章 21: Chapter 20
In the aftermath of Khal Drogo's devastating attack on Pentos, the once-grand city now lay in ruins, its splendor reduced to smoldering rubble and echoing cries of the wounded. Khal Drogo, a towering presence amidst the chaos, stood amidst the destruction, his powerful frame exuding an aura of command. His dark eyes, gleaming with the reflection of fires that consumed the city, were fixed upon Viserys Targaryen, who knelt before him, a defiant mask barely concealing the fear that flickered in his eyes.
Viserys met Drogo's gaze with a futile defiance, his jaw clenched in stubborn pride even as the reality of his defeat bore down upon him. He had gambled everything on his claim to power, only to find himself at the mercy of a force he could not comprehend.
Amidst the ruin, a bitter irony lingered—a reminder of shattered alliances and broken promises. Ilyrio Mopatis, the wealthy merchant who had promised gold and armies to fuel Viserys's ambitions, had fled in the face of Drogo's relentless advance, leaving the Targaryen prince to face his fate alone.
As Drogo towered over him, Viserys could feel the weight of his choices pressing down upon him, heavier than the smoke that hung thick in the air. The once-mighty city of Pentos, now a testament to his failure, whispered its condemnation in every crumbling stone and twisted beam.
Speaking in his native Dothraki tongue, Khal Drogo's voice carried authority and menace, slicing through the tense air like a blade. The slaves who served as translators conveyed his words to Viserys in the Common Tongue, though the contemptuous glare exchanged between the two men needed no translation.
"Where is my promised bride?" Khal Drogo demanded, his tone low and dangerous.
Viserys, despite the danger he faced, remained defiant. "Your bride fled with a traitor, Khal," he sneered, his voice laced with madness. "Remember, you serve the true dragon. Obey my commands if you value your life."
Drogo's face hardened at Viserys's insolence, his hand tightening around the hilt of his arakh. The translators hesitated, unsure how to convey such audacity without provoking the Khal's wrath. Around them, Dothraki warriors exchanged incredulous looks at Viserys's grandiose claims.
Turning to his bloodriders, Drogo issued a chilling command. They nodded silently, understanding the Khal's intent. Viserys would learn humility tonight—the hard way.
Strong hands seized Viserys roughly, tearing him away from whatever shred of dignity he clung to. The prince, in his velvet and gold, was like a lamb being led to slaughter amidst the swirling dust and heat of the Dothraki camp.
Viserys struggled futilely against the overwhelming force of the Dothraki warriors, his protests drowned out by the mocking laughter and jeers that followed him like a dark cloud. The camp erupted with crude jokes and raucous commentary, the Dothraki reveling in the rare spectacle of a Targaryen prince reduced to a mere plaything of their Khal.
Forced into a tent at the edge of the camp, Viserys was stripped of his luxurious garments with little regard for his royal status. The rough hands of the Dothraki tore away his finery until he knelt before them, naked and vulnerable. Around him, the warriors smirked and exchanged knowing glances, relishing every moment of his humiliation.
Throughout the long, torturous night, Viserys endured the cruel whims of the Dothraki. He was taunted, insulted, and made to perform acts that further stripped away his dignity. Each moment was a sharp reminder of his own folly—of daring to challenge the might of Khal Drogo and the warrior culture that revered strength above all else.
By the time dawn painted the horizon with hues of pink and gold, Viserys emerged from the tent a changed man. His body bore bruises and marks from the night's ordeal, but more than physical wounds, it was his spirit that lay shattered. The once-proud prince was now a shell of his former self, humbled by the harsh realities of the Dothraki way of life.
Silently, the Dothraki warriors watched him with a mixture of disdain and grudging respect. They had witnessed firsthand the consequences of unchecked pride and disrespecting their Khal. Viserys's downfall had served as a cautionary tale—a stark reminder that even a prince with dragon blood could be brought to his knees by the relentless fury of the horselords.
