Nobody Knows || Closed

The sun beat against Khal Drogo’s back, almost hot enough that it was uncomfortable for him. But to look at the man, none would think that. The emotionless facade would fool almost anyone. He rolled his shoulders back, straightening his back as his horse carried him forward. He focused in on the sound of the horses’ hooves against the ground, finding it easier to fill his mind with that than let his tinge of annoyance grow into something more.

It hadn’t been much, just a warrior trying in vain to raise in status by attempting to kill Cohollo. It hadn’t worked, but it had earned Drogo a wound along his arm that was continuously pulling and tugging every time his stallion hit a rut on the ground. The blood had dried around the wound, which made it sting even more. It wasn't close to the worse pain he'd felt in his life, but it was serving to be a constant reminder and bother.

His gaze ran across the horizon, halting on an unfamiliar tent along the Dothraki Sea. It was obvious that it wasn’t Dothraki. The color and material were obvious enough, even from that distance. He pulled on the reigns, holding up his hand to motion for the rest of the bloodriders to stop. The men looked to each other before looking to their khal, awaiting his orders.

”We’ll approach from the side, where you’ll wait outside of their camp.”

Without anymore words, the four of them rode across the plains. Drogo urged his stallion to move faster, his heart quickening with the prospect of a battle. He needed to feel the rush of battle, the way his weapon cut through his enemy’s throat like it was merely water. When they got close enough, he motioned for his men to stay behind while he rode forward, tugging on the reins to slow down. He approached the camp, his gaze searching for anything - or anyone - of worth. He swung his leg around, landing on the ground easily as the horse slowed to a stop. He pulled his arakh out of its sheath and stepped forward, prepared for a fight.

---

It’s not that Anaris was afraid, necessarily. It’s just that her older brother, Coren, had filled her head with the horrors of the White Walkers. She’d understood that the odds of seeing one were slim to none, but her stomach still clenched every time she heard a twig snap somewhere in the forest.

Which was a horrible thing, really, considering the fact that it was happening constantly.

It had all started when Joffrey took the throne. Her mother had been a maid in Lord Eddard’s household, and it had been a blur. If she was being honest with herself, everything had been a blur since then. One minute she was preparing dinner for her family, and the next her brother was shoving a bag and a dagger into her hands and begging her to run. She’d stolen away in the back of a caravan, hidden beneath the scratchy hay that lined the bottom. She’d laid there between two barrels of wheat, listening to the men discuss what had happened.

She’d been found out on day five of the ride. The Old Gods had been smiling upon her that day. Anaris had made a quick swipe at the hand of the man reaching towards her and dove out onto the road. That had been… A couple of days ago. She thought. It had been hard to keep track of time.

Anaris pulled her cloak tighter to her, barely suppressing a shiver as the snow seeped into her boot. She trudged on, only pausing when she’d found a small enough clearing. She tugged her hood up over her head as she moved to sit down with her back against the thick trunk of a tree. She dug into her pack and tore off a piece of bread.

There was as good as any for a place to make camp for the night.

Ayleth and her handmaiden had just finished erecting the tent in the middle of a bright green pasture, finding the midday sun was too warm for the two of them. The two of them had traveled tirelessly through the night, preferring the quiet, cool calm the dark provided them, and providing them some sort of cloaking from anyone who would seek to do them harm. When she’d been forced to leave Westeros from Dorne, her handmaiden, Lyla, had been adamant she would go with her in her journeys. Though she knew the woman would only hold her back, she allowed Lyla that much. If anything, she provided her with company on nights where the silence would have driven her insane.

“-and then I told Edric not to put that lemon in his mouth. But you know infants, they never do as they’re told.” Lyla was recounting a particular incident with Ayleth’s younger brother Edric, trying to keep the woman’s mind off of the harrowing journey that lay in front of them. It was apparent in the woman’s vibrant lilac-colored eyes that she was tired and beginning to see the fool she was in thinking being exiled would be an opportunity for her to see Essos. The dark-haired woman perked up as Lyla went to talk again and she merely hushed her with a raised hand, shooting up from her spot on the single rug the two sat on. Her horse was snorting anxiously outside and over that she could hear the thud of hooves against the ground.

Rounding on her handmaiden, she shot her a hard look. “Hide in the trunk over there. If anyone comes in, do not make a sound,” she said sternly, her low, smooth voice not betraying just how frightened she was. Ayleth was a known swordsmen in Starfall and in Dorne, having sparred in many of Prince Dorian’s tournaments and surprising men and women alike with her martial prowess. Her body had been honed into a weapon itself over time, the dual swords she used only providing an added threat. Some said she was her uncle’s child instead of her own fathers, Ser Arthur Dayne was said to have been the best swordsman of her time, so it was no surprise that the girl was of Dayne decent.

When the sound of horses came to a stop, she listened for a while, trying to figure out how many were out there before revealing herself to them. Gritting her teeth, she let panic take over for a brief moment, before steeling herself, expression going blank as she stepped out into the daylight to face whoever was outside of her tent. She drew her swords almost immediate, the thick line of black kohl around her eyes allowing her to see more clearly in the bright sun. It was very apparent that she was woman, as she wore a long gown of rich, flowing purple fabric that bared the skin of her arms and shoulders and dipped low in the front and the back. It was cinched in at the waist by a belt, which held the scabbards for both of her blades. The dress was slitted high up the sides, exposing dark brown leather breeches and thigh high boots of the same color.

As she turned and marched a few paces from her camp, she was met by the sight of four Dothraki, and adept ones by the looks of the lengths of their braids. Her eyes flickered between them all, very thankful that her own hair was pleated back and out of her face. She rolled her wrists, the rolled Dornish steel blades she used singing through the air as she eyed each and every one of them and waited for the first one to try and attack her, though her eyes focused on the one closest to her. They would be sorely mistaken if they though they could kill her easily merely because she was a woman.

---

Jon was in a blind rage as he marched through the snow, Ghost close by his side. He was leaving behind the the Night’s Watch, ready to pledge his allegiance to Robb, who had taken to calling himself the “King of the North”. The only father he’d ever know, though there were doubts that he was his father at times with how turbulent his life had seemed, had been beheaded by some brat King who had no right in ruling. He was livid and ready to tear into anyone who got in his path. Damn anyone who tried to stop him, to try and remind him of his “duty”. Rob would surely be able to absolve him of abandoning the Night’s Watch. Rob would need men like him if he were to raise a rebellion.

His boots were nearly quiet through the snow, freshly fallen flakes of it clinging to the black shearling collar that was bunched up around his throat. The night was bitterly cold and it had him wanting to attempt at building a fire from what he could find and try to savor what warmth he could gain from it. But a fire would be too risky and it may cause him to be found out if any of the rangers were looking for him. He blew out a breath of air into the night and squeezed his eyes shut. Jon needed to find a place to rest for the night and fast. His feet were throbbing and his heart threatened to pound from his chest if he kept charing forward at the pace he was going at.

A clearing came into view ahead and he tried to be as quiet as possible as he neared it, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to himself. That was all ruined as Ghost gave a soft whine, bright red eyes darting toward the side of the clearing. Without another indication, the direwolf trotted off in the direction of some sort of smell. Jon hissed a curse beneath his breath and waited for a few moments for his companion to return, but he never did.

Drawing in a breath of frigid air through his teeth, he forced himself to follow Ghost’s tracks through the snow until he found the place where he had stopped. He could see his direwolf against the snow and could see the lower half of someone. Drawing Longclaw, he stalked around the tree, eyes growing wide when he saw the hooded figure.

“Who are you?” He asked sternly, breath rising in plumes as he spoke. “Show me your face.”

Women’s voices were coming from the tent. Drogo tilted his head, straining to hear a man’s. There was none. Just women - two, perhaps? - speaking in common tongue. His gaze roved across the camp, not finding any signs of warriors hiding. Not that there were many places to hide within the pasture as is. He listened as it grew quiet within the tent. Either they were hiding, which would be futile, or they were preparing to fight. For a moment, he wondered just how foolish a woman had to be to traverse his lands without a warrior to accompany her. Even the weak willed men of the other lands were better than nothing.

He straightened his spine, head held high as he awaited the warrior that he would best. A figure stepped out of the tent, and he tilted his head. A woman. They were sending a woman to fight him. It was laughable. His gaze slipped over her bluntly, taking in the fabric that was draped across her. For an instant, a smirk slipped across his lips. It was a pity, really, to have to best someone this attractive.

”Stay back. I will take this one myself,” he called in his native tongue. His smirk left his face as fast as it had come. He went over the possibilities in his mind. He wondered if she would allow herself to be taken. She would bear handsome children, strong warriors that would face a fight fearless, just as she was looking at him now. But that fearlessness could prove a problem if she tried to escape. Even if she didn’t, it would be hard to best her without injuring her at the least. So he would fight her, and it would end however it was supposed to win.

Diogo stepped forward, each step sure as he watched the woman. He stopped about two sword blades’ lengths away from her, taking care to be just out of her reach. If she had been attractive before, it was nothing compared to being so close to her. A shame, really, that she would be marred by the end of their battle. Without warning, Drogo raised his blade and charged forward, moving to bring it down upon her.

---

Anaris took small bites of the piece of bread, knowing that she only had so long before her food would run low. Her head lolled back against the tree trunk, eyes slipping shut as she tried to just listen to the sounds of the forest. She could hardly remember the last time she’d been on her own in the forest before this. She’d had to be a child, but for as far back as she could remember, someone had always been with her - mostly her mother or her brother. Her heart ached at the thought of them. She’d heard the whispers while she’d been hidden, how King Joffrey had ordered all members of Lord Eddard’s household to be executed. She pressed her fingernails into her palms, trying to stave off the tears. She needed to focus. She needed to -

A twig snapped.

Her head jerked up, eyes wide as she scanned the clearing; heart stopping when she saw the wolf. No, not just a wolf, a direwolf. A burst of panic was flooding her veins, and she needed to leave, to run, to do something. But there was no way that she’d be able to outrun the animal. She wouldn’t even be able to stand up without it attacking her. For a brief moment, she almost wished that it was a White Walker. At least then, she could have an allusion to being able to run. But the wolf was just staring at her, not moving. She jumped when she heard the voice, pressing herself as hard as she could against the tree. She looked up, eyes wide as she stared at the man. He looked vaguely familiar, but the fear was overriding most of her thoughts.

Anaris’s hands moved slow as she reached up to her hood and pulled it down. She winced as the cold air hit her cheeks, but kept still. The last thing that she wanted was for this man to think she would run. She’d heard stories of what had happened to women who came across strange men in the forest.

“Are you with Lord Joffrey’s men?” She asked, cursing herself for the way her voice shook.

