He doesn’t have time to react

Jon stood, confused and taken aback by the old man’s proposition. His gut told him that such an offer would be a clear trap, that the horselords would carve him into pieces the moment his back was turned. His mind was still churning over ways in which he could make an escape that wouldn’t get him killed when suddenly there was a call of alarm from several men, and the camp suddenly went into action.

People rushed about madly, the Khal giving out commands as he and his bloodriders went over to their horses. Jon looked about wildly, trying to find the source of the sudden alarm, but he could see nothing. It was only when he felt a rumble on the ground below him, when he quirked his head and heard the distant gallop of hoof-beats that he realised it was another Khalasar approaching.

He considered running, with the hope that the Dothraki would be too busy slaughtering each other to notice his escape. But he knew it was foolish given that a typical Dothraki screamer could ride him down in an instant. No, Jon knew his only chance was to try and fight his way out.

The Khal suddenly grabbed him, lead him over forwards the horses and gestured wildly for him to mount up. Jon couldn’t understand a word of the garbled nonsense, but the meaning was clear enough and he climbed up to the big black stallion and soon found himself flanked by several other vicious looking riders. The old Khal barked out commands as more and more of the Khalasar formed up, all facing the coming enemy horde that looked to be little more than a cloud of dust and angry hoofbeats.

Jon sucked in a breath, pushed it out. The Khal screamed an order, waved his weapon and suddenly they were all moving, riding ferociously towards the incoming enemy and Jon found himself with them. It was as if he found himself pulled into their momentum, and what came next was more instinctual than consciously done. As the two hordes met, time slowed and it seemed to Jon as if his movements continued on at pace as he cut through one screaming Dothraki after another, one hand still clinging desperately to his horse throughout the madness.

Everything became a blur of blood and ****, a horrible stream of colour and occasional noise that was mostly smothered by beating of Jon’s heart. At some point the dust cleared, the sounds grew quiet and Jon returned to himself, body aching, breathing heavily and covered in blood and gore. He was vaguely aware of riders vanishing off into the horizon, but it did not click in his head that they were the enemy until the old Khal rode up beside, equally smeared in blood and smiled victoriously at Jon.

“You ...now,” he said in heavily accented common, “Dothraki,”