As Viserys stumbled away from the tent, his bruised body a testament to his shattered pride, shame enveloped him like a heavy fog. His once-defiant gaze now fixated on the ground, avoiding the piercing stares of the silent Dothraki warriors who stood as witnesses to his humiliating downfall.
Khal Drogo's authoritative voice cut through the morning air, his words in the harsh cadence of the Dothraki language commanding and absolute. He gestured decisively towards one of his bloodriders, his tone brooking no dissent. The bloodrider, a seasoned warrior with a face weathered by years of battles, nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of his Khal's decree. Viserys was to be their slave henceforth, a living reminder of the consequences of challenging their leader.
"Keep him close," Khal Drogo's voice resonated with unwavering authority as he continued, his words carrying a chilling finality. "Let him witness the strength of our Khalasar."
The bloodrider's expression hardened, his gaze briefly meeting Viserys' before turning away, conveying a mixture of disdain and adherence to duty.
Simultaneously, another bloodrider was dispatched with urgent orders—to track down and retrieve the elusive bride who had fled with a traitor. With a nod from Drogo, the rider mounted a swift horse and disappeared into the expansive plains, his determination palpable in the set of his jaw and the firm grip on his reins.
In the wake of Viserys's ordeal, the Dothraki camp stirred with renewed activity, yet an aura of solemnity hung in the air. The warriors resumed their morning rituals with a newfound reverence for Khal Drogo, their actions a testament to their unwavering loyalty. The memory of Viserys's arrogance and subsequent humiliation loomed large, serving as a poignant reminder of the consequences of challenging the authority of their Khal—a lesson etched deep into the collective consciousness of the horselords.
Viserys, now reduced to a shadow of his former self, shuffled away from the tent, each step heavy with the weight of his defeat. The piercing stares of the Dothraki followed him, their silence speaking volumes of their newfound respect for their leader and the price of defiance in their harsh world.
—
As all of this was going on Jon leaned back in the cushioned chair, eyes closed, his mind connected to the sharp gaze of Horus, his hawk, who soared high above the Dothraki camp. The scene unfolding below was a mix of tragic irony and cruel justice. Through Horus' eyes, Jon witnessed Viserys Targaryen's downfall, the so-called "true dragon" now nothing more than a worm under Khal Drogo's boot.
Oh, Viserys, you pretentious prat, Jon mused, you really thought you could waltz in with your pretty hair and boss around a guy who drinks blood for breakfast? That's like trying to tell a tiger to go vegan. Spoiler alert: it ends with someone getting eaten.
In the real world—or what passed for it now—Jon opened one eye, making sure no one in the Braavosi manse noticed him essentially zoning out. Pretending to be a brooding medieval hero was exhausting, especially when you had the mental commentary of a snarky, fourth-wall-breaking anti-hero running through your head 24/7.
Through Horus' eyes, the sight was nothing short of poetic. Viserys, the spoiled prince who thought he could command dragons and kings alike, was now being shoved around like a disobedient puppy. The Dothraki warriors—guys who made medieval torture chambers look like kindergarten—had decided to give him a little taste of humility. And by "taste," Jon meant the full-course meal, complete with a side of humiliation and a dessert of public scorn.
Khal Drogo, you beautiful bastard, Jon thought, You've basically turned this into the Dothraki version of a fraternity hazing. Just without the cheap beer and toga parties. Actually, scratch that—probably still got the togas. He let out a mental sigh, wondering if Viserys would even survive the night. Betting against it, Jon thought, If he does, he's gonna be the Dothraki's new chew toy.
Drogo's command to make Viserys their pleasure slave was the final nail in the coffin. And there it is, folks, Jon thought, The prize for the dumbest prince goes to… drumroll, please… Viserys Targaryen! Let's give him a hand—he won't be using his own for much longer.
As the bloodrider moved to enforce Drogo's order, Jon felt a pang of something—not quite pity, but close. Kid had it coming, he reminded himself. Arrogance is like drinking wildfire—it's gonna burn you from the inside out. And let's be real, Viserys, you were practically guzzling the stuff.