Ayleth could read their expressions as plain as day. She’d seen in many times by men she’d faced in tourneys that underestimated her or had never seen her fight before. It brought her great joy to strike down their idea of an easy fight, merely because of what she wasn’t endowed with between her legs. Perhaps the Dothraki had a different view of women and their ability to fight, but she wouldn’t let their opinion of her sway the way she fought. Ayleth would not be holding back, she would strike quickly and with brute force. Maybe after a few were dead, they would leave her and her handmaiden in peace and allow them temporary claim over the spot of land they had just settled on.

The smirk the biggest one wore lit a fire in her. Sure, she was slender, fair of face, and shapely like a woman, but she could fight harder than any man she knew. Her eyes drifted over him as well, appreciating the amount of skin he showed and the freshly healing wound on his arm. She made a note to utilize that fragile, healing weak point if she ever needed to. When he spoke, her brows lifted slightly. Ayleth could only understand but a few words in Dothraki, having picked up a couple from a traveler in Pentos before Lyla and her had left the city, but she couldn’t understand a word of what he said.

She matched the tilt of his head for a moment, violet eyes gleaming excitedly at the aspect of the imminent fight she was about to face. There was nothing more Ayleth enjoyed than a good fight and she met death by the end of this man’s blade, then so be it. As he stepped forward, her body tensed slightly and she took her fighting stance; one leg forward, one leg bent and back for leverage, one sword arm and sword extended forward, and the other in block near her face. The closer the giant of a man got, the more she could see of him, though his eyes kept drawing her back. They were magnetic, full of fire and passion, and she knew they were both warriors who delighted in battle. A bit of sadistic grin curled at the corner of her lips, knowing this man could potentially be a challenging rival.

As he swung his blade down, she quickly crossed her own blades and blocked his curved one, body jolting backwards with the sheer force he hit with. A soft grunt left her before she took a step forward, eyes locked on his and a proud look on her face. She wanted to let him know she was unafraid and willing to cross blades with the likes of him instead of cower in fear, which she felt many non-Dothraki did. She shoved their blades upward with more strength than it looked like could come from her, breaking the three-bladed hold, and took a small step back to lift her heel, landing a hard kick to his stomach to put some distance between the two of them.

When it looked like he was about to charge again, she charged for him, slipping past him and under the hard swipe of his blade as both of her swords slid through the fabric of his pants and just enough across his skin to draw two long, thin lines of blood. She didn’t want to maim him, not yet, she just wanted to prove to him that she moved fast and could strike even faster. On quick, light feet, she turned to face him once more, reclaiming her proper fighting stance as a wicked grin curled her lips.

---

Jon didn’t know what Ghost was up to, trotting up to some stranger in the middle of the woods at the base of the Wall. But he noted that the direwolf did not seemed to raise alarm; his hackles were calm, there was no indication of a snarl on his features, and he seemed more curious than anything. This lead Jon to believe that Ghost had smelled this person’s scent before and deemed them unassuming and unthreatening to the both of them. Once the woman’s hood was lifted, Jon studied her for a few moments, recognizing something familiar in her face. She had the look of Winterfell about her; she was a Northerner, no doubt, prepared for the long winter that was always coming and seemingly closer than ever.

When she asked if he was one of Joffrey’s men, his face wrinkled dramatically with disgust, not caring if she supported the ignorant boy king or not. If she was a Northerner like he though, he should have no worries about her support for some young bastard in King’s Landing. “Oh Gods, no,” he replied slowly, before sheathing his blade. He kept his hand, however, on the carved pommel, not knowing if this was some sort of trap or not.

He knelt in front of her, eyes narrowing slightly with thought as they swept over her features. “You look familiar. Perhaps I know a relative of yours or I’ve seen you somewhere,” he spoke softly, though the sound of his voice as muffled greatly by the soft hush of snow as it fell around them. Ghost rounded the tree the young woman sat up against, red eyes roaming the night for a threat before he took his place back at Jon’s side. “Do you have any word from Winterfell or any other hold in the North?” He questioned, not wanting to ask too many questions as he still didn’t know what side of the imminent war the dark-haired woman was on.

His eyes darted to the bread in her hands, swallowing hard as he felt his stomach give a low rumble. It’d been at least two meals since he’d eaten anything. Ghost had killed a small pheasant for a meal, but without a fire, Jon couldn’t cook anything, so he allowed the direwolf the full share of it. Though it was tempting, he tore his eyes away from it. Even if this woman were to offer it, she looked like she was a bit worse for wear, like she’d been on the run or in the cold for a while now. He wouldn’t dare take it from her, as it was clear that she needed it.

“You haven’t seen any rangers through here, have you? From the Night’s Watch?” He questioned, quieter still. If she’d seen any, he was sure they would eventually find him and drag him back to Castle Black, so he prayed every prayer he knew to the Old Gods and the New that she’d seen no sign of any other Crows like him.

Drogo had met few in life that welcomed a fight such as he. Even his most fearsome warriors did not relish it to that extent. There was a look in the woman’s eyes that made him think that she was close to reaching it. She must look forward to death, then. For there was no sane woman - or man, for that matter - that would look forward to fighting him without a wish of death. He brought his blade down, expecting it to cut against her skin, and was taken aback.

The woman had blocked him. The woman - a woman - was blocking his blade. He caught sight of her grin, a dark and ethereal thing that struck him. She was more than just her locks. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him like this, Dothraki or not. His blade shifted upward as she shoved, caught off guard by her strength. A thought crossed his mind - finally, someone worthy to fight him. He let out a grunt as he was carried back by the momentum of her kicking him. There was an ache that bloomed in his stomach, and he scowled

This woman would not best him.

It had seemed, however, that he’d underestimated her. For before he knew it, she was charging and moving past him, blades drawing blood. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to injure his pride. He would not be beaten by a mere woman. The fact that she was not Dothraki made it infinitely worse. In the back of his mind, he registered that a woman marking him in such a way made him want to take her. It was impressive that she was a capable warrior. Without meaning to, the grin that was on her lips was mirrored on his as he darted forward. He swiped, shifting his body out of the way of her blade as his cut against her arm. Not deep, but enough to show that he too could injure her as he chose. He knew how to end the fight. Knocking her down, blade against her neck would be quick enough. But a part of him wanted to see how far she would go. He quirked a brow at her, tilting his head almost mockingly. He did not speak her language, but they were both warriors. That was enough.

He regarded her, waiting for her to make the next move. There was a power behind her strangely colored eyes, one that made him excited. He wanted to see what she could do, see how long they would fight before she gave up. He could hear the horses shifting slightly, eager to start moving. Their eagerness was parroted by the feeling running through his veins. He kept still, his eyes remaining on her. She would not best him, but he'd let her try.

---

Anaris wracked her brain, trying to remember where she’d put her dagger - just in case. Had she put it in her pack? She couldn’t remember doing so. She shifted slightly, feeling a slight twinge of relief as she felt the hilt dig into her side. If need be, she could get to it. She wouldn’t be able to fight off the wolf, but the man, perhaps. Or buy her enough time to scramble away. She kept her eyes on his blade, flickering up only for a moment to his face once more. Her shoulders were tense, and her stomach was up in arms. She only relaxed when his disgust was apparent. She let out a sigh, consoled by his reaction… And the fact that he sheathed his blade.

“Thank the Gods,” she murmured. Her eyes didn’t stray from him as he knelt down. She tilted her head, frowning as she strained to place him. “Perhaps. You look familiar as well.” Could he have been a relative of Lord Eddard? She tried to imagine the relatives of the now dead Lord. There were many, and she’d been more preoccupied with following her brother around as he apprenticed to be a blacksmith than who was related to who. She glanced to her side, watching as the wolf came back to the man’s side. It’s red eyes captured her attention, and she almost missed his next question.

“There’s rumors of a war. Lord - “ Anaris cut herself off, feeling repulsed at referring to Joffrey Baratheon as Lord. She knew that the man might be lying about not being one of his men, but she suddenly found herself unable to care. “I left in the aftermath of Lord Eddard’s execution. I overheard some men talking about it. Apparently most of the men and women working in the household were executed as well. I’m not sure who’s left.” An ache arose in her chest, reminding her that she didn’t know about her family. She didn’t even know if she’d ever see them again.

She glanced down to his stomach, the corners of her lips quirking up at the sound of the rumble. She held out her piece of bread in her hands, and motioned for him to take it. “I have more. Take it, please.” She watched him carefully, starting to get a bit frustrated with herself. Could she really not place him? “No, I haven’t. I haven’t seen anyone for at least two days.” She wondered if he was a runaway, abandoning the Night’s Watch.

“What’s your name?”

Ayleth was never more alive than when she crossed blades with someone; whether it was for sport or a matter of life and death. She craved a fight—any kind would do; melee, hand-to-hand, but her favorite was swordplay. It took skill and finesse to be able to fight like she did. She moved like a dancer, cutting through the air like a fish through water and striking as hard and as fast as lighting in a storm. She could tell she shocked the man she was fighting with; though with his emotionless expression, it was hard to tell for sure. Though his eyes, his eyes were like hot embers at sunset, full of rage and pride. There was something almost noble about the way this particular horse lord carried himself and she began to wonder if she was fighting a khal. That would be a real treat.

She noted his change in posture when she cut him, the grin that pulled at his lips at the sight of his own spilled blood. Perhaps they were more alike that what would meet the common eye. Pain drove Ayleth to push harder, drive her swords faster, and become relentless—perhaps this Dothraki was the same. A hiss escaped her as he managed to land a hit, blade singing across her skin followed by the warm swell of blood that rushed forward from the shallow cut. He was playing with her now and it was something she could admire. A hum left her as she glanced briefly at the wound, grin widening even more before she lifted her gaze to focus on his once more. The tilt of his head though, that got her going again. He was doubting her and was far too confident in his fighting for her liking.

Regaining her fighting posture once more, she charged, relentlessly thrashing both of her blades against his single one in quick succession. He took quick steps back to avoid getting took close to her flying blades, but he parried every single one of her attacks. The clashes of their swords rang through the air around the and she could see the other Dothraki shooting glances to each other. They were probably wondering where she came from and how it came to be that she could fight so well. One, however, she could see inching his way toward the opening of her tent. In a rash move, one to save Lyla, she grasped both swords in a single hand and locked blades with the Dothraki once more. When the one who was inching toward his tent had his back turned to enter, she reached into the top of her boot and produced two throwing daggers. She sent them soaring through the air, momentarily taking her gaze away from the other, as one blade sunk into the back of his calve and the other through his side, just under his ribs. ’No.’ She barked to him in their language, one of maybe three or four words that she knew. The male sunk to his knees with a groan though she knew the wounds she provided him were nothing that would kill him, just something to remind him that she was watching him too.

Turning her gaze back to the Dothraki she was sparring with, she realized she probably had expended what dwindling energy she had on the last charge. Ayleth hadn’t had a proper meal in two weeks and she could tell in the shake of her muscles that she was quickly growing tired.The grin on her features was gone and was replaced with a snarl as she threw the Dothraki’s blade away from her once more, returning her blade back to it’s hand. Her chest was heaving in air and her eyes were alight with an icy, aubergine flame. She watched the Dothraki for his next move, ready to defend.

