The Khal’s son

Jon was pulled to his feet by two agressive looking Dothraki bloodriders and led out into the open space of the Dothraki camp. He had learnt about the horselords during his childhood growing up in the Capitol, listening attentively as the Maester explained how the people had sprung up in the years following the collapse of the Valyrian Empire. They had served almost as a chaotic **** of nature across Essos ever since; attacking villages across the land, threatening even the Free Cities themselves with massive Khalasars of trained killers ready to slaughter and enslave everyone in their path.

Walking through the camp, he could see that there was a deep bond held between the people and their horses. The animals were well tended to, and kept in close proximity to their riders. Everything seemed to be derived from horses in some fashion or another, right down to what they ate and drank. In many ways he found himself in awe of everything around him, startled by just how profoundly different it all seemed from the existence he had known in his own country.

Eventually he was brought to the other side of camp, to a large open area near a campfire where a group of men sat and drank. They all looked up in surprise when the Khal marched over towards them, snarling in unintelligible Dothraki and gesturing for the men to stand up. One man in particular caught the majority of his ire; a young man who looked like a typical Dothraki, if perhaps a little leaner than his fellows and with a braid that was not as impressive as the old man’s. An argument ensued, and Jon found himself looking to the **** girl.

She frowned, keeping her gaze to the ground. “He Khal’s ...child,” she said in a hushed whisper, “Khal angry, he think child lazy, he need...”she frowned at the words that were beyond her, “gift to...prove strong.”

Jon nodded in partial understanding. The old man had a son that was weak and needed to prove himself, and perhaps assumed that killing a Targaryen prince would be make a name for his son. Jon’s old maester had explained to him once that they only follow the strong rather than blood. The beginnings of a hope began to work their way into his mind. It was not much, but perhaps there was a chance he could survive this insanity.

The Khal spat an uttering in his tongue in Jon’s direction, which the **** girl hurriedly translated, “Khal want you fight his child,” a Dothraki threw down his curved weapon at Jon’s feet, “you fight him...just you and he,”

“If I win,” Jon said carefully, “I get to live? No vengeance?”

The **** translated the words for her master, who merely gave Jon a tired nod.

Releasing a breath, Jon reached down and picked up the weapon. He used its curved blade to cut his bindings, and began to stretch himself out and consider his circumstances. He was tired, he was unarmoured, and had a weapon that he was inexperienced with. It was a tricky situation, but when Jon looked at his opponent he began to notice things, to weigh up his options as Ser Barristan had taught him. The other man was perhaps the same age as him, maybe slightly younger. And while he was in good shape, he seemed to lack the size and brute strength that his father and fellows possessed. There was also an incling of hesitancy in his eyes, and Jon wondered how much combat he had really seen.

A snarl was their cue to start and at once the Dothraki charged at Jon, swinging wildly in a flurry of sweeping arcs. The man had energy, Jon could give him that, but his blows were clumsy. Jon brought his own weapon up and blocked the attacks when needed to, but otherwise kept himself moving, drawing his foe in. The Dothraki did not let up and Jon felt the brush of air as the blade drew close to his face. He moved the curve of his blade up to block, kicked out and hit the man square in the stomach. Snarling in fury, the warrior charged again with a fresh bout of ****. Jon could see this time that the energy was leaving him, he had exerted himself too soon.

Jon chanced a slash, which caught the man across the thigh and bit into the leather of his horsehide pants. A yelp of surprise and pain escaped him and he spun around to retaliate. Jon was ready, sidestepping the attack and following up with another of his own. This one caught the unarmoured arn of the Dothraki who growled in outrage as his hand went to the wound. There was a deep gash, which bled angrily. Jon took the moment to attack again, this time leaving a crimson slash across the bare chest of his enemy.

He frowned at his blade. All of his life he had trained with swords, yet this bit of steel was curved and no good for thrusting blows. He could not end the fight as cleanly as he wanted, and had to instead rely on cutting fleshwounds into his opponent. It had worked, and the young Dothraki had fallen to one knee, but Jon could not give the man swift and clean **** like he had always been trained to.

Feebly, the Dothraki made to stand, but Jon cut his other leg and sent him to the ground. He held the blade up, ready to deliver the killing blow and behold his enemy. The man looked openly terrified, and every bit the scared young man who had never seen a proper battle in his life. It might have been foolish, but Jon had been raised on chivalry, so he instead lowered his weapon and turned to the old Khal who was watching grimly.

“The battle is over,” he told them, before looking at the **** girl. “Tell them.”

Sheepishly, the girl did as she was told, translating for the others. There was an argument that ensued, with some of the Dothraki wanting **** of some kind or another, but it seemed that the Khal was more concerned for his son.

“I can leave?” He asked the girl, “they’ll allow me to leave?”

She translated, but then the old Khal stepped forward and spoke another collection of harsh words, his eyes never leaving’s Jon. The **** spoke his intent. “The Khal say...you can go...but, he like you strength, he make you new son if stay. You become Khal some day.”