Horus circled overhead, and Jon's gaze shifted to the horizon, where a lone rider sped off to track down Daenerys. Good luck with that, buddy, Jon thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Even if you find her, you'll have to deal with a pissed-off dragon and a Stark with a serious case of 'don't mess with my family.'
Back in the manse, Jon straightened up, blinking away the connection to Horus. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. And here I thought being a bastard in Winterfell was tough. Now I've got a front-row seat to the world's most dysfunctional family reunion.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. Gotta keep the brooding act up, though. Can't have anyone thinking I'm anything but a grim, honor-bound warrior. Nope, can't let them know I've got a mental dialogue dirtier than a Flea Bottom tavern. With one last look around to ensure his privacy, Jon let the corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk before the serious, brooding expression settled back in. The night was still young, and there was plenty more chaos to come.
—
As the afternoon sun filtered through the open windows of their rented manse in Braavos, the aroma of freshly baked bread and spiced meats filled the air. Jon sat at the head of the table, trying to keep his focus on the meal in front of him, but his mind was elsewhere—somewhere between the impending danger and his own sarcastic thoughts.
You know, I could really get used to this whole "waking up in a lavish manse with a dragon in a suitcase" thing. I mean, who wouldn't want to trade the Wall for a cozy lunch in Braavos? Oh, right—me, because I know this is all going to go to hell in about five minutes. Seriously, I should get a damn frequent flyer card for all the crap I get dragged into.
Oberyn leaned forward, cutting through Jon's mental rant with his casual, yet always deadly, curiosity. "So, Jon," he began with that too-charming-for-his-own-good smile, "what's the plan now?"
Jon took a moment, letting the question hang in the air while his brain scrambled for a suitably medieval-sounding answer. "Essos isn't safe for us anymore, at least for the time being," he replied, his voice steady despite the *holy shit, we're screwed* monologue running in the background. "I think our best move is to head back to Westeros. King's Landing might be risky, but it's the last place they'd expect us to go."
Yup, because hiding in plain sight always works out so well. And by "well," I mean someone's probably going to die, and it's probably going to be me. Again. At least this time I've got a dragon. And hey, if we're lucky, we can make a dramatic entrance, flames and all. Maybe I'll get a soundtrack this time. The Game of Thrones theme, but with more cowbell.
Rhea, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. "But before we set foot in King's Landing, we need to address the matter of Daenerys's disguise," she said, her eyes flicking to the platinum-haired girl sitting quietly beside Jon. "Her Valyrian features will draw attention."
Yeah, because a silver-haired queen walking into King's Landing isn't going to turn any heads. It's not like everyone's been hunting for the last Targaryens for years or anything. No big deal.
Daenerys, bless her, was trying to look calm, but Jon could see the tension in her eyes. She nodded slightly, acknowledging the challenge ahead. "We'll need a plan," she agreed softly, her voice steady despite the situation.
Jon offered her a reassuring nod, already running through their options. "We'll find something suitable," he promised, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "There are ways to blend in, even in a city as crowded and watchful as King's Landing."
By "ways to blend in," I obviously mean we're going to slap a hood on you and hope for the best. Seriously, though, can't we just take the dragon and fry anyone who gets too close? Instant disguise, right?
Oberyn's eyes gleamed with interest as he leaned back in his chair. "And what do you plan to do once we're there?" he asked, his voice tinged with that familiar mix of amusement and deadly intent.
Jon met his gaze evenly, the gears in his brain spinning faster than ever. "There's a Tourney of the Hand coming up," he revealed, his voice carrying a quiet confidence as he leaned slightly forward. His gaze shifted between Oberyn, Rhea, and the rest of their motley crew. "I intend to participate."
Yup, because nothing screams "low profile" like entering a high-stakes tournament in the middle of the enemy's capital. But hey, I need the cash. And let's be real, it's not like anyone's going to recognize me with a helmet on. Right?
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Jon's plan—or lack thereof. "A Tourney in King's Landing, you say?" he mused, sipping from his cup of wine. "And what's the prize that's got you so interested, Jon?"