---

Running his tongue over his lips to wet them, Jon took a hurried glance around the two of them, wanting to know for sure they weren’t being watched and that no one was going to come from the shadows to off him. With a sigh that turned to vapor before his eyes, he felt confident enough that no one was around them and he returned his gaze back to the to dark-haired woman at the base of the tree. He shrugged a little deeper into his black woolen cloak, trying to fend off the cold as much as he could. He should have been used to it by now, especially having spent a few nights patrolling the Wall, but he wasn’t. He didn’t think he would ever be used to it.

When it seemed she relaxed at his admission of not being one of Joffrey’s men, he felt himself relaxing a tiny bit as well. It was far too cold for someone to keep up a charade of a character for too long, but he wasn’t going to let his guard completely down just yet. When she said he looked familiar, his brow furrowed, dark eyes locking with hers as his mouth parted slightly with thought. He had to have crossed paths with her or someone related to her at some point and now that she was saying he looked familiar, he felt a bit rotten for not being able to remember. As a bastard of a Lord, however, his education of those around town and those he should know came second to the legitimate Stark children.

His expression grew a bit troubled when she mentioned the war and he looked away from her, eyes focusing on a particular twig that say up out of the snow as he thought of the cause behind it all. The man he’d once looked up to, the man who taught him how to be a man and never once treated him like the bastard he was, was gone and there was to be more blood shed over his death before it was all over with. A pained expression flashed across his features for a moment at the mention of the execution, wondering where exactly little Ayra and Sansa were when it happened. Knowing Joffrey, they were both to sit there and watch. His heart clenched tight in his chest at the thought of the littlest Stark girl lost in a city of stags and lions, when he knew she belonged with the direwolves instead.

His gaze shot to hers once more at the mention of the men and woman of the Stark household being executed not too long after. “Any word of Brandon or Rickon Stark?” Surely they would have been spared. They were only children and Bran confined to a bed with no use of his legs. He could see the pained expression on her face too and knew that she had to have come from Winterfell, perhaps fleeing the same fate those who saw to House Stark met.

With a heavy sigh at her offer of food, he merely shook his head, soft curls bouncing slightly with the movement. “No, you need it more than I do and once I can build a fire, Ghost here can fetch me a meal or two,” he told her with a sheepish grin, though his stomach was screaming at him for the chivalrous action. The tension left his shoulders completely as she mentioned not seeing anyone for the past two days and he breathed out a sigh of relief. His head fell forward for a moment, eyes slipping shut as he took a moment to just breath in the cool air. When she asked his name, he lifted his head and gaze once more, debating on whether or not to tell the truth. “I’m Jon Snow,” he told her simply, knowing that if she truly knew if Eddard Stark, she knew of him as well. "What's your name?"

Drogo should have known by then. He should have known that the woman he was in battle with was different than women he’d come across before. This woman, she was actually grinning at the wound he’d managed to give her. She was relentless with every strike. He was actually having to move faster than he was used to. He didn’t want to believe it, but he’d grown used to the almost clumsy movements of his men. His men were some of the most ruthless, but even he could say that they were sloppy when compared to others. It wasn’t something to be revered, it was something to be done. The woman was different. He could admire that.

The next moments were something that he almost missed had it not been for the groan that had left Haggo’s mouth. The blades left her hands almost too fast for him to see. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or prideful or aroused, but he stared at her when he heard his own language leave her lips. Maybe this woman knew even more than she’d let on. He stared at her, his find racing to find a plan. He’d let the fight go on too long. Any longer and it could strip him of the respect his men gave him. He’d never admit it, but if it went on any longer, his men might have been at risk as well.

“Do you speak my language as well as you fight?” He inquired, his voice low and gravelly as he looked her up and down. His head tilted once more as a smirk covered his lips. Her grin, however, was gone. He waited another moment before stepping forward, blade striking her blade. He pressed down hard, but her block was strong. He brought his arms down even harder, watching as her chest heaved. He kicked his foot out at her ankle, swiping it hard against the joint in an effort to knock her down. The second her back was on dirt, his blade was pressed against her neck. He added the lightest pressure, just enough for a hint of blood to be drawn.

“Drop.” Drogo nodded his head towards her blade, taking care to angle his body so he would be able to shift away if need be. He placed his foot against her wrist, shifting most of his weight onto it. The last thing he needed was for her to best him while she was on the ground. He could hear his men muttering, and heard their feet starting towards them. “Don’t move.” He ordered, his gaze never leaving hers. She was his opponent, and he would deal with her as such.

He stared down at her, frowning as he waited. Despite himself, he almost wished she would continue to fight back. Fighting her had been more heady than the last three he’d bedded. He wondered what it would be like to take her. He almost smirked at the thought. Instead, he quirked his brow at her, watching her closely.

---

Brandon and Rickon Stark. It took Anaris a moment to remember which of the Stark household they were. “I believe that they’re alive. They’re only children. The men would have spoken of such death, and they didn’t.” She’d caught the look on his face when he’d mentioned Lord Eddard’s death, and felt a brief flash of guilt. He hadn’t necessarily seemed surprised, however, which made her think that he’d already known. Selfishly, she was thankful. The last thing she’d wanted to be was the bearer of bad news, as petty as that seemed. “Mostly, the executed were the men and women who worked in House Stark.”

She rolled her eyes at the chivalry. It was freezing and he was the first person she’d seen in days and it was ridiculous of him to refuse. “Take the bread, please. If anything, you can repay me by building a fire. There’s no one around here for miles. It should be alright.” She tried to stamp down the hope that he could build a fire and - she prayed to the Gods - an actual meal. She glanced to the direwolf that was still beside the man. “Ghost,” she murmured softly, offering the large animal a small smile. She set the piece of bread in her lap, her hand moving out for the wolf to smell. She’d been around dogs before, and figured that Ghost had to be at least a little like the ones back home.

“Jon Snow,” she repeated, finally feeling the memory of him click into place. “I remember you now. My mother worked as a maid in your home.” A memory drifted through her head, one of a much younger her and the other girls that were near her age, giggling about Robb and Jon. Of course, they’d only referred to the young men as such when the adults had been nowhere near them. She’d always thought that Robb was the more handsome of the two.

She moved her gaze from Ghost to Jon, the small smile still on her face, although it had dimmed at the mention of her mother. “Anaris Staelle.” She almost hoped that the name didn’t mean anything to him. She hadn’t spoken aloud yet what the fate of her mother most likely was. Coren would have only had so much time to get her her things and rush her out. Deep down, she knew that her mother was most likely gone. But she couldn’t admit it. Coren would still have their father, although that wasn’t saying much. The man was a trader, traveling over the land to sell his wares. He probably didn’t even know that his wife was probably dead. The thought made her chest twist.

“Where are you headed, Jon Snow?”

Ayleth could feel the perspiration forming on her brow, chest, and back; on her skin that no matter how much sun it saw, never burned and remained a radiant color of ivory. She had enjoyed the spar and would have kept going had she actually reserved some of her strength instead of wasting it all in a charge. It was then she knew she needed to try and end this fight sooner rather than later. Shame she didn’t speak their language, as she’d probably grant this man an amnesty that most others did not see. He entertained her and had her fighting the hardest she’d probably ever fought in her life.

It was hard to gauge the reaction of the man after she’d put one of his men back in line and she supposed he could mask her emotions just as well as her most of the time. He merely stared at her as she rolled her wrists and sent her blades swinging through the air once more as she remained light on her feet. He was thinking, she knew it, but she couldn’t tell of what. So, she offered him another slight grin, as if proud of the fact she’d proven she could drop a man and still managed to fight the other.

Her stolid expression faltered a bit as he spoke, those eyes of his wandering her up and down. Many men had made such a forward gesture before, so it wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with that alone; she just didn’t know what she was saying. It was probably better to say ‘no’ than to say ‘yes’ to anything, particularly when it was accompanied with such a look. “No,” she replied again with a simple shake of her head, brow furrowing slightly. She met his blade once more and held bracing herself up and against him as much as she could, though her arms threatened to buckle.

Before she knew it, their hold had broken and her footing was gone. She squeezed her eyes shut as her back met the ground, arms falling up around her head before his blade met the delicate skin of her neck. She could feel it cutting into to the thin skin and her eyes shot up to his, hands shaking slightly as she gripped both of her swords tightly. At the single word he commanded of her, she bared her teeth to him once more before figuring that if he hadn’t killed her now, maybe she’d proven herself enough to him that he let her bit. In a move rife with reluctance, she dropped both of the weapons in her hands and stared up at him intently, a soft noise leaving her at the immense weight he was pressing down upon one of her wrists.

She heaved in much needed air, uncertain of what his next move was going to be. Was this going to be it? Would she meet her death at the hands of this horse lord? She at least had to know if the man that was to kill her had some sort of status in his life. She’d not willingly give up for anything less. “Khal?” She questioned quietly, hoping that he understood what she was trying to ask him. Swallowing hard, she shifted as much as she could on the ground, eyes flickering to the wound on his arm for a moment before meeting his intense gaze once more.

---

The few moments it took for this young woman he found in the woods to remember if she’d heard anything about Rickon and Bran, his heart gave a few hard pounds in his chest. A breath of relief left him when she mentioned that it didn’t seem they’d been executed with the rest. Licking his lips, his eyes darted between both of hers, trying to gather a better feel for the woman who was in front of him. There was something in her eyes that was beginning to seem quite familiar, but with all he’d been through for the last few days, his mind was a bit worse for wear. His gaze dropped from hers for a moment as he grit his teeth hard at the thought that the men and women who had aided the House Stark in their daily duties had met a gruesome end because of that boy king.

Jon drew in a deep breath of air as the young woman spoke, looking down at the bread in her grasp as his stomach gave another poignant growl. He nodded, albeit reluctantly, and moved so that he could sit at her side, his shoulders pressed against hers for any bit of warmth and to make sure that no one would at least try to sneak up on them from the front. “Just stay here and try not to make much noise,” he told her, “it shouldn’t take me long to find some firewood.” He paused for a moment as she reached her hand out for Ghost to sniff. The white beast took a few steps forward, piercing red eyes set on her and this was the moment Jon knew that Ghost would be able to suss out if she were friend or foe.

When the direwolf raising no alarm again, instead merely licking a bit at whatever breadcrumbs were at her fingertips, Jon smiled to himself. So she, at least, did not pose any threats to him. When she spoke next, he shot a grim, sidelong look over to her, mouth pressed into a thin line at the mention of her mother, a maid in his house. The outlook for her mother still being alive wasn’t the brightest, but he knew that he had to try and get the two of them back to Winterfell at least. They wouldn’t last too long out in the cold with no provisions but bread. “I believe I remember your mother,” he offered softly, not knowing what else to so, “you have her eyes.”

