guard, Valandil took the blow and stepped forward, pushing the scimitar up as he did. He released one of his hands from his hilt and wrapped his free arm around the hilt and hands of the Dothraki, holding the scimitar in a viselike grip under his arm, with he cocked his sword arm back, pommel forward. For a moment the Dothraki struggled but could not free his sword, and then he looked at Valandil, their faces close together, and drove his head forward into Valandil's nose. His head was knocked back, a sharp pain in his nose from the blow, but he did not release the Dothraki's arms. Gritting his teeth, Valandil smashed the hard pommel of his sword down into the Dothraki face. Once, twice, three times he hammered his foe, until he felt the man go limp, and finally he released him, the body slumping onto the ground, unconscious.
Valandil stood, panting heavily, looking around him. One of the Dothraki was doubled up around his ribs, another lay on the ground, hands on his face, blood seeping between his fingers, the last one slumped at Valandil's feet. The girl they had been attacking lay before him, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes, dress torn and shoulders bare, her chest heaving as she breathed heavily.
'Where's the fourth one?' Valandil thought coldly. He felt his heart skip a beat as he heard the sound of a bow being drawn behind him. His heart pounded in his chest as he closed his eyes and waited for the shot, but it did not come. Then he heard the sound of steel sliding against leather, and Jorah's voice speaking in Dothraki. Slowly, Valandil turned around to see Jorah Mormont standing next to the Dothraki man, sword in hand, the edge of his sword held against the man's throat.
"See to the girl, this one isn't going anywhere" Jorah said, tapping his sword against the Dothraki warrior's chin.
"Are you hurt?" Valandil said gently, sheathing his sword as he approached the girl.
"N-n-no my lord," she said quickly, scrambling to her feet. Before he could say another word, the girl pushed past him, ran past Jorah, and was gone.
"What do we do with him?" Jorah said, tapping the Dothraki with his sword again.
"Let him go. Tell him that if he knows what is best for him, he will never do this again," Valandil said, glaring hard at the Dothraki. Jorah said a few words in their tongue, pushing the razor edge of his blade hard against the man's throat to make his point clear. The man nodded quickly, and then left in a great hurry, leaving his three companions still lying on the ground.
Jorah sighed and sheathed his sword. He walked over to Valandil and looked around at the three dispatched Dothraki.
"A noble thing you did for that girl, Thorongil" Jorah said.
"It was the only thing to do" Valandil replied.
"Come on, I think it's time to retire. The khalasar breaks camp earlier, you'll need your rest" Jorah answered, clapping Valandil on the shoulder as the two turned and walked back into the camp.
_______________________________________________
Dawn came early, golden light streaming over the eastern hills, and the clear skies promised a fine day. Valandil rose before most of the khalasar and watched the sunrise, already fully dressed with his grey Dunedain cloaked wrapped around him against the morning chill. His pipe was in his hand, a wreath of smoke around his head as he puffed on it pensively. Behind him stood Velo, his bridle tied to a stake on the ground, snorting impatiently and pawing at the ground, already fully loaded to travel with all of Valandil's belongings, including his most precious: His steelbow.
"Good morning, a fine day it looks to be" Valandil heard Jorah say behind him, followed by a yawn.
"Care for a little galenas? I have a spare pipe in my pack you could use," offered Valandil.
"Thank you, but no. Curious habit of your people, smoking," Jorah replied with a smile, now standing beside his friend. Valandil could see that he too was dressed, and he was standing next to his horse, fully packed.
"My people? It was the Andals who first put galenas in a pipe to smoke and called it 'westmanweed'. We only grew it for its sweet scent before we came to Westeros" Valandil said, smiling with his pipe still in his mouth before blowing out a ring of smoke.
"Truly? I suppose you would know, a Dúnadan never forgets" Jorah replied.
The whole vast encampment was broken down remarkably quickly for how chaotic the Dothraki seemed. Tents and huts were broken down and packed away, fires extinguished, food packed in saddlebags, carts provided for the old, the young and the sickly, and women with children. Finally, when all was packed, the whole khalasar, tens of thousands of warriors, women, children and slaves, assembled into a vast column. The carts were brought to the centre of the column, where they would be the most protected on the march. Behind and in front of the carts were vast long columns of mounted warriors, and walking slaves carrying the khalasar's burdens, with more riders deployed to screen the flanks and to scout in front of the column.
Valandil found himself near the front of the column, behind the Targaryens and Jorah, with the Khal and his bloodriders at the very front. Drogo shouted a few words in the Dothraki tongue, and then the entire vast horde of Dothraki began to move. Valandil reined his horse around, and took one last look at the sea, across which was his home and his family. Then he set the spurs to Velo and followed the horde, riding away into the east.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone