Capítulo 2: The Dothraki Scout
Daeron stood amidst the carnage, a nearby campfire lighting up the dark night. Dozens of bloody bodies lay strewn around him, the once-proud Dothraki scouts now lifeless at his feet. He felt like a shadow—death itself, the Stranger made flesh.
Slowly, deliberately, he wiped his bloody sword with a scrap of torn cloth, each stroke methodical. His armour was dark and seemed to cling to his form like second skin, his dragon wing helm was left forgotten atop a Dothraki's shattered chest.
His red cape snapped violently in a sudden gust, the wind carrying with it the scent of fire and blood. Silver hair whipped across his face as he turned, his gaze locking onto a flickering campfire.
Amidst the flames, a cream-coloured egg, gleaming metallically, lay covered in bubbling Dothraki blood. The fire suddenly crackled, sparks soaring into the cold night air as Daeron gasped.
He woke.
His eyes snapped open, wide with panic, chest heaving as he gulped for air. The dream's weight still clung to him, but the roaring fire had vanished, replaced by the cool, damp air of the cave.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the entrance, casting faint rays across the stone ground as his pulse slowly steadied.
He let out a shaky breath, his gaze settling on a nearby stone egg. He crawled over, clutching it to his chest gently as he let out a long drawn sigh. His breathing settled as memories of the dream played through his mind.
Fire & Blood
He shook his head, dislodging those thoughts as his grip tightened on the heavy, cold stone egg. His gaze flickered to the cave entrance, he was still in the Dothraki Sea, memories of last nights attempted escape fresh in his mind.
His sister…
Daeron's jaw clenched, thoughts racing as he stood and made his way towards the narrow cave entrance. With a few hurried steps he left his shelter.
Outside, the sun blazed mercilessly, its heat pressing down on him as if testing his resolve. Behind him loomed a rugged rock face, jagged and imposing and ahead of him was the Dothraki Sea.
The Dothraki Sea stretched endlessly, a vast ocean of tall dry, golden grass rippling in the wind. The land was flat and featureless, with only the occasional rock or hill breaking the horizon. The air felt wild and free, the silence pierced only by the rustling of grass.
It was almost beautiful, the Dothraki sea was a mixture of barren lands and large golden plains that stretched endlessly.
He needed to find out what happened to his sister—and Viserys, too. Pulling a dagger from the small of his back, he began cutting at the dry golden grass, an idea sprouting in his mind.
Daeron knelt in the parched grass of the Dothraki Sea, his dagger glinting in the harsh sunlight. He scraped away at the dirt, tossing clumps of earth aside until a shallow bowl began to form.
Once satisfied, he filled the small depression with the dry grass. His hand then dropped to his coin pouch, among the jingling silver and gold was a small rod of flint.
With a hiss that echoed across the grasslands, he struck the flint with his dagger, igniting the fuel and coaxing the flames to life.
He quickly fed the fire; its heat was unnecessary and sweltering, but the sudden plume of smoke rising into the sky was precisely what he needed.
A beacon.
—-
A Dothraki scout, Vezof, squinted at the plume of smoke rising into the midday sky. A fire—during the day?
His horse let out a tired whinny, and he urged it forward, though the weight of exhaustion bore down on them both. They had been searching all night for the Valyrian.
Khal Drogo's fury still echoed in his mind, the memory of commands shouted with murderous intent. He could almost feel the heat of the Khal's rage again, like a blade at his back.
And yet, a strange sense of awe flickered inside him.
The Valyrian had turned Drogo's camp into chaos, lighting a rebellion among slaves. Half the camp had been in flames before anyone could stop it. One man had done this.
Vezof's grip tightened on the reins as his thoughts drifted back to his parents' Khalasar—five hundred strong—wiped out by Drogo's horde. He had been too young to fight then, but not now.
His arakh felt reassuring at his side as he approached the source of the smoke. Probably a fellow scout cooking a catch, but he couldn't risk ignoring it.
Vezof urged his horse forward, the plume of smoke growing larger as he neared. He narrowed his eyes against the harsh light, expecting to see a figure crouched by the fire at any moment.
But as he drew closer, no-one was there, no scout, no Valyrian. Only the crackling of the fire that filled the silence.
He pulled his horse to a stop, dismounted, and moved warily toward the fire. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his arakh as he surveyed the scene.
The fire burned steadily, the flames licking at the dry wood, but there was no one in sight. No fellow scout cooking meat, no signs of recent activity.
Vezof's frown deepened. He knelt, running his fingers through the dirt around the campfire. The ground was undisturbed, save for the scorched earth around the fire.
His horse snorted behind him, ears twitching, as a breeze swept through the tall grass, causing the Dothraki Sea to ripple like a restless, living thing.
The silence felt heavy, unnatural, pressing in on Vezof from all sides as he stood.
His eyes swept across the jagged rock face ahead, the bright sun casting long, distorted shadows.
He saw no one—no scout, no movement. Just the oppressive quiet and the steady crackle of the fire.
Vezof was about to turn back when something caught his eye. A sliver of darkness in the rock face—a cave.
He narrowed his gaze, but before he could make sense of it, a pair of shining purple eyes blinked back at him from the darkness.
He froze.
The eyes hovered there in the dark, unsettlingly bright, watching him. The figure behind them was more shadow than man, his form lost to the cave's darkness.
But then, just for a heartbeat, Vezof caught a glimpse of pale white hair as wind brushed it into the sunlight.
The horse shuffled nervously behind him, sensing something wrong, but Vezof remained transfixed. The eyes never blinked, never wavered, just stared—cold, unreadable, and terrifying in their stillness.
The fire crackled louder, the wind picked up, but the air felt colder—despite the sun beating down. It was as though the very land was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
He slowly reached for his arakh, his fingers trembling, as they tightened around the hilt.
"Dothraki"
The Valyrian said, his voice oddly silky as he spoke in Bravosi. The Valyrian stepped from the cave, the shadows disappearing as the sun beat harshly down on his lithe form.
An unsheathed Westorosi blade was held loosely in his right hand, the shining metal reflecting the harsh sun above. His shining pale hair framed his face almost effortlessly, he was lithe and shorter than Vezof.
"Do you understand Bravosi?" The Valyrians voice was sharper this time, his violet gaze piercing through the haze of the noon sun.
Vezof's mind raced. He did understand Bravosi, but what did it matter? He wasn't here to talk. He pulled the arakh from his waist with a practised, smooth gesture.
His fingers tightened on the leather hilt, his eyes narrowing.
And yet, something in the way the Valyrian stood made Vezof hesitate. There was no fear in his eyes. Only cold, calculating intent.
"I don't need to talk to kill you," Vezof growled, his voice low but fierce.
The Valyrian's lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile, his sword held loosely in his hand.
"Then come," Daeron whispered, "and let's see."
Vezof lunged without hesitation, his arakh slicing upward, aiming to gut the Valyrian. But Daeron's movements were practised, smooth as the wind itself.
Daeron had trained with a blade since childhood—brief under Ser Willem Darry's careful guidance, then later, honing his skills in the shadows of exile.
He knew he was good.
Vezof's arakh slashed towards Daerons throat, but his retreat was effortless, the Valyrians back briefly brushed the rock face behind him as the curved blade missed.
Vezof snarled, twisting the arakh in his hand and swinging again, faster this time, aiming for his chest. Daerons own sword flashing up to deflect the strike. Metal clanged against metal, the force reverberating through Vezof's arm, but Daeron didn't slow.
He pressed forward, his straight blade a blur in the harsh sunlight, slicing through the air in precise arcs. Vezof parried the strikes, but each block felt heavier, his arms tiring under the relentless assault.
Daeron followed steadily, his blade suddenly darting low, and before Vezof could react, the flat of the sword slammed into the side of his knee, sending him crashing to the ground.
Before Vezof could rise, the cold edge of Daeron's sword pressed against his throat.
Vezof glared up at him, chest heaving with exertion. The Valyrian could kill him with a flick of his wrist.
"You won't leave alive unless you tell me what I want to know." Daeron declared, his voice like ice.
This was a man who had torn apart a camp, lit fires of rebellion among slaves, and now, with a blade, had brought him to his knees.
Daeron eased the sword from Vezof's throat, but kept the blade close enough to remind him of the power balance. "Where is my sister?" he demanded.
Vezof swallowed, sweat dripping down his brow. He had seen her at the wedding, seen the resemblance—the same pale hair, the same regal presence.
"The Khalasar rides," Vezof muttered. "Your sister…she is with Drogo's camp. Not far, half a day's ride."
Daeron hummed "Now, of the camp's defences?" he asked, Vezof blinked in shock, surely he wasn't going to….
"It's—you'd need an army," Vezof muttered "The Khal has—thousands of riders with him" he said as he eyed the Valyrian incredulously.
Daeron's blade hovered closer again, pressing lightly against Vezof's neck. "I don't plan to fight them all. But I will need a way in."
"It's not possible" Vezof said seriously as he shook his head "There are scouts and riders constantly surrounding the camp, the Khal will know you're on your way hours before you even see the camp"
Daeron gritted his teeth, pushing the blade against the Dothraki's throat as if doing so would change the truth. Vezof swallowed but he was Dothraki, he would not cry nor beg.
His mind raced, every possibility he could think of leading to dead ends. Thousands of riders, scouts on every horizon… How could he get through? He wasn't Viserys, spinning desperate dreams, clinging to delusions of dragons. No, Daeron needed a real plan, something concrete—something devastating.
The frustration boiled inside him. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, his hands shaking as he pressed the cold steel closer to Vezof's skin.
Then a thought slipped in, one he didn't want to entertain but couldn't ignore. He remembered when Viserys used to tell him and Daenerys about their father…
A shiver ran down his spine as a plan suddenly started to build in his mind.
"Illyrio Mopatis, blonde, fat, wears rich perfumes," Daeron said suddenly, his voice steadier than he felt. His violet eyes locked onto Vezof's, searching for a reaction. "Is he still in the camp?"
Vezof blinked, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. He wasn't entirely sure, but he did recall seeing a man who matched that description during Daenerys' wedding. A foreigner, out of place amidst the Dothraki horde.
"Likely." Vezof muttered, his uncertainty apparent but his words enough to set Daeron's plan into motion.
Illyrio.
That was what he needed.
Daerons gaze flicked down to Vezof, his mind racing.
Daeron nodded, lowering his sword from Vezof's throat. "You Dothraki," he continued, his tone shifting to one of calculated persuasion, "you follow strength, not ideals, not bloodlines or empty speeches. Strength is what matters in your world."
Vezof was surprised by the sudden change in the Valyrians demeanour. His narrowed, fierce eyes seemed to shift, his posture loosening as he held his sword loosely..
Vezof felt his right hand twitch, his arakh still left in the golden grass below them.
"You've got to have some ambition of your own, no?" Daeron pressed, his voice like silk. "Riches? Revenge?" He questioned, his eyes fixed on the Dothraki intensely.
Vezofs mind almost instinctively went back to the memories of his parents Khalasar and it's grizzly end. Daeron noticed his brief lapse in attention, a glint appearing in his purple eyes.
"Are you really just going to sit and follow the Khal your whole life?" Daeron asked as he eyed the kneeling man. "Like a loyal dog" the Valyrian said casually, too casually.
Vezof bristled, this boy was getting too cocky, he stood to his full height, his arakh still left on the ground as he did so. "Dog?" He spat angrily.
Daeron stepped back a pace, raising his hands in mock surrender, the glint in his violet eyes sharp as the blade at Vezof's feet.
"Well, what would you have me say? Are you not just another scout? Another sword in Drogo's army?" His words were calm, too calm, slicing through the air like a knife. "You bleed for him, sweat for him, and what does he give you?"
Nothing, he was just another sword, another scout…
Vezof clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of his father's old bow on his back.
Khal Drogo had taken everything, and for what?
"Khal Drogo leads the greatest Khalasar in the world," he growled, hoping to dispel the sudden memory. "What could you—a pale boy with a pretty sword—hope to do against him?"
A smirk tugged at Daeron's lips, and he took a deliberate step closer, his blade now resting at Vezof's chest, just enough pressure to make the Dothraki stiffen.
"I burned half of Drogo's camp with nothing but slaves. Men and women too afraid to even dream of freedom until I gave them the spark," Daeron whispered, his voice carrying the weight of certainty.
"What could I do with someone like you? A warrior who knows Drogo's men?" Daeron continued confidently. "Together we can kill the Khal."
"You think Drogo will fall to the likes of you?" Vezof spat, not out of loyalty, but simple truth. His Khal had never been defeated in single combat. Drogo was untouchable.
Daeron stepped closer, his voice barely a whisper, eyes as sharp as steel. "Yes," he said, each word deliberate. "And when he does, the Khalasar will fracture, and you'll be free to claim whatever's left."
A tense silence hung in the air, Vezof's blood racing as the weight of Daeron's words settled over him. He took a step back, his expression hardening.
"What would my role be?" Vezof asked, his eyes narrowing.
Daeron's blade lowered slightly, enough to appear less threatening, though it remained poised and ready. "All I need from you," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "is to deliver a message. Speak to Illyrio Mopatis for me."
"That's it?" Vezof asked, his brows knitting together in confusion.
"Yes," Daeron affirmed, his gaze unwavering. "I need to meet with him—here, tomorrow."
Without another word, Daeron stepped back, sheathing his blade and turning his back on the Dothraki scout, as if he were already certain of his obedience.
Vezof stood there, still as stone, watching the Valyrian disappear back into the shadow of the cave. The flames from the campfire crackled behind him, the smell of burning grass rising into the air.
Vezof mounted his horse, casting one last glance at the cave before urging his steed into motion. Something lingered in his mind now—an image of the Valyrians purple eyes, cold and calculating, and the certainty in his voice when he spoke of killing Drogo.
As he rode toward the camp, Vezof couldn't help but wonder if this boy might actually succeed.
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