He could see the remnants of a smile on her features and he watched her for a few moments as she spoke her name to him. He made sure to commit it to memory, especially since he hadn’t before. There weren’t many people in Winterfell he didn’t know and he was sorry to say that she was one of them. Slowly standing from the tree, he shot a look around before glancing down to the young woman. “I’m heading back to Winterfell. Word to Castle Black said he was raising an army,” he told her quietly, cheeks tingling with a cool breeze that blew past them, “I need to offer my sword.”

Drawing in a deep breath of air, his eyes locked on Ghost’s. “Stay here,” he said softly and the giant creature bowed its head slightly and moved a bit closer to Anaris; a move to protect her. “Will you be alright with me going out to look for firewood? I wouldn’t go to far, never out of earshot,” he told her, wanting to make sure she didn’t raise a panic if he were to leave her on her own for a few moments.

Drogo had wondered where she had learned his language. When she merely repeated the previously used no, he realized that she most likely knew no more than a couple of words. He would have liked to share a common tongue with her, to learn where she had trained. Very few warriors had been an equal like she had been. It was admirable. Admirable enough that he wouldn’t kill her. It would be a waste to see such talent go to waste, moreso when she could bear his child. A child with such talent between the two of them would surely be the Stallion Who Mount the World. The thought made every bone in his body sing.

He nodded, approving as she bowed to him with the dropping of her weapons. He’d won. “Get her blades,” he ordered. Cohollo darted forward, picking up the blades before giving his Khal a look. Drogo looked over the weapons, appraising their worth. They were sturdy, hardy blades that could cause much hard. “You and Qotho check the tent. Bring me anything of worth.” Cohollo called to Qotho, and the two men stepped towards the tent. He glanced to Haggo, the man in question tying fabric around his calf to quell the bleeding. Looking back to the woman, he increased the pressure of his foot against her wrist. Not enough to break it, but enough to convey that she wasn’t to try anything.

He couldn’t help the barest uptick of his lips at her question. “Khal,” he answered, nodding to himself. He gazed down at her, half wanting to take her then and there. But he arm was starting to ache even more, and he didn’t feel like trying to bed her then and there. No, he would take her at a later time, in his own bed. He would wait until the privacy of his own tent, where he could enjoy it more than he would in the dead heat that was still beating down onto his shoulders. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead down his face, a testament to how much it was affecting him.

There was a crash from the tent, and he pressed his foot down harder, giving her a scowl. “No.” He said it in her tongue, his gaze flickering from her to the tent and back against. “No,” he repeated again, wanting it to be clear. If she moved an inch, he would press his blade harder against her throat, and that would be the end for her. Another crash sounded, and he found it hard to resist sighing. For a brief second, he thought he could hear a woman’s cry. He jerked his head back to the woman beneath him.

“Who else is with you?” He asked, nodding towards the tent in an attempt to convey what he was saying. He thought over the past events, and a thought occurred to him. He nodded to her once more. “Khaleesi?”

---

Anaris had to turn her head away so she wouldn’t laugh at the sound of his stomach rumbling. He reminded her of her brother, trying too hard to keep his pride and be chivalrous, even when it was pointless. They were both out there, freezing and starving because some entitled brat decided to take over and uproot their entire lives. She shifted a little when he sat beside her, inching towards him to greedily steal the warmth. The last time she’d been warm she’d been hidden with the caravan, and had been too petrified to relish it. But at that moment, she was relatively safe. “I’ll keep quiet,” she replied. She tried to ignore the bristle of annoyance that flowed through her. What did he think that she would do, suddenly start making enough noise to alert someone of their presence the second he left?

Her annoyance was gone as quick as it had come, her focus moving to the direwolf in front of her. There was a flicker of satisfaction as Ghost licked her fingers, at having gained the animal’s acceptance. She reached out, gently pressing the tips of her fingers to the back of Ghost’s head, her thumb rubbing gentle circles at the spot just in front of the ear. That was easier for her to do than think on Jon’s next words. You have her eyes. The words, meant to be kind, made her entire being ache. She forced herself to keep her smile, although she wouldn’t have been surprised if it had dimmed. “Thank you,” was all she managed to get out.

“Why would you go to Winterfell if you’re offering your sword? From what I gather, Lord Robb was raising an army to go against Joffrey.” Anaris tilted her head to look up at him. “You might do better to find him than venture the entire way back to Winterfell,” she suggested. She didn’t understand why he would want to go back to Winterfell. He’d mentioned Castle Black. Which meant that he’d been a part of the Night’s Watch. “Wouldn’t they have you executed for abandoning your post?” She thought back to executions she’d witnessed in the past. Quite a few had been for the men that had left the Night’s Watch. It didn’t make any sense to her.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve managed this far on my own,” she said, rolling her eyes just a little. She’d handled herself well enough since she’d left home. She could manage a couple of moments of her own. Although, sitting there useless made her feel a little guilty. She was as capable of looking for firewood as the man standing before her. She sat forward a little, letting her hand drop from Ghost. “Although, I could look for firewood as well. We’d be able to find it faster.” She took the bread from her lap and stuffed it into her pack. She stood, bringing her cloak in around her tightly. She looked up at him, a faint smile slipping onto her lips. “I can help.”

The small rocks, pebbles, blades of grass, and hard pieces of dirt were pressing into the skin of Ayleth’s back as he kept her eyes focused on the man that stood above her with his curved blade at her throat. Her eyes shut slowly as she heard someone walk behind her and grab her swords. She still had a few blades hidden in the sides of her boots, but she was sure to be killed if she tried reaching for them. Her vibrant eyes opened slowly, gaze refocusing immediately on the man that toward over her as he looked at something off in the distance. He was speaking and she couldn’t understand a single word of what he was saying. The language was as rough as he looked, hard and abrupt with no fluidity to it.

Her eyes darted away from him when she heard the sound of footsteps heading toward the tent. Panic flashed in her eyes for a brief second before her gaze rounded on the Dothraki that still had her pinned. For the fear she’d felt earlier, her expression was now replaced with a proud, nearly defiant one. Her eyes bored restlessly into his, silently letting him know that even if he’d won this battle, she could win the war if it came to it. The expression was nearly broken, however, when he pressed harder on her wrist and a cry flew from her before she could muffle it. If he pressed any harder, she felt, one of her sword arms could potentially be ruined forever and that thought scared her more than death itself.

When he answered her, her eyes narrowed slightly in recognition, gaze swooping slowly over him from head to toe. Men in Westeros were nothing compared to this Dothraki and the only man she’d ever seen come close was Gregor Clegane, or the Mountain as they called him. She’d only seen him in passing at a tourney. He was tall and broad, yes, but as ugly as the wrong end of a donkey. The man that towered over her was unlike any one she’d seen; she almost felt sorry for cutting him now. Her lips tilted up slightly at the corners at the thought, eyes lighting up with an unreadable emotion.

Her head nearly snapped to the side when she heard the crash from the tent, but she quickly remembered the blade at her neck, not wishing to draw more blood from the thin skin than necessary. Ayleth’s eyes slipped over to the structure, body beginning to quake with anger. A growling yell left her as he pressed down even harder on her wrist, angry, blazing eyes swooping back to meet his. There was nothing she could do, she knew, but it didn’t stop her from being angry. “Woman. Slave.” She spoke brokenly, not knowing any other way to refer to Lyla in a manner in which he’d understand, chest heaving more now than ever in her anger. She could feel her pulse racing against the press of his blade and wouldn't doubt he could either see it visibly beneath her pale, thin skin or feel it drumming against his blade. “So help me, if your men harm her in any way, I will gouge your eyes out with my bare hands,” she growled at him through clenched teeth, knowing he wouldn’t be able to understand a word she was saying but hoping her tone was enough to get her message across.

At his next word, she froze, eyes widening a bit and her stony expression gave way to one of confusion. Was he asking her if she was a khaleesi or was he asking her to be a khaleesi? Did she just get asked to be a khal’s wife with a sword at her throat? The situation was almost comical to her. She didn’t want to agree to anything and make a fool of herself, but then again, she didn’t know what to do. What if she said no and he killed her and Lyla for it? Her eyes darted over to the tent once more, more definitive cries from a woman leaving their shelter. She looked back at him once more, a proud look on her features as she gathered herself as much as she could with her wrist pinned and his blade at her neck. “Yes, khaleesi,” she replied, her low, full voice sure and unquivering.

---

Jon’s eyes slipped over to Anaris, as she spoke, nodding his head in understanding as he pushed his hair back from his face. His eyes roamed the forest around them nervously, knowing he couldn’t get too relaxed or let his guard down even if she hadn't seen any of the Night’s Watch around. There still was the threat of wildings or Lannister or Joffrey’s men searching for Stark supporters. If she was telling him the truth about her mother working for his family, then they both could potentially be executed if they were caught.

The two soft words she spoke had him freezing slightly, eyes darting over to her as he let out a heavy sigh. Maybe those hadn’t been the right words for him to say, especially if there was a good chance her mother was dead. He eyed her for a few moments, taking in her features in the dim light of the night. Part of him was wondering why he couldn’t remember seeing someone like her before. Maybe because he was always entertaining the whims of Theon, Robb, or Arya. A sigh left him as he hurriedly looked away, realizing he’d probably been staring too long. Instead, he shucked the shearling collar from his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, figuring she needed it more than he did. He had felt her inch closer to him when he first sat down beside her.


Besides, Jon was of the mindset that women should always be taken care of before men. Eddard Stark made sure that was deeply ingrained in his mind and manners. Jon figured that by treating women with kindness and respect, maybe someone was treating his mother somewhere just the same. He knew that was a foolish notion to believe, since the world could be a dark and cruel place—as was very evident to him now being at the Wall and from what had happened to his family and their hands. Perhaps this mindset was the reason why he, or Robb for that matter, never indulged in a whore at the brothel like Theon did frequently.

His brow furrowed a bit when she mentioned going back to Winterfell. “I guess…I thought that was where Robb would be,” he murmured, though now it seemed stupid. Family to a traitor of the king would need to go into hiding, someplace that wasn’t as easily reached as Winterfell. “I have no idea where to look for him if he’s not in Winterfell,” he continued, sounding a bit crestfallen at that realization. He swallowed hard and his head fell forward a bit as he rubbed a gloved hand over his face. “Yes. I was hoping to find Robb. They’re calling him the King of the North, I heard. I figured he’d grant me some sort of pardon if I fought for him and beside him,” he told her honestly.

He shook the cold off as he glanced around a bit, eyes roaming the area for any sign of dry wood or tinder. “We’ll need to find some kindling as well, preferably as dry as possibly so the fire doesn’t smoke too badly,” he told her. “I have a flint stone in my bag, all I need is something to catch.” He pulled his cloak a bit tighter around him as he glanced down to Anaris and Ghost for a moment. “You stay with her,” he commanded the direwolf before his gaze rounded on the young woman once more. “And if you have a weapon, keep it close,” he warned before he started away from the tree, eyeing a dead tree not to far from the clearing they were in. It should make for some decent firewood if it hadn’t been wet by the snow.

