#mindthemuse

Little was told about the knight who had served the Queen. Of the once-betrayer. Of the man who had nearly died protecting her from a horde of dead. The family he once belonged to had been eradicated in the Battle of Winterfell. As such, there was no one to talk of Jorah Mormont and the deeds both great and ill that he had performed. 

While Essos thrived in those 200 years, Westeros fell into a dark age. The peace only lasted for 50 years. Then, as the first generation began to die, the next generation saw the weakness in an absent King. One-by-one, each realm broke away and was ruled by their own King or Queen. In-fighting wasn’t uncommon. Nor was the occasional press for more territory. 

The wheel had not been broken. Instead, more wheels had been forged. 

Of this plight, however, the Dragon Queen did not know. And the knight only knew by word of mouth. They were housed in a chamber at the heart of Asshai where magic had grown more powerful in the presence of Drogon and his growing brood of dragons. It became known as the City of Dragons or the Oktion hen Zaldrīzoti. 

Drogon had been successful in delivering his mother into the hands of the Red Priests and Priestesses that served R’hllor. She had been restored to life but placed in a sleep until the world would have need of her again. It took Jorah several months to find them, but once he did, he pleaded to be preserved like his Queen, so he may serve her when she wakes. 

His pleas were granted except he did not sleep. He was too stand guard over her through the passing centuries. So, he did. Decades passed, and while Jorah watched the city grow and the people change, he noted that those in the Temple remained the same age just as himself. 

It was within the 200th year that his Queen finally arose. Jorah was not there when her eyes opened. He’d been out in the city collecting fruit for that night’s dinner. Carrying the bag with him, Jorah entered the temple and noticed an increase in activity. Thinking that, perhaps, a festival was being prepared for, he thought no more of it until he entered the chamber where Daenerys slept . . . and found her awake, standing, and being tended to by two Priestesses.

His heart surged in his chest, and he dropped the bag of fruit. “Khaleesi,” he managed to gasp out, and then immediately moved to his knee, bowing before her. “I am ready to serve.” Always.

Aria scanned the data pad, careful to keep her posture of disinterested boredom. One could never be too careful, even in her own club on her own station. Double, then triple-checking the information contained on the device, she peered over the edge of it at the turian guard at the edge of the platform. “Are we sure this is accurate, Grizz?”

The turian’s mandibles flared in a brief display of unease as he nodded. Aria’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, before controlling herself as she set the datapad aside. Oleg Petrovsky had escaped Alliance custody less than a week ago, en route to a garden world on the edge of the Terminus Systems. Bold. But extremely fortuitous for Aria.

“Ready my ship.” She glanced toward the entrance of Afterlife with narrowed eyes. “Grab Bray and Ahz while you’re at it.” She didn’t bother turning to watch the turian leave, confident in his strict obedience. That’s what made working with turians easy - they always were drawn to the allure of command. Their militant nature was nice, too.

It had taken the better part of three years to fully wipe clean the stench of the Cerberus occupation of Omega, but it had been done. The status quo of the lawless returned, placing Aria candidly in charge of the happenings of the pirate port. After the Relays had been repaired, it almost felt like the Reaper Invasion had never happened. Organic life carried on, in its unpredictable way.

Aria had enjoyed the laxing of patrols near the Terminus Systems, allowing for her profits to grow monumentally. The demand for smuggled goods remained just the same, if not higher, now that certain supplies had become harder to acquire. Perhaps if she had struggled during the rebuilding effort, she might not be itching to settle a score.

But that was not the case.

Aria was pulled from her absent-minded musings as an all too familiar face entered her nightclub. Shit. She rolled her eyes and raised her hand to signal the guards to allow the human Spectre to pass before Shepard even had the chance to cross the bar.

     “You’re right,” Miranda says with all the tact that a Husk might have, and wipes a combination of sweat and stray hair from her forehead, “I’m not. Nor are you protecting me. With all due respect, Shepard, I’ve no obligation to you—in the same way that you’ve no obligation to me—to look out for you. The only thing I am interested in is the success of our mission, and the win conditions are simple; so long as you are alive, we have a bloody good shot at taking out the Collectors.”