Jon paused for a moment, debating how much to share. "Gold," he finally admitted, his voice low enough to keep the conversation private among their group. "The tourney is a chance to earn a substantial amount, enough to strengthen our position."
And by "gold," I obviously mean Gacha Points. Because what's the point of being stuck in medieval Westeros if I can't use my new life to unlock some OP loot? I'm just saying, if I don't get at least one more dragon out of this, I'm going to be pissed.
Rhea nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowing slightly as she considered the risks. "It's risky," she pointed out gently, her concern clear in her tone. "But it's a good plan. The Dothraki will be searching for us, so we can't stay here for long."
Yeah, and when the Dothraki show up, it's going to be like a Fast & Furious movie, except with more horses and less sense. But sure, let's go to King's Landing. What's the worst that could happen?
The conversation continued, with each member of their ragtag group offering insights and suggestions. As they spoke, Jon's mind kept drifting back to the sheer absurdity of the situation. A modern-day teenager in Westeros, pretending to be Jon Snow, planning to crash a medieval tournament. If my friends back home could see me now… well, they'd probably be dead too. Because Westeros is a deathtrap.
With the plans set and breakfast winding down, Jon took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Time to head to King's Landing. And if I'm lucky, maybe I'll live long enough to get a damn bath. Or at least a decent meal. Is that too much to ask?
—
In the warm, dimly lit chamber tucked away in the manse, Daenerys sat surrounded by her companions—Rhea, Selina, Diana, Obara, Tyene, and Nymeria. They were busily helping her into the disguise they'd decided on—dressing her as a young Septa. With focused hands, they adjusted the folds of the modest gown and carefully secured the hood over her silver hair, making sure not a single strand escaped.
As they worked, Daenerys noticed the playful glances and knowing smiles exchanged between her friends. A certain air of mischief hung around the room, one that Daenerys couldn't quite place. Sensing that something more had happened during the night, she ventured cautiously, "What happened last night?"
The room fell momentarily silent, save for the rustling of fabric and the distant sounds of Braavos drifting through the open window. Rhea, always the quick-witted one, let out a soft chuckle before answering, "Oh, Daenerys, last night was… quite eventful."
Daenerys tilted her head curiously, sensing that there was something more behind Rhea's words. "Eventful?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly in innocent confusion.
Selina, with a mischievous glint in her eye, couldn't resist adding, "Yes, quite eventful indeed. We spent the night in Jon's chambers."
Daenerys blinked, her mind working to catch up. As she observed her friends—each with a slightly disheveled appearance and a certain glow in their eyes—the pieces began to fall into place. "Oh," she murmured, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks as realization dawned. "I… see."
Diana, ever the gentle-hearted, leaned closer to Daenerys and offered a reassuring smile. "It's alright, Daenerys. Sometimes, when people care about each other, they… share an intimate connection."
Obara, blunt as ever, smirked and added, "And let's just say we shared that connection with Jon… quite enthusiastically."
Tyene and Nymeria exchanged amused glances, Tyene finally breaking the silence. "Jon's a good man, Daenerys. Last night, we all… enjoyed ourselves together."
Daenerys nodded slowly, absorbing their words with a mix of curiosity, embarrassment, and newfound understanding. She wasn't naive; she'd heard whispers and rumors about such things, but hearing it so openly discussed—and realizing her friends had engaged in such an act with Jon—was something entirely different.
"Thank you for explaining," she said softly, her voice thoughtful, as she looked at each of them. Despite the blush on her cheeks, there was a quiet acceptance in her tone.
The women resumed their tasks, putting the final touches on Daenerys' disguise. The room was now filled with a sense of camaraderie, an unspoken bond that bridged the gap between Daenerys' sheltered upbringing and the more worldly knowledge of her friends. Despite the unusual conversation, Daenerys felt closer to them, understanding that this was simply another layer of the complex relationships they shared.
With a last adjustment to her hood, Daenerys stood ready—a young Septa in appearance, but with a deeper appreciation for the complexities of relationships and the bonds that tied her newfound companions together. And while the night's revelations were unexpected, they were also oddly comforting. After all, if these women could share something so intimate with Jon and still remain as strong and supportive as ever, then perhaps there was more to learn from them than she ever imagined.