Woman. Slave. It took the khal a moment to understand what the woman was meaning. He gave her a short nod before turning his head to the tent. “The woman is a slave. Bring her out here.” He turned his attention back to the woman. There was a darkness brimming within her, he could tell. Drogo had not seen that look with few, and her next words were pure black. He couldn’t understand her tongue aside from a few sparing words, but he didn’t need to. Not then. No, he didn’t need to understand her language when her clenched teeth and growls were enough to get the message aside. If her slave was killed, the woman would fight until the end. He tilted his head, trying to understand. Slaves were many, what would this particular one mean to her?

He raked his gaze across her lithe form, understanding cementing itself in place as she spoke. The woman was a khaleesi of her people. That would be the only reason that the woman would have the skills to fight so well. A woman of that ability deserved to be a khaleesi. The Dothraki were not known to take hostages. Prisoners became slaves or whores. They were never returned to their people. Her people would suffer without such a warrior, but now that he had her beneath him, he determined that she would bear his son.

He looked up as the bloodriders dragged the woman slave from the tent. Cohollo jerked on her arm, causing her to stumble forward. Drogo wanted to wait to see the warrior woman’s reaction, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. He lifted his blade only for a second, dropping down to his knees, one on each side of her. He pressed down upon her, blade instantly returning to her neck. “No,” he said, the word rough on his tongue. No movement, not even an inch from her. He reached back, blindly grasping until he felt her boot. He tugged, harsh until it came off. He brought it to his face to inspect. Sure enough, there was a blade. He looked back down to her, raising a brow as he tossed the boot to the side.

Drogo’s blade switched hands, his now free hand moving to her other boot. He didn’t bother to examine this one, instead instantly tossing it away. He looked at her, taking his time to look her over now that he was even closer. She had beauty, none could doubt it. But there was something more there, within her strength. He would never say it out loud, but in the silence of his mind, grudgingly, he would admit that she was a worthy opponent. He looked to his men, the woman squawking. “This one claims to be a khaleesi, and says that one is her slave. What was in the tent?”

“Enough wares that men should be sent back, Cohollo said, his grip tightening on the shrieking woman’s arm. He gave another sharp tug, and it quieted her. “What will you have us do?

Drogo thought over it for a moment. “This one met me with force. She’ll be riding with me.” He looked between the woman between his legs and her slave. “Her slave will come along. Get the rope to tie them up.”

---

Anaris knew, rationally, that she could trust Jon Snow. He was the son of Lord Eddard Stark, bastard or not. On the times that she’d seen him when she was younger, he’d always treated those around him with kindness. Even Coren had once mentioned that it was odd that Jon nor Robb had been seen at the brothels. But somewhere, deep inside her, he put her on edge. Whether it was the way that he carried himself, or the mere fact that he was a man that had wondered upon her in the woods, something about him made her nervous. She kept her gaze strictly on Ghost, practically feeling his gaze on her features. Her gaze shifted, however, when she draped the garment over her shoulders. “You don’t need to - I’m -“ She started to protest, but there was no denying that she was significantly warmer with it around her. “Thank you,” she eventually said, the words coming out soft in the snow covered forest.

“He’s going to the South. I don’t know where, but… That’s all I was able to hear.” She felt bad as she watched him, as though she should have tried to glean more information from what she’d overheard. It had been nigh impossible to do so without giving her hiding spot away, but still. She wished that she had more to offer him. “Wouldn’t he pardon you anyway, regardless of you fighting for him? He’s your brother.” The words came pouring out of her mouth, and she froze. Not everyone was close to their brother as she was, and it was unfair of her to assume. “My apologies,” she said, ducking her head. She couldn’t remember if she was supposed to call him her lord, or not. Formalities could be damned for all she cared.

Anaris gave him a nod, her hand instantly going to her side. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger, the cool steel providing her comfort. It wasn’t much, most likely crude in design to most men, but it was hers. Her thumb stroked against the hilt as she listened to Jon, giving him another nod before she turned and headed into the thick wood. Ghost stayed by her side, almost pressed against her as they walked. “You’re a good one, aren’t you?” She murmured softly, letting the tips of her fingers brush against the animal’s white fur. “You’re a good… girl?” She questioned. She glanced around her, taking care that Jon wasn’t anywhere within sight before bending over, ducking down to check. “Oh. Boy. You’re a good boy, then,” she amended, laughing quietly.

She searched the area, finding it hard to find any wood that wasn’t tainted yet by the snow. She kicked some snow away from a particularly nasty thicket, kneeling down to see if there was anything salvageable. By a miracle from the Gods, she found a pile of sticks. They weren’t large by any means, but they were something. Ghost let out a soft, keen whine and she gave the direwolf a scratch behind the ears. “We’re fine. We’re still close to Jon.” She frowned at the casual use of the name. “Am I supposed to call him Jon?” She asked, feeling a little silly at talking to the animal. But the last person she’d talked to - aside from Jon Snow - was her brother. And that had been days ago.

She straightened up, ignoring the ache in her chest that had grown and lessened ever since she’d left home. It had swelled and bottomed out, but it never left. It was a constant reminder to all that she’d left behind. She headed back towards the clearing, glancing down to Ghost padding alongside her. For the first time since she’d left, she felt an inkling of hope well up within her.

Ayleth’s heart was hammering hard in her chest, lodged up somewhere in her throat between it’s rightful place and her mouth. The tension of the situation she found herself in seemed a little more dire without her weapons or at least without use of the ones that she still had on her person. She honestly didn’t care what fate she met, but with the life of Lyla in the balance—someone who’d been there for her nearly her whole life and the only person who seemingly honestly cared for her at times—she felt a little more hurried and rushed to try and get the handmaiden and companion out of there. Her gaze locked onto the khal before her, wanting so desperately to shift or massage the wrist he was pressing down upon.

The sharp pulse of icy hot adrenaline rushed through her when the blade was lifted and the man dropped down to use his body weight to keep her captive. She had to keep the grin off her face at this shift. It would be far easier to overpower him like this than it would be like they previously were. Ayleth managed to keep stony-faced, though a soft, breathless noise of relief left her when the pressure on her wrist vanished. Her eyes remained locked on his as the blade was back at her neck, stinging against the already slightly sliced skin, and he kept repeating seemingly the only word he knew in her language. As he leaned back slightly to pull of her boots, she mentally cursed herself.

She raised both of her own brows at the look he shot her from the discovery of a dagger in the other boot, trying her hardest not to smugly grin up at him. If he was to believe she was a khaleesi, shouldn’t she be acting as heartless and brutal as a khal? She knew that he would never find out she was just from a noble family of southern Westeros, but the thought of the rage that may come over him at her lie thrilled her a bit. As her other boot was removed, she continued to watch him for a few more moments before her gaze slid over to Lyla. The woman was clearly frightened, tears streaming down her tanned features, and it looked like his men had roughed her up a bit in their search for her.

The khal spoke once more and listened in closely for any words she knew, but could only pick out but a few. They were clearly talking about her and Lyla though. Ayleth drew in a deep breath of air, steeling herself and praying to whatever Gods would listen that she had the strength for what she was about to do. There were a few more commands given to his men and she could see one out of the corner of her eyes move over to one of their horses and retrieve a few lengths of rope. This was it, because she was going no where with anyone, let alone this man who thought he could best her, bound and weaponless.

“Lyla,” she called in a clear, calm voice, “I’m going to need you to do whatever it takes to get away from that man. I want you to take the horses and ride back to the last free city we left. Do you understand me?” Her gaze flickered between the khal’s as that grin of hers returned fully fledged, eyes blazing with confidence.

Ayleth dug her bare heels into ground, hoping this would provide her enough grip and jammed her hands up against his arms. One of her hands wrapped around the wrist that held his blade and the other found hold in the freshly-healing wound on his arm, blunt fingertips digging into the wound. At the same time she thrust her hips up to buck him off of her, she was dragging him over to the right of her. His weight gave way and she guided him to his back beside her, flipping their positions. Her legs found either side of his torso, thighs gripping him tightly like one would a horse and her hands lifted his arms up and over his head.

She slammed his blade hand against the ground a few times, trying to have him lose his grip on his sword, but to no avail. Instead, she merely pinned his hands above his head with her weight and grinned victoriously down at him as she leaned her face close to his, her long dark braid pooling on the ground beside his head, and said the single word he seemed to be so fond of. “No.”

---

Jon could hear his direwolf and Anaris behind him as they split direction, his gaze focused on the dead, hopefully dry, tree in his sights. His mind was distracted greatly by the fact that he now knew that there was even less of a chance of finding Robb. Would they have sought solace with the Tully’s or Arryn’s? Would they have gone that far south to get away from what chaos must be ensuing in Winterfell? A heavy sigh left him as he pushed his whirling thoughts from his mind and focused on gathering firewood instead.

Surviving this night was more important now, and now he had someone else to try and keep safe and attended to. He was not the kind of person who could freely up and leave someone who needed the help. Especially not someone who was fleeing just like him. The only question was how long she would stay with him. If things got too dangerous, would she leave him or would he have to leave her behind for her own sake? Again, he forced himself to focus as he reached the tree and began to search for large branches to break off. The first branch he chose yielded easily and cracked loudly as he broke it. A small smile curled his lips at such a minuscule victory and he immediately began the search for more branches like them.

Once he’d collected enough to last them for a while, he headed back toward the tree he’d first found Anaris against and used his foot to clear off a small area of ground for them to place whatever they could find for a fire on so it wouldn’t become wet with the snow. He carefully dropped the branches he collected and looked around, eyes meeting the shapes of Anaris and Ghost off in the distance, but not too far. What she’d said had him wondering if Robb would forgive him, merely because they were half-brothers. He should, but it’d been so long since they last saw each other and he was sure they’d both done a lot of growing in the time spent apart.

A heavy sigh left him, pluming up in front of him as he began to stack the sticks up for the foundation of the fire. He left a few out to add to it later, but for the most part had enough for the fire to last them a good half-hour to hour, depending on how quickly the wood burned. He righted himself from his crouched position by the makeshift campsite and he shucked off his back, hanging it on a low-hanging branch so it’s contents would not become dampened by the snow. It was beginning to fall in earnest now and he knew the fire could potentially be life-saving at this point. It would not be getting warmer anytime soon. He would wait for Anaris to get back with what she could find before trying to spark up a fire or sending Ghost off to see if he could find them any small animals for a meal.

Drogo had never seen a khaleesi dressed in as strange garments as she wore, but he would not judge her by it. The clothes, as impractical as they were, fit her well. She’d fought just as well in them as any of his warriors. He kept his blade steady at her neck, but with his free hand, trailed a finger down her side. It was almost a marvel that she still felt like a woman despite fighting like a most fearsome warrior. He furrowed his brow at her as she spoke, but what concerned him most was the way her grin returned.

