Dothraki Camp

The smell of cooked meat was the first thing that greeted Jon when he awoke. It was a mess of images and sounds as his head struggled to focus through the disorientation and pain that had been inflicted upon it, but the smell of cooked meat seemed the most apparent thing to his mind. He blinked in the darkened tent, trying to focus on whatever tiny crack of daylight he could find in the thick hide of the tent canvas. There was a cacophony of noise occurring outside the tiny world of the tent, but none of it made much sense to Jon when he strained himself to listen.

Jon looked at himself. He was still dressed in his nightwear, which by this point was thoroughly riddled with dirt, and his hands were bound together with rope. He cursed himself for not carrying a knife on his person at all times like some of his Kingsguard had suggested. Gently he touched at his head, wincing at the slight pain and dried blood that came with the gesture. Whoever had struck him had not been gentle.

The tent around him was of average size, and his captors had been gracious enough to leave him a small bed fashioned out of furs and wood that sat a little above the ground. There was a bucket in the corner that stank of piss, a small wooden chair that seemed crudely fashioned, and not much else.

After a time a woman entered his tent. She was not tall or short, fat or skinny, but she was memorable to Jon purely in the fact that she was clearly Dothraki. Her skin was of beaten copper and the kindly eyes in her face were the shape of almonds. She smiled at him benignly and placed a small bowl of dried horse flesh before him and held out a horn of what looked like milk. Jon did not know how long it had been since he last ate, but his body ached with hunger and he chewed into a piece of dried meat and took the offered drink. At once he realised that it had been fermented and served as wine for the Dothraki people. The whole time the woman watched him patiently until he had ate and drank his fill, and then took out the bowl and horn without another word.

Jon’s mind swirled with the possibilities. He was clearly in a Dothraki camp, but he hadn’t the faintest idea why such a thing would be so. He barely interacted with the horselords during his time at Illyrio’s manse and did not think he had done anything to cause offence. He was chewing on the problem when the clap of his tent opened and a figure entered.