—
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting Braavos with hues of amber and gold, Jon and his companions readied themselves for departure. The bustling port was alive with the frenetic energy of countless ships and traders. Jon's party, a mix of seasoned fighters and spies, moved with purpose and urgency. Daenerys—now under the alias Septa Emilia—stood with a quiet resolve, her transformation into a septa complete thanks to Tyene's careful instruction.
Time to break down the fourth wall, folks. Imagine this: Jon Snow, who was basically made for brooding and throwing daggers in the dark, is now playing dress-up with a side of espionage. The irony? Daenerys's new name, Emilia, is a nod to the actress who played her in another reality. I know, meta, right?
Jon approached Daenerys with a supportive nod. "Remember, you're Septa Emilia now," he advised, his voice low but firm. "This disguise is our best shot at moving through Gulltown and then King's Landing without drawing any attention. Trust in Tyene's teachings."
Oh, the magic of name-drops. Just imagine if the real Emilia Clarke were here—what would she say about all this? Probably something along the lines of, "I'm just here for the dragons and epic battles." But I digress.
Daenerys, or rather Emilia, nodded, her new role settling over her like a second skin. "I will do my best," she replied. "Thank you, Jon, for everything."
Rhea stepped in, her hand resting comfortingly on Emilia's shoulder. "You look perfect for the part," she said with a reassuring smile. "Stick close to us, and we'll get through this."
With their preparations complete, Jon led them to the ship. The vessel was a modest craft but sturdy, its crew efficient and discreet. As they settled in, Jon couldn't help but once again chuckle internally at the choice of Daenerys's alias. Emilia Clarke—a name that tickled his inner geek. He could almost hear the theme music in his head, but that would be a bit too on-the-nose.
Hey, remember, I'm the guy who's living out epic fantasy scenarios while having binge-watched the show. And here we are, with a name that screams, "Hey, we're in a world where TV stars get name-dropped."
As the ship set sail and the lights of Braavos faded, the group gathered on deck, watching the city recede into the darkness. The journey ahead was fraught with peril, but they were united in their mission. Gulltown loomed on the horizon, their first step toward King's Landing, and Jon had a secret plan to join the Tourney of the Hand—a strategic move to gain coin and position.
Emilia stood beside Jon, her eyes on the horizon. "What will happen when we reach Gulltown?" she asked quietly.
Jon exhaled slowly, considering his words. "We'll blend in, gather information, and make our way to King's Landing by road," he said. "The Tourney of the Hand will give us a chance to earn some coin and position ourselves strategically. But we must be wary. The Usurper's spies are everywhere."
Rhea stepped forward, her gaze resolute. "We'll be ready," she said firmly. "Whatever comes, we'll face it together."
Seriously, folks, if this were a TV show, this would be the part where the dramatic music swells and the screen fades to black. But in reality, they're just sailing into a sea of uncertainty. Classic epic adventure stuff.
The ship sailed steadily, carrying Jon and his party toward Gulltown. The next chapter of their journey was just beginning, and they were prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
—
As the ship cut through the waves, its lanterns casting a warm, golden glow over the deck, Jon and Rhea found a secluded corner in Jon's quarters. The rhythmic creaking of the ship and the gentle lapping of waves were the only sounds that accompanied their quiet retreat.
With the sunset painting the sea in hues of orange and pink, Jon and Rhea embraced, their connection deepening beyond mere words. The room, dimly lit and cozy, became their sanctuary as they let the world outside drift away.
Jon's thoughts raced as he stole a glance at Rhea. Great, Jon, you're about to get into some steamy action. No pressure. It's not like you're a teenager trapped in a medieval brooding hero's body or anything. Oh wait, you are. He smirked internally at the absurdity of it all.
Rhea's fingers traced along Jon's jawline, and he could feel the warmth of her touch. "It's been a long journey," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. "But I think we've earned this moment."