“You can decide after the dance if punishing Joker is really worth missing your birthday over. If I hadn’t found out, you’d have never gotten this,” and with a flourish, the chest piece drops. Except Garrus miscalculates the distance of the table behind him and the chest piece crashes on top of it, shattering it. “Oh.” He looks behind him. “I’ll uh . . . get you a new one.” 

Then he resumes his dance, slowly working the rest of his armor off. When she mentions a Marilyn Monroe, he shakes his head, “I don’t know who that is, but if it’s what gets you going, I’m game.” Eventually, he was left in his tunic and pants. Garrus danced closer, feet lightly moving her ankles apart, so her legs were spread just a bit, so he could dance between them.

His hips start to pivot to the rhythm, thrusting in time with the beat. “Phew,” he panted, “this dancing stuff is exhausting. No wonder dancers are so expensive.” More out of a need to cool down than anything, he pulled off his tunic and tossed it at her. Bare-chested, he reached for her hands and slid them down his chest while he dipped low, brushing himself between her legs.

     arms reach, searching for the blonde’s lighter frame & pulling it against her own; those same arms now encircling, holding, guarding. “ con te che assomigli, dovrò combattere un esercito di pretendenti avidi. “ lips are pressing to the column of her neck & exposed shoulders. “ you look beautiful, mi amor. “

When she counted only the two that she believed held a romantic interest in her, Wrex grunted, shaking his head. “I’ll chalk it up to your attention being too preoccupied in hunting Saren for missing the obvious. The Quarian nearly ran into a wall when you walked by because she couldn’t stop staring at you. And the tiny humans with tiny jobs have been whispering about how the new uniform looks on you. Approvingly.” 

The Krogan gave a short laugh, his head jutting upwards with the sound. “No, Shepard. You’re hot stuff right now. And everyone on this ship is looking to help lower your stress levels.” His wide mouth curled into a smirk. “Not that they can do much with the disappointing equipment biology has given them. A pair, Shepard?” he laughed again. “No wonder it takes you humans a few tries to make anything stick. A quad gets the job done in half the time.” A simple boast. But true. 

While once the humble church may have been enough to fit the entirety of his flock, that has changed over the years. They thrive. It is God’s will. His sermon was inspired by the recent attempt to arrest him. The Sheriff of the area along with a few of his deputies--and a Marshall--had come to this place. Yet seeing the strength of his flock, they had chosen to back away.

Joseph was certain that the First Seal would have been broken. It had been so close. Yet they had chosen to walk away. In return, Joseph had shown them mercy--had allowed them to leave. It would have been easy to take them and show them the Path. He’d chosen not to. Not yet. Perhaps when their paths crossed again. 

“Remember that God walks with us always. In Him, we can find our wisdom and strength. So, take your guns. Patrol your farms. Watch for the locust. But remember that an act of mercy may be all it takes for a Sinner to become one of the Saved.” Joseph crossed himself, kissed his rosary necklace, and concluded, “go in peace, my children.” 

Together, they rose and started to filter out of the church. A lunch had been provided for those gathered. Joseph lingered, speaking to a few who remained with him. They voiced their doubts or fears, and he did what he could to comfort them. Most would find their strength again. One or two, he would likely need to direct to Faith to find peace. 

One approached him with news. “There’s a new face among us, Father,” he whispered in Joseph’s ear. The Father followed the man’s gaze to a dark-haired woman who lingered ever on the edge. 

“Thank you, my child. Go eat,” Joseph gripped his shoulder, and then slowly made his way to the newcomer. With his rosary necklace wrapped around his wrist, Joseph approached her, sans shirt, and offered a warm smile. “Welcome,” he greeted her. Eyes were held in check behind yellow-tinted sunglasses. Yet they held a commanding intensity all the same. An ancient wisdom existed within them.

“I do not know you. All are welcome to listen to the Word of God. We are happy to receive you.” A hand was extended. “My name is Joseph.”