He was beginning to understand that when she grinned at him, it was more of a baring of teeth in preparation of a fight.

He realized that a moment too late. Suddenly it was tips of fingers into his wound, hips thrusting and shoving him off. There was a brief second where he was too distracted by her hips against him and her legs on either side. It was making his mind hazy with want. The bright pain that was emanating from his arm broke through, and he blinked up at her. HIs hand still gripped the handle of his blade like a vice. He could see his men out of the corner of his eye, watching the two of them closely. The woman leaned down close to him. Close enough that her scent filled his nostrils, heady and floral. Her defiance and sheer fearlessness was something to be admired. Her ‘no’ sent something shooting through him that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Drogo lifted his head from the ground, creating even less space between them. He could hear the slave woman fighting with Cohollo, and he could tell without even looking that she’d managed to get away. There was a shout of frustration from his men, but he kept his gaze strictly on the woman in front of him. “Go after her. Leave me here,” he called, staring up at the warrior who’d managed to pin him. Even with Haggo injured, he trusted the bloodriders to deal with the situation. His situation was more prominent. “Khaleesi,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

Without warning, he slammed his head against hers. He used his brute strength, twisting his torso hard enough to roll atop of her. Despite his better judgement, he dropped his blade, knowing within that close proximity, it’d be mostly useless anyway. His arm sang with white hot pain, but he blocked it out. He ground his hips against her, trying to keep most of his weight on her so she couldn’t escape. “Khaleesi or not, this needs to end.”

---

Anaris shifted the sticks in her arms, trying to move a specific one that was digging into her shoulder. She paused in her walking, Ghost stopping a couple of steps ahead of her. He turned out, cocking his head as he watched her. “Just give me a second,” she muttered, nudging the sticks until the bothersome one fell in line with the others. She glanced up, spotting Jon’s shadowy figure through the falling snow. She watched him for a moment, her thoughts getting the best of her.

What must it be like for him? Many of the men she’d heard had referred to Jon as ‘Jon Snow, Lord Eddard’s bastard son’. But bastard or not, the few times that she’d been in her lord’s presence, he hadn’t struck her as the type of men to neglect a bastard son simply because he’d been born of a different woman. Jon had lost his father, and had left the Night’s Watch because of it. Obviously he was scrambling, searching for someplace to go, something to do to avenge his father. And the only place he had left to go was to his brother - and neither of them knew where he was. And what kind of man was he, that he would join the Night’s Watch in the first place? She understood that it was a noble thing to do. The idea of duty over everything else made her pause, however. She knew of the oaths that they took, how marriage and family was forbidden. What was it like, to forsake your prior life in order to do something like that?

She shook her head, effectively shaking the thoughts away as well as she started towards their makeshift camp. Ghost was looking between her and Jon, who was starting to get clearer the closer they got to him. “Go on,” she said, nodding towards the direwolf’s master. Ghost stared at her for a moment longer before trotting off ahead of her. She focused on her steps, the snow making things slippery. She tried to cover the kindling as best as she could, but it wasn’t helping. She stepped over a particularly gnarly thicket, almost slipping as she stepped into the clearing. She caught her balance - barely - and grimaced.

“It’s not much, but it’s all I could find,” Anaris said, heading towards him. The wind was starting to pick up, causing the snow to bluster around them. She shivered despite the collar that he’d given her. “You should take your collar back. I should be fine with the fire.” The last thing she wanted was for him to freeze out of some ridiculous notion of chivalry. Chivalry didn’t matter much to her when the temperature was dropping and he was most likely her biggest chance of survival. “Where would you like me to put these?”

The she-warrior from Starfall, all the way from Dorne, was please with herself after seeing this Dothraki khal trapped beneath her, if only just for these few moments. She wasn’t expected to be freed, or to get away, but she wanted to try and create enough distraction for Lyla to be able to get away. From the sounds she was hearing, it sounded like she was doing a pretty decent job at what Ayleth had instructed of her. When the khal lifted his head, her eyes narrowed slightly, swooping over his handsome features up close. He was unlike anything she’d ever seen and, right now, he was at her mercy. She relished every moment of this as the man beneath her was the pure epitome of unbridled and wild strength.

The next words that left his mouth had his men charging back toward their horses as Lyla managed to climb atop hers. Ayleth recognized the whinny of her beloved stallion before the sound of two horses hooves pounding the earth met her ears and the vibrations rattled the ground beneath her. Those two horses would soon be joined by three more and Ayleth could only hope that the Dornish horses were far faster than the Dothraki’s. Her eyes locked on his as he spoke the word she realized he’d come to refer to her as. In a flash, his forehead was knocking against hers and her world momentarily went black.

She felt like she was spinning as her head fell back slightly, hands gripping onto him now in an attempt to ground herself instead of overpower. A low yell of pain left her, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before she blinked them open as her back met the ground once more. Her head fell back against the soil as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the flashes of light from her vision. Their hands were still above her head and she was quite aware that he was positioned between her legs, pressed against her closely. Was it wrong for her to enjoy this as much as she did? She was a woman from Dorne; where women and men were taught about sex at an early age. She was indeed a maiden, as was expected of women of noble descent before marriage, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was inexperienced elsewhere. Dorne held very different views than the majority of Westeros when it came to a lot of things.

Three horses galloped past them with their riders and then it was just the two of them. She wondered what he was intending on doing with her now. He spoke something to her, but could only understand that it was directed to her. Ayleth knew she’d finally lost, but only just because of his sheer size. She could accept that. Her body relaxed slightly beneath his, hands pulling away from his wound and wrist. When his hips ground down against hers, she drew in a sharp breath of air, eyes flashing with a different sort of emotion for a moment before she stared up at him. She held her hands in front of her, so he could see what she was doing, the fingertips of one hand covered in the freshly-spilled blood from his wound. A slight smirk curled her lips as she reached out and traced a single fingertip down his jaw—the one that wasn’t covered with blood. Her fingertips then found his braid, eyes darting over to it for a moment as she wrapped her fingers around it and tugged at it gently a few times. It was a long braid; he must’ve never been defeated in battle before.

It was then that Ayleth came to the conclusion that she only was left with one option. Hopefully, Lyla would go free and live out the rest of her life in one of the free cities. Ayleth could see no way out; she was too evenly matched with this khal—whether he wanted to kill her or keep her, she couldn’t say. With a soft sigh, she held her wrists together and extended them to the khal, mimicking the position of being bound. Her gaze held his, hoping he would understand this as a sign of surrender.

---

It seemed the night was growing colder by the second and Jon knew he had to start that fire and fast. The only other option was to huddle together for warmth; the idea didn’t exactly repulse him, but it may make the both of them very uncomfortable as they were nearly complete strangers. It’d be worth it, should their survive of the night depend on it. An idea struck him and he glanced back in the direction that he’d come from, from Castle Black. He began to push up and compact snow up around one side of where they were to build their fire, with the intentions of partially blocking out the light of the fire to just look like a downdraft of snow instead. It wasn’t a foolproof way to be sure they wouldn’t be seen or caught, but it would at least help, he hoped.

Ghost got back to him before Anaris did and he glanced over to his companion with a slight grin. The direwolf looked happy to be back with it’s master, red eyes shining brightly as he quickly found his place by Jon’s side. He glanced up to see where she was just in time to watch her almost slip. His body jolted a bit forward awkwardly before he realized that even in she had fallen, he was nowhere close enough to catch her fall or help her back up in any reasonable amount of time. A flush painted his cheeks for a moment at the thought that she’d seen him, but he quickly crouched down and busied himself with rearranging the sticks he’d gathered though they needed no rearranging.

When he finally heard her footsteps approaching closer, he lifted his gaze to meet hers and offered her a kind smile. “It’ll do. They’ll work as nice kindling,” he told her with a nod as he righted himself. She offered to give him back his collar, in which he shook his head resolutely. “No,” he told her simply, “it wouldn’t feel right to keep it on or take it back.” He stepped over to her and took the kindling carefully from her grasp, walking over to the pile of spare twigs he’d gathered. He left a few branches there with those and stepped over to the stack of sticks, placing them just beside it. He rummaged along the bottom of the clearing floor, grabbing a few leaves he hoped were dry enough to catch. Jon grabbed his pack and searched around in it for his flint stone and found it around the bottom of it before hanging the pack back up.

Crouching by the fire once more, he pulled a short dagger from his belt and held the flint in the other hand. He struck the stone a few times with his dagger, showering sparks over the leaves and kindling. It took but a few tries for the leaves to ignite and he immediately lowered his face next to it and blew lightly a few times to stoke the fire. Soon enough, the kindling branches that Anaris had brought were lighting and so were the bigger branches he found. He backed away from the fire, immediately thankful for the warmth it was already provided and sheathed his dagger. Tucking the flint back into his pack, he glanced over his shoulder to Ghost. “Ghost,” he said, the beast’s red eyes locking with it’s masters, “hunt.” No other words were needed as the large wolf-like creature bounded off silently away from their resting place, tongue hanging happily out of the side of his mouth.

Jon looked back at Anaris for a moment before turning and crouching next to the fire, holding his gloved hands near it to hopefully bring back some feeling to the tips of his fingers. “How long have you been out here?” He asked curiously, dark eyes meeting hers. He could only hope that it hadn’t been too long, though she didn’t look as terrible as one would imagine if she had. Maybe she had been taught how to survive in dire conditions as these.

Drogo was no stranger to the feelings that arose in him during a challenging battle. It was similar to the feeling of driving into a whore, the way his blood sang with excitement and success. But it surprised him as his hips ground upon hers, the noise that left her. It was sharp and telling. He stared at her form, eyes moving from her face to her hand. He found that her fingers splashed red from his blood awoke something in him. And it appeared that it had awoken something within her as well, judging by the way her lips curled upwards. The tip of her finger slid down his jaw. She tugged at his braid gently. Too gently for him. He’d much rather to see the fire within her, daring to overflow and burn her from the inside out.

The warrior before him extended her wrists to him, and despite himself, his eyes widened. She was… Surrendering. A khaleesi was surrendering to him. He was tempted to take her then and there, before the Great Stallion. But there were more pressing matters to attend to. His bloodriders had taken the horses to chase after the slave woman, like he’d ordered. He glanced up towards her tent and frowned. His men had taken the rope with them, which meant he needed something else to bind her wrists with.

His hand wrapped around her wrist as he moved to stand, tugging her up with him. He nodded towards the structure before pulling on her wrist as he stepped forward. The tent was too gaudy for his tastes, too useless in the face of an attack. It stood out, glaring against the horizon. He’d been able to see it from a good distance away, which rendered it pointless. He tugged again, leading her into the makeshift building.