Jon's voice was steady, but his eyes danced with a mix of desire and affection. "Aye, we have," he agreed, pulling her closer. "Let's make it count."
As their lips met, the kiss was a blend of passion and tenderness. Jon's heart raced as he felt the boundaries between them dissolve. Okay, let's get real here. This is turning into a scene straight out of a romance novel—minus the modern conveniences like air conditioning and cell phones. He chuckled softly, knowing that Rhea couldn't hear his inner monologue.
Their movements were synchronized, a dance of mutual desire and exploration. The heat between them built steadily, each touch and caress heightening their connection. Here's where the real action starts. Don't forget to be all brooding and heroic while you're at it, Jon. That's what the audience expects.
The night unfolded in a whirlwind of steamy intensity. Jon's thoughts, while indulging in the moment, were still tinged with the awareness of their precarious situation. Remember, Jon, you're a hero now, so act like one. Even if that means getting all caught up in some epic love scene.
As they finally succumbed to the depths of their connection, the world outside their quarters seemed to vanish. The intimacy they shared was a stark contrast to the uncertainty that lay ahead. For now, in the embrace of the night and each other, they found solace
—-
As Jon and his companions sailed from Braavos towards Gulltown, the night sky was clear, offering an unobstructed view of the sea. The ship cut through the waves with a steady rhythm, and the distant lights of Pentos gradually faded from view. Jon, ever the vigilant observer, had Horus the Hawk on his mind.
I swear, if Horus gets any more of a workout, he's going to start charging me for overtime, Jon thought with a smirk. Or maybe he'll demand a new set of talons. Hawk inflation is real, you know.
Jon focused his attention on the hawk's vision, the bond allowing him to see what Horus saw. Through the bird's eyes, he was transported to the harsh, desolate plains of the Dothraki Sea. There, amidst the sprawling dunes and endless sky, Jon observed the sorry state of Viserys Targaryen.
Viserys, once a prince with grand dreams of reclaiming the Iron Throne, had become a pitiful sight. The Dothraki Khalasar had shown no mercy, and his once-proud demeanor was now a shadow of its former self. The prince who once harbored delusions of grandeur was now a broken man, subjected to relentless torment by his captors.
Jon's gaze through Horus's eyes saw Viserys reduced to a pitiful wreck, mired in filth and humiliation. His once-beautiful silver-gold hair was matted and tangled, his regal appearance now nothing more than a collection of bruises and scars. The Dothraki's cruel games had stripped him of any remaining dignity, leaving him as little more than a source of derisive amusement.
Look at him, Jon thought with a tinge of dark humor. The guy was a walking, talking "I'm the rightful king" billboard, and now he's just a poster child for why you don't make enemies in the Dothraki Sea.
Jon could see Viserys muttering to himself, his once fiery eyes now vacant and hollow. "Fire and blood," he would whisper repeatedly, a broken mantra devoid of any real power. The Khalasar ignored him, their laughter a harsh counterpoint to his desperate, fractured declarations.
It's like watching a tragic play from the cheap seats, Jon mused. Except in this performance, the actor's lost his script, and the director's decided to make it a snuff film. Real heartwarming stuff.
Despite the grim spectacle, Jon remained resolute. The bond with Horus not only provided him with valuable intelligence but also a deeper understanding of the harsh realities of the world they lived in. Viserys's downfall was a stark reminder of how quickly fortunes could change and how ruthless the world could be.
Jon shifted his focus back to the ship, the deck now illuminated by the pale light of dawn. The journey to Gulltown awaited, and the path forward was fraught with its own challenges. But for now, the sight of Viserys's demise served as a dark reminder of the perils of ambition and the cruel hand of fate.
---
Author's Note:
Hey everyone! In the upcoming chapter, Jon will be making 10 Gacha rolls specifically for Character Cards instead of 50 random rolls. I'd love to hear your suggestions on which characters you'd like to see Jon summon to Westeros. Let your imagination run wild! Your input could shape the next exciting developments in our story. Leave your suggestions in the comments below!
---
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