Crowns and Cruel Intentions || Game of Thrones

22 | 𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔞

the red waste, essos

— THE RED WASTE WAS KILLING THEM. There wasn't a question in the matter. The sand and sky seemed to stretch to every horizon with no end and no mercy, most of their horses and several of their people had now perished from thirst, starvation or exposure. And on top of it all, the five newborn dragons they carried with them refused to eat what little meat could be spared for them, and neither of the Targaryen sisters knew why.

Daenerys had sent out three riders with their remaining horses to scout alone at a faster pace. Saerya was not so sure any of them would find anything, or that they'd make it back if they did. And in truth, it didn't bother her too much. She wanted better for Daenerys, yes. She wanted better for the baby dragons, yes. But she thought that perhaps this would be a good time to meet her end. She missed Saelyra. Desperately. It was like a piece of her had been carved out and left behind. Like she was hollow, and would never really find a will to go on again, a reason to continue. Besides, if her options were to be torn apart by assassins or Dothraki, or to simply close her eyes and drift away here under the sun...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a hand on her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open to find it was Daenerys, standing beside her. Her eyes were focused on the black horse trotting towards them. Rakkharo's horse, riderless. Stripes covered his neck and sides like war paint, in a colour red that was too thick to actually be paint. Saerya swallowed hard as they approached, watching Jorah reach into the saddlebag. He only pulled the head out partway, but it was enough. He slid it back and retrieved Rakkharo's braid. It had been cut. Daenerys approached faster, gripping Saerya's hand tightly. "You don't need to see this." He warned gently.

"He is blood of my blood." she insisted, voice rough. Her hand slipped out of Saerya's to lean lightly against the horse's side, the other tugging the top of the bag aside to see. "Who did this?"

"Khal Pono, perhaps. Khal Jhaqo. They don't like the idea of a woman leading a Khalasar."

"They will like it far less when I am done with them."

Irri's footsteps were soft as she approached. She faltered, sobbing when she saw what was left of Rakkharo. She fell to her knees at the horse's side as she cried. "They killed his soul!"

"Shh," Daenerys tried to comfort her. "They cannot kill his soul."

"They did! They butchered him like an animal... they did not burn his body!" She sobbed. "He can never join his ancestors in the Night Lands."

Dany came to her knees to hug the poor girl. "Shh. We will build him a funeral pyre. And I promise you, Rakkharo will ride with his ancestors tonight."

°

Two more days came and went. The small Khalasar remained, surviving on what little they had left. Saerya stuck close to the dragons for some sense of comfort, hers and Saelyra's... well, she supposed they were both hers now, though she still had trouble thinking of them that way. The silver dragon was Meraxes, same as the silver beast of Queen Rhaenys. The golden one was Haella. She looked almost as if she'd been born from the sun itself, but when the light hit her scales right, she looked like hellfire.

On the third day, another horse approached their encampment, this one bearing a rider. The horse was unfamiliar, but the man on its back was certainly a sight for sore eyes. Kovarro, another of the bloodriders Daenerys had sent out in search of the end of the Red Waste.

"This is not your horse."

He hopped down to the ground with a shake of his head and a smile. "It was given to me by the Thirteen. The elders of Qarth."