Drogo tugged her in, the sun instantly giving way to a much cooler temperature. It felt like sweet relief against his skin - despite his arm still stinging. He looked around, spotting the bed. He nodded once before looking to her, then back to the mattress. “Sit,” he said, the word coming out rough in her tongue. It was one of the few that he’d picked up when being around men from her land. He’d find something to bind her wrists with, but he much preferred to have her sitting within his line of sight. Although, deep down, he’d prefer it even more if she put up another fight.

Or if she fucked him. Either was fine with him.

---

For the first time in a handful of days, Anaris felt like she’d done something useful. Finding kindling wasn’t the greatest of achievements, but it was something. And it had earned her a smile, which is more than she’d been expecting. For a moment, she was reminded just how young he truly was. He almost looked like the boys from back home, wrestling and laughing boisterously when it was warm out. But warmth felt like it was centuries away with how fast the temperature was dropping. She raked her gaze over him and gave him a frown. “It doesn’t feel right to keep it. You need it-“ She faltered, unsure once against as to what she was supposed to call him. She glanced over to Ghost, and sighed. “You need it, Jon.” He really didn’t strike her as the type to get upset with her lack of formality. It was another useless thing in the frozen wood, just like his chivalry.

Her hands dropped to her side as he took the wood from her, stepping after him. She’d always been horrid at lighting fires, usually biding her time until Coren would show up and do it for her. She noticed how he’d hung his pack on a branch, realizing it was much better than what she’d been doing, which was just keeping it on her at all times. She slipped her bag over her head, hanging the strap from a low hanging brach. Her fingers grazed the hilt of her dagger, reassuring and cold through her thin gloves. She needed a flint for when she was on her own. Coren had been in a hurry when he’d gathered her things. She couldn’t blame him for not packing a flint. She’d only had some food, a wineskin filled with water, and a dagger. It wasn’t much, but at least he’d managed the bare necessities.

The second a flame appeared, Anaris was moving forward and crouching down, hands out in front of her. Her hands had been so cold that they felt like pins were pricking at them as the fire warmed them. She watched the flames start to grow, licking at the falling snow. If she tried hard enough, she could pretend that she was back home, getting ready to drink mulled wine and listen to the stories that were being told. She jerked her head up as Jon spoke to Ghost, her gaze slipping to the animal as he trotted off into the night. It was dark enough that he padded out of her view faster than she’d expected.

“About a week or so, I believe?” She thought it over, trying to count how many sunrises it had been. “I’ve been walking on my own for two or three days now, and before that, I’m not entirely sure,” she said, thinking it over. She didn’t necessarily want to admit that she’d snuck onto the back of a trader’s wagon, stowing away in the hay for Gods knew how long. But he’d admitted to leaving the Night’s Watch. It was only fair of her to do the same. “I snuck onto a trader’s caravan and hid in the hay of a wagon. I’m not sure how long I was on there for. They stopped and started at odd times.” The mere thought of all that hay made her want to scratch at her arm. “I left the day that we got word of Lord Eddard’s passing.”

Ayleth now became highly aware of the stinging of the cut on her arm, the thin cut on her neck, and the pounding at her forehead. There were things she could ignore during battle, too caught up in the rush of a fight, but in the lull after it, she felt these things tenfold. Ayleth was no stranger to the pain of wounds; she’d felt them almost her whole life, even before she became the warrior she was today. She had to keep the grin from widening on her features at the look of surprise that flashed through the khal’s fiery eyes at her surrender, as if no one had willingly done the same before. Or perhaps this was just in reaction to her, she may never know.

A short noise left her as he grasped one of her wrists and pulled her to her feet. It was then she realized that even if the khal was taller than her, it was not by much. She straightened her spine as he nodded toward the tent and kept up with his long strides as he lead them over to it. Honestly, Ayleth would be glad for the reprieve from the sunlight that the tent would provide her; Dorne was known for it’s warm weather, but out on the sands was proving far different than this vast sea of grass.

The moment Ayleth entered the tent, her skin immediately felt like it was no longer being dried out of stretched by the sun and her cheeks tingled in the absence of it. Her eyes roamed the tent, taking in the state of absolute disarray that had been left behind. Trunks were overturned, a few of her gowns had been scattered throughout the tent, and there were a few bottles of Dornish red wine that had been shattered on the floor. She made note to avoid those areas, as she was now in bare feet. Her eyes found their way back to the khal beside her, highly aware of the heat that still clung to his skin that she could feel through his grip on her wrist and radiating off of him from beside her. The single command had her stomach flipping anxiously; whether for fear or another reason completely, she didn’t know.

Her eyes found her camp bed and she stepped over to it, eyes remaining on the khal for as long as possible before she turned and lowered herself down onto it. Her tongue darted out to whet her full lips as she kept her hands visible to him so he wouldn’t feel the need to think she was up to something. She was halfway tempted to lay back on the bed, to see how much she could tempt this horse-lord and see what emotions or expressions she could pull from him, but her mind figured that was what he’d brought her to the tent for anyways. So, she leveled her gaze on him and watched him like a hawk, waiting for what his next movement would be.

---

At the use of his first name, Jon’s gaze fell upon Anaris once more, eyes narrowing slightly for a moment. Rarely anyone but family had called him by that, but most others didn’t know what to call him by. Most just referred to him as Eddard Stark’s bastard or just bastard alone. To hear his names from the mouth of someone else besides family felt normal. He was no longer just ‘Snow’ or ‘bastard’ like he was frequently called in the Night’s Watch. Perhaps he’d request to be called by his first name more often. Despite himself and their situation, he smiled to her again at this revelation. “I don’t need it, Anaris,” he reassured her, shaking his head a bit, “you’re still shivering.” Besides, he thought to himself before he could stop it, it looks better on your than it probably ever did on me.

Jon looked up from the flames that he regret to say he would have taken granted before, to look over at Anaris as she spoke. His eyes kept on hers as she recounted her story, knowing that she’d been out in this frozen forest for a few days longer than he had; probably the length of extra time it took for word of Eddard Stark’s execution to reach Castle Black. His brows lifted slightly at her admission of hiding in the back of a caravan, the slightest bit of a crooked grin curling his lips for a moment. The young woman had a will to survive and he found that admirable. Few women would have endured the cold temperatures and long near-winter nights if they didn’t.

Eventually, Jon’s legs grew tired and he ended up sitting in front of the fire instead. He knew that a log would be more fitting to sit on than the ground, but he was too wrapped up in warming himself that he didn’t want to move. “I know you said your mother worked for my family,” he started, voice gentle, “did you?” His eyes darted from the fire in front of them over to her as he dropped his hands to rest on his knees, finally being able to feel the tips of them from the now intense heat the fire was putting off. “Or did you have another reason for leaving?” He questioned. “I don’t wish to pass any judgement…or try to get you in trouble. You could do the same for me, if you really wanted to.” The slightest bit of a crooked grin flitted across his features once more before disappearing again. He paused for a few long moments, eyes roaming the forest around them for any signs of a threat before returning to her.

“I’ll stay with you until we can get back to Robb. Where ever he is, he should have men with him that support him and not Joffrey, we should both be safe there,” he said to her, making some sort of silent vow to himself to protect her at whatever cost. Her family had served his and more than likely died for it; it was only right that they repay that kindness by protecting her.

It was tempting. It was more than tempting, really. Drogo had caught sight of his fingers wrapped around her wrist as he’d pulled her, tan skin contrasted by the alabaster color of her arm. He was using up every ounce of his self restraint. He needed to get back to his people, despite the fact that he was without a horse and with a prisoner. The woman, however, had more than proven her strength. He didn’t doubt for a second that she would be able to handle walking for miles on end without stopping. She could probably handle it better than some of his men.

He looked over the chaos of the tent. His men had been right. There wasn’t much, but there were enough wares that could be salvaged. He stepped through the mess, deftly avoiding the broken bottles as he moved through it all. He was almost disappointed that the woman hadn’t traveled with a group of men for protection. There would have been more to raid. He reached down, picking up a garment that was close to the color of the grass outside the tent, and tore the bottom of it, creating a long piece of fabric. He looked back to her, still sitting on the bed.

She was still there. He walked forward, sidestepping an overturned trunk. He crouched down, moving through the debris before he came across a small knife. It wasn’t much, but the blade was sharper than most, and he slipped it into his belt. He pretended to search through the rest, nudging thing this way and that occasionally, buying himself more time. He was torn. This woman was something that he’d never seen before. She was the first woman that he’d encountered, Dothraki or not, that was someone that he’d believed could bear his son. The Dothraki respected force, and the woman sitting on the bed was a force to be reckoned with. But there were other things to consider; war treaties and omens and too many things to think of. He looked back to the woman and made up his mind.

He straightened up, stepping towards the bed deliberately. For a brief moment, he almost felt bad for the khaleesi’s khal. To lose such a woman as this would be a blow to their khalasar. He stopped before her, bending down and tugging her wrists forward. Easily, he held them together in one hand as the other draped the strip of fabric over them. He tied them together, making sure that it was tight. Even though she was silent and willing in that moment, he didn’t trust her. She was a fearsome warrior, and he had a feeling that he’d met his match when it came to battling her. He looked down at her, regarding her carefully.

Drogo reached out, running his finger alongside the wound on her arm in a mimicry of what she’d done earlier against his jaw. He raised a brow at her, the corners of his lips twitching up into a barely there smirk. “No?”

---

Anaris wasn’t able help but roll her eyes at him, although she had managed to catch his smile. “I’m not shivering,” she protested, despite the sharp sting of the wind on her cheeks at that precise moment. She winced, inching towards the fire. “You do need it. This fire isn’t going to be able to keep you warm enough on its own.” She flexed her fingers in an attempt to will them back to warmth. It was slow going, the flames occasionally jumping close enough to her that they warmed a little faster. Beyond that, however, she knew it would take while. Jon Snow seemed to be of the stubborn sort. She just shook her head at him, conceding for the moment. If it got any colder, however, she planned on shucking the collar and forcing him to don it. She didn’t plan on being part of the reason was the bastard son of Lord Eddard froze to death in the middle of the forest.

Her cheeks flushed a bit at his small grin. Ducking her head, she set her palms on the ground to balance herself as she moved from a crouch to merely sitting down. The snow was starting to dampen her clothes, but she hadn’t been able find it within her self to care. The fire was warming her more now, and she was loathe to move away from it, if only for long enough to find something to sit on. She could almost hear her mother’s voice now, chastising her for getting her cloak soaking wet. The thought made her sigh.

“I didn’t work there all the time, just when they needed an extra hand.” Anaris glanced from the fire to him. There could have been a hundred reasons as to why she’d left, but if she was being truthful with herself, she wasn’t entirely sure. Coren had burst into their humble little home, thrusting a pack and a dagger at her, telling her to leave. That Lord Edward was dead at the hand of Joffrey, who had been declared king. “My father was outspoken about his support of your father… and his disdain of King Robert. Given how Joffrey is, I can only imagine what things will be like.” She watched him for a moment, spotting the grin once more. It was small, but it was there and it put her at ease. “I wouldn’t make any trouble for you,” she said, allowing herself to mimic his slight grin. “I like your wolf too much.”

