Even when he would push past the pain and force his eyes open, the prisoner could not see much. Blurriness clouded his vision, intensifying the pounding of his head. So he decided to keep them closed, he did not wish to see what was coming anyway. One of the tall dark skinned strangers that carried him inside this tent, threw on the ground, what appeared to be, a unique sword and a dagger, which once was pierced through the heart of a Queen. The whip came cracking again, almost tearing his skin bloody, making him lean his head against the wooden column he was tied to, in hopes to once again drift off into unconsciousness. His hope died when the one who seemed to be their leader, lost interest in ... was that a man? Or a woman? The wooden column covered them but it made no difference, now the khal was coming for him.
The bloody beating stopped as soon as they carried him under the two colossal stone-carved stallions. Vaes Dothrak, he thought, half conscious. They cannot spill blood in here. Perhaps he did pay attention at times. That, however, did not stop the cracking of the whips. Bells rang as the leader kneeled next to him, mumbled something in a tongue he could not understand and tied a rope around his neck gripping it firmly, sucking the life out of him. Darkness followed, familiar pitch black darkness. He had been here before, knew better than to fight it so he just let it swallow him whole instead.
That voice. He knows that voice. The voice he had forgotten. Her voice. Is he dead? That cannot be, he knew death and in death you do not hear voices. Is he dreaming? He felt the rope loosen around his neck, clearing the darkness away. The voice kept going in the same tongue, the Dothraki tongue, capturing the leader’s attention yet again. He smiled at how this woman’s voice resembled hers. Perhaps he was imagining it, or it may have been the ringing in his ears. It didn’t matter. Still not daring to open his eyes, resting his head against the column, Jon Snow smiled amidst his pain.
Some of the words the woman spoke stuck in his mind, he had heard them before like Drogo or Khaleesi or … Daenerys Targaryen… Ignoring the ache in his head he opened his eyes and bent to the side turning his head towards the woman who had her voice. Next, the pounding of his heart was all he could hear, dampening the sound of the voice talking. For a heartbeat he thought he had bled out, his blood mixing with the crumbs of the ground underneath. His face turned pale as if he had seen a ghost. He was now, not only hearing her, but seeing her too…
A loud laughter came from the khal as evidence of reality, especially when the other three men joined in. He heard her name being repeated by the khal in the midst of the laughter. No… this… could it be a witch, a priestess wearing her face? Why was that easier to believe than Daenerys Targaryen being… alive? As if it read his mind, the ghost looked straight into his eyes. That look. It sent shivers down his spine and all over his body, sobering him up from the frenziness. Their eyes were stuck on each other until the khal jerked forward and unwrapped his prize finally, letting the red cloak fall to the ground. And that’s when his previous fear became nothing but a fraction of what followed. His stare moved from her eyes, over her face, down her neck and stuck on the deep scar between her bare breasts. A scar that carried his name. Jon Snow now knew, he was looking at the Daenerys Targaryen.
The khal and the Dragon Queen exchanged few more Dothraki sentences. Jon could not understand the words but he understood the actions. Daenerys had lost this battle but he could find no trace of fear in her eyes, no disgust, no hate, not any kind of emotion, nothing. The khal circled slowly around her, drinking in her nakedness, his body clearly craving hers. That is when their eyes met again. All Jon could do was stare at her and she, stare back at him as the tall Dothraki screamer explored her body. The khal paused when he completed half a circle and stood right behind her. One of his hands wandered over the soft curve of her belly and the other wrapped around her neck pulling her head back, breaking their eye contact. He buried his head over her shoulder while his hand flew from her belly over to her inner thigh, traveling up slowly and advancing towards the end between her legs. Jon closed his eyes tight as if seeing it would make it real.
The loud sound came out of nowhere, forcing his eyes open. The sound of burning. The one he heard while waiting in front of the gates of King’s Landing. The one that caused a deadly fear in the eyes of the Golden company. Cringing, the khal removed his hand from Dany’s thighs. Two of his blood riders ran out of the tent. When he wished to follow, the large, strong man with the bells in his hair, commanded the third to stay behind and make sure his prize stays put. Jon was too distracted by the rapid beating of his own heart to even think about whatever was going on outside of this tent. What was inside the tent proved more than he could handle already. He did not, even for a second, move his eyes away from the ghost that was staring back at him. Until that whip came cracking against his bare chest again. “Look. There.” his captor pointed to the door of the tent in front of him using the common tongue before he turned, focusing on the more amusing prisoner. Now. Jon charged with all his strength and wrapped the rope that used to hold his wrists together, around the man’s neck, pulling the edges like his life depended on it. Watching her while sucking the life out of his victim, gave him strength to tighten the grip. Before the body even hit the ground, Jon grabbed his dagger and sword, took few determined steps forward and stood right in front of Daenerys. It all seemed like some dream he was about to wake up from, yet to determine if it was a nightmare or not. His legs were acting on their own, doing what they were supposed to, his hands working on their own, cutting the rope from around her wrists and ankles, freeing her. Words. What were they? He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but what? The words did not come.
What followed seemed to have passed in just a few heartbeats. She, wrapping a red cloak around her, them sneaking out of the tent and into the chaos unnoticed, she, horrified at the realization Drogon was not here for her but out of plain hunger, feeding on animal and human alike, burning half of Vaes Dothrak. Jon seemed to have not been able to break free from the haze, convinced his eyes would open at any moment now and he would be right back in his uncomfortable bed in Castle Black or freezing somewhere in the snow beyond the Wall.
She ran and he followed. On and on and on, until... in one swift movement she stopped, turned around, wrapped her hand around the dagger hanging on his belt, pulled it out and pressed the sharp edge against Jon’s throat. Cold, he thought. From the moment he saw her, he knew, this was inevitable, although he assumed fire would decant him into the familiar darkness. So instead of fighting it, he wrapped one hand over hers, tightening her grip over the dagger and pressing it harder against his throat, the blood tickling his neck as it slowly ran down. He cupped her cheek with the other hand and sighed smiling. All he found in those big purple eyes was confusion. It felt like an