a  surprise  starter  for  @khalscn​   ;;   blood  of  my  blood.  ♡

                  fire cannot kill a dragon. true and honest words they were as once again, daenerys stormborn had lifted herself from the flames  –––  unscathed and unburnt. this time, she had arrived in meereen with another army that stood fiercely behind her  ;  a hoard of warriors and horselords all in the same instance, though they had chosen their khaleesi and that had not come because of who she had married, those many moons ago. no, the silver haired queen  had been the one whom had defeated the khal’s who ruled over the camps and now, she was the one whose braids had grown. tresses of silver cascaded beyond her waist, a waterfall of platinum in homage to the blood that ran through her veins … that, of old valyria. 

anha vo vokkak sen dothrakhqoy. anha okkak ei yeri.                         i will not choose three bloodriders. i choose you all. 

and so, she had. the mother of dragons, the breaker of chains and the khaleesi of the great grass sea would pave her way back to westeros. her armies would lay waste to those who had stolen what was hers by right … and she would take it back, with fire and blood. but until then, she would have to travel across the narrow sea and forge her battle plan. for years, the world had been an unfair and unjust place to live. they would tell stories of her reign  ;  tales of when daenerys targaryen came to westeros and freed those from the chains they had lived in, without ever knowing. she had been born to liberate the world, a prophecy written just for her.

even now, in meereen where slavers bay had turned into the bay of dragons, the war was not over. and it would never be over until the realm was free of dictators like cersei lannister  –––  usurpers, dressed in lion’s pride and embodied by riches. the wheel would be broken and daenerys targaryen would be the one to do it. spokes emblazoned in flames as scorching lava erupted from the stomachs of her children, splinters of wood chipping and chiming until such a might was burned to mere ash. though, it would not be possible without her advisers. nor her unsullied, or dothraki. the time had come for her to pay such respects to them in meereen and that meant, hosting a feast for them all in celebration of their recent conquer. 

hash yeri m’anhoon, ma jinne m’ayyeyaan?                                           are you with me, now and always?

daenerys could remember her wedding, as though it was a memory that she relived each night. the debauchery of dothraki screamers, the echo of drums being beaten throughout camp, the look on her husbands face as he revelled in the glory of it all … and yet, this was somewhat different. there was nothing chaotic, nor frantic about the revelry. but still, she felt the need to find a quiet moment to herself. whilst another plait found itself weaving amongst the royal wisps of her hair, there was still plenty to be done and it would not be achieved over night. fingertips cradled themselves around glass encrusted by gold and as she pressed the cool crystal to her lips, the heavy doors that followed behind her opened  ;  a creak spilling into the room. privacy was not something that she received much of anymore, though it did not bother her. she was to be a queen, of the seven kingdoms that once belonged to her father. her people were her priority, from the very day that viserys’ fate had chosen itself after he dared threaten her and her unborn child. she still thought of it, almost every day. 

amethyst hues anchored themselves against the dark figure, the mere light of torches glinting on either side of the door and as she soon recognised the war paint that adorned his shoulders and chest, a light smile allowed itself to splay across her petals. the silence between them was soon filled by the faint twinkle of bells that sung a melody through the air, the low tune of its metalwork creating a symphony the quiet whispers of flames igniting her audience chamber which still felt somewhat foreign to her, after her unplanned departure.

“ qoy anni qoy. yer zhorre jadat tat meereen ma anna. ha rek, anha san athchomari yeraan. tell me, do you speak much of the common tongue? not that i would expect you to. little dothraki did, when i was last in vaes dothrak, married to khal drogo. ”

           Indigo hues practically shiver fighting back tears that threaten to fall. A Dothraki does not cry — doesn’t show such a sign of weakness. What would his father say? Jhoqo, who lie dead thanks to the snakes that slithered along Meereen’s streets. He’d come here for her ; Khaleesi, the one who’d promised them the world — would would avenge their khal and take the land beyond the poison sea for the son she’d lost. What had he been given so far? Ignorance for one ; for as much as Rhaego believed in his khaleesi she knew nothing of him. They’d never shared a glance let alone a set of words how then could she understand the rage that seethed within him now.

A breath calms him as the boy reminds himself she too has lost so many — but the fact still remains his father is gone now and no matter how irrational it seems the raven haired dothraki can’t help but find himself cascading up the steps of the great pyramid in order to confront her — he’d never had the chance to have audience with khal Drogo ( he’d been too young ) but he was a man now and he would be sure to have his words heard by this breaker of chains.

A waterfall of chestnut trellises fall against his shoulder blades in a traditional braid. It’s long enough for a boy of seventeen but not near as intimidating as it should be. He won’t deny he’s been defeated, there’s no point in hiding the obvious truth — but the loses have made the boy stronger, fiercer ; infused him with more desire and determination to conquer all those who oppose him. It’s this fire that has his anger quelled against her — because Rhaego knows she has that same f i r e , he’s felt it when she speaks — his purplish blue irises never falling from her pale white form. There’s something beyond words there, something that convinces the boy that should she commit even the most heinous of crimes he’d still be there — ready and willing to serve her, perhaps even more so that he’d been willing to serve Drogo.

The great doors are nothing to his sinewy arms, and the fresh breeze of the room wafts past him quickly, the motion giving a gentle brush of his braid — intricately painted war paint shimmering less brilliantly in the soft candle light. She stands before him as commanding as ever and yet she seems so vulnerable ; so small and soft. This woman isn’t a dothraki — qoy anni qoy blood of my blood still. She’d risen from the funeral pyre unscathed, far stronger than she’d been before. Even if her flesh was as white as the clouds Daenerys was more dothraki than westerner ; this rhaego knew for certain.

“I speak enough, Khaleesi.” The boy answers, indigo hues shifting for a moment, gaze falling to the ground before he regains his will and locks eyes with the mother of dragons. “vosma dothraki ajjin anna mai lekh.” But dothraki is my mother tongue. It isn’t a lie, he’s far more comfortable speaking dothraki but Rhaego isn’t stupid, where the rest of the khalasar found common tongue clunky, brutish and difficult to grasp ; Rhaego seemed to have a natural gift, picking it up rather easily as he listened to the free folk waste breath on things that had no concern for him.

“I am sorry for the interruption, but I needed to speak with you. My name is Khovo and I have been part of this khalassar since birth. I’ve never had the need to give audience to you or Drogo until now ; Khaleesi I will serve you until my last breath that much I’ve already promised you — but you must do this for me. Late the other day my father was taken and killed by several masked men. He died a warrior and for that I am proud — but I can’t send him to ride with the khal because the bastards have taken his head.”

            Blue violet hues begin to tremble again and almost, almost does the boys voice crack in the middle of his story. He is a warrior to be true but there is something in his heart that makes him soft ; it’s a part of himself Rhaego hates but would never admit to anyone. “I have promised to give you the iron chair for your son, Khaleesi — but what will you do for my father.”