She brought her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them as the snow flickered through the air. The fire was finally starting to warm her more. She looked to the fire for a moment before gazing back to Jon as he spoke. Something cracked within her, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest. It almost felt like she could breathe again. She wouldn’t have to travel alone. “Thank you, Jon,” she murmured, offering him a small, appreciative smile. “How will we find him?”

Ayleth had been appraising the number the khal’s men had done on her until she heard the sharp sound of fabric being torn in two. Her gaze swept to the khal as one of Lyla’s gowns fluttered down to the mess of her belongings that lie on the ground. Her eyes met his and she offered him the smallest of smiles. That amethyst gaze of hers followed him as he stepped through the wreckage of what once had been an immaculate tent, watching him closely as he crouched beside a few things. Ayleth’s head tilted slightly to the side as he picked one of her smaller daggers from the ground and placed it in his belt. From then on, it seemed he was only absently plucking through her things; whether he wasn’t interested in them or only pretending to be looking she didn’t know.

As the khal moved around the tent, her mind was reeling with what she was to do with the situation she was in. Ayleth was not stupid—much to the chagrin of her father and most of the suitors she had been presented with—and she knew that this khal had some sort of attraction toward her. Ayleth would be lying to herself if this powerful man did not draw her in as well. She’d met plenty of handsome men, like this khal. Perhaps it was the fact she didn’t speak his language, know his customs, or how well he fought, but she knew that no man had managed to pique her interest like him and he was far different than the rest. She’d heard whispers of the Great Khal the moment she arrived into the port of one of the Free Cities. Was she looking at him now? The way he looked at her spoke volumes where the language barrier failed. It had her wondering what ways his gaze would change if he saw the whip marks that covered her back, some fresh and some old, or the various other scars on places that he couldn’t see. She found herself wanting to show them to him, to tell him battle stories without words to earn his respect where she had demanded it of others.

His eyes met hers once more and she drew in a breath of air, wondering if this khal had a khaleesi of his own. She wouldn’t doubt it. And if not, did khaleesi have to be Dothraki? She was a noblewoman in Westeros, of a lineage that counted kings, queens, and renown knights among them, did she not deserve to be a khaleesi in this new land she was banished to? As he marched toward the bed, her gaze remained on him, eyes darkening slightly with something other than anger as he tugged her wrists forward. She put up no fight as he tied her wrists together with the soft strip of fabric, tongue darting out to whet her lips once more as she studied him up close. The wind pressed against the side of the tent and she was thankful for the refreshing breeze that fluttered in, cooling her skin even more.

But as his calloused fingertip dragged across her skin, so close to the skillful, shallow wound he’d give her, she drew in a deep breath of air as she grew warm once again from a different reason than the overbearing sun. Her nostrils flared slightly as her eyes remained locked with his as she made her own decision. At the sight of the ghost of a smirk on his lips and raised brow, she leveled her chin with the ground and a wicked grin curled her lips, eyes glittering in the heavily-filtered light of the tent. “Yes,” she responded, her voice quiet and low as her eyes slipped between both of his. “Khal,” she started, not knowing what else to call him. “Khaleesi?” She questioned, tilting her chin toward him.

This was her way of asking if he had a khaleesi of his own. Such a primitive way of communication amused her, but it was the only way she knew how. She could only hope he understood and replied with a ‘no’.

---

Jon gave her a look of playful disbelief at her statement that she was not shivering, another grin curling his lips afterwards that lit up his eyes. “And the fire is not going to keep you warm enough on its own,” he told her with a jovial amount of sternness in his tone. His eyes returned to the flame in front of him, lifting his hands to the flame once more. He honestly wasn’t terribly cold any more, but he could feel it biting at his back in a stark contrast to the warm that wrapped around the front of him. He didn’t want to turn his back to the fire either, as his face was thankful for the flashes of warmth in the bitter wind that blew past them occasionally.

He produced a wineskin full of water from beneath his cloak and lifted it toward his mouth, pouring it into his mouth. Bashfully, he realized that he hadn’t offered any to Anaris and he was quick to lift the strap of it over his head, maneuver it from beneath the thick woolen cloak he wore, and place it on the ground beside her. “I should have enough in there to last until the next time we run across water…but I’m sure melted ice could suffice if you’re thirsty enough and need all of it,” he told her, eyes slipping over to her for a moment before he lifted his hands to face the fire once more.

The bastard’s dark gaze wandered to her as she spoke again, stating that she only worked at Winterfell when there was extra help needed. That would explain why he probably had never seen her. The times where they needed an extra hand were mainly times when someone important was visiting and Jon had always been told by Catelyn Stark to keep out of everyone’s way and keep scarcely seen. He knew that his presence was unwanted by her and knew that she wanted to limit the whispers and comments that could people could make of him. His gaze returned to the fire, wondering if Lady Stark was with Robb now and if she would be cross with him for leaving his duties. A heavy sigh left him as he rubbed the palm of his hands together before letting them drop to his lap. His eyes slipped over to her once more and that crooked grin of his was back at the mention of Ghost. “I think he likes you too,” he told her honestly, “you would have known immediately if he hadn’t.”

His eyes watched her for a few moments after she looked away, gaze trailing over her profile before he caught himself staring and looked away again. She was, truthfully, a very beautiful woman. She was lucky that he had been the one to find her and not some man who would have seen her as something to take advantage of. Jon’s gaze found hers as she spoke and a broad grin curled his lips, nodding a bit in response. At her next question, he paused for a moment, giving his answer some thought. “We’ll stay clear of the King’s Road and only let ourselves be known in places where we can be sure Joffrey’s men aren’t and those places where they were firm supporters of my father and now Robb, I suppose,” he told her honestly. “It may not be the easiest path, but it’ll be the safest for both of us,” he added with another nod.

Soon after he spoke, Ghost was rushing back to the two of them with what appeared to be a rabbit in his jaws. Blood the color of the direwolve’s eyes painted it’s muzzle, dripping a trail on the snow as he trotted happily back to his master. He dropped the large hare by his side and Jon lifted a hand to his furry head. “Good boy, Ghost,” he commended him appreciatively, knowing he would be giving a hearty serving of the meat they couldn’t use or didn’t cook to him for his efforts.

Drogo was not one to dwell on the past. He wasn’t one to doubt himself, instead charing into battles when the timing was right and the correct omens had occurred. He never second doubted himself, always plunging ahead and damning the consequences. But for whatever reason, with the woman’s gaze drilling into him, he felt like the child he’d been years ago. The one fumbling with his arakh, constantly doubting every move as he tried to impress the then khal of his people. The one gazing up at the bloodriders and being determined to become like them. Fierce. Strong. Proud.

It almost lit a fire within his veins that her mere presence was making him second guess himself. Should he take her then and there, or start to head back to his people? Would it be easier to just kill her, or should he allow her to live? The questions were becoming a roar in his mind, and he resented every single word. He returned his focus to the woman in front of him. He’d never been attracted to a woman as he was with her. The whores he’d bedded before her had merely laid there and taken him. They would occasionally make noise, some begging for more, but they’d always given in immediately. None had dared to deny him. And he understood that that was the order of things. A khal was meant to rule his khalasar, denied respect only when he was usurped by one greater than he. But this woman before him was causing a voice to whisper thoughts of something else, something greater than never being questioned.

The flaps of the tent were rolling gently in the breeze. He could feel it licking at his ankles, soothing the tan skin. The woman’s hair shifted lightly as the air moved around the tent, and he found himself watching it for a moment. His gaze dropped back to her face, his brows rising even more as she responded with the opposite of what he’d said. His mind was suddenly made up for him. The warrior woman felt as he did. The khaleesi felt as he did. The slow burning want that had been teasing him, coming and going since she’d first struck him, had finally arrived in full force. The way she spoke his title, quiet in the debris-filled chaos of the tent, sent an ache that rippled through his entire body.

Drogo had to pause. He’d understood the word that she’d spoken, but wasn’t entirely sure of her meaning. Was she asking if he had a khaleesi of his own? He reached up and pushed against her shoulder. It wasn’t hard enough to make her fall, but enough that he hoped she would understood what he wanted her to do - lie down. He remained standing, his gaze moving over her body slow and deliberate before he finally answered her.

“No.”

---

Anaris scoffed at him, rolling her eyes despite the way the corners of her mouth kept turning up without her meaning to. “I’d be plenty warm with the fire,” she argued back. Not as warm as she was in that moment, but warm enough. She stole a glance towards him as his gaze moved to the flickering flames. The light was dancing across his face, the shadows changing constantly. It was fascinating to watch. She understood why her childhood friends had found Jon so attractive. There was something about him that drew a person in. It was hard to put her finger on it, but she knew that it was there.

She scooted closer to the fire, stretching her legs out just a little to warm them. She would take advantage of every second that the fire was lit. The warmth wouldn’t last forever, and eventually it would die out. She just hoped that it would last longer than she knew was possible. The second the wineskin was beside her, she reached down and lifted it to her mouth, taking a small sip. “Thank you,” she said, relishing the way it cooled her dry throat. “I’ve got my own in my pack. Between you and I, we should be well off.” She set the wineskin beside her, watching for a moment as the snow would land on it and then quickly dissolve.

“Why are his eyes red? I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal with eyes like that.” Granted, she’d never ventured from Winterfell before, but she’d been around plenty of animals in her life. She’d never seen a dog or wolf like that before. If she thought back far enough, she could vaguely remember the other Stark children having wolves like Ghost, but even then, she couldn’t remember if they’d had red eyes or not. She would have sworn that if they had, she would have remembered so. Her gaze wandered to Jon, catching his wide grin. Something in her chest twist, but it wasn’t like before, when she’d been afraid. No, this time was more warm and an almost happy feeling. She ducked her head, cheeks burning bright. She took in a deep breath, letting it out slow before she worked up the nerve to look back over to him.

“I don’t quite know where we are,” she admitted, frowning at the words. “How close are we to a village?” It was starting to dawn on her just how much time she would be spending with the bastard son. The two of them would wander the forest until they found a village, and then what? They’d still have to stay together. A man and woman traveling together that were not related would appear suspicious to some. And his brother’s army was most likely far off, getting farther with every hour that passed. It felt near impossible that they’d ever get there.

Anaris jumped at the sound of something approaching, and then scolded herself when she saw that it was only Ghost. He looked wild, the blood marking the white snow red. He looked eery with the way the flames were casting shadows. He looked like something out of a myth. But then her gaze dropped to the rabbit in his jaws, and all thoughts of how he looked vanished with the possibility of meat. Actual meat. “He’s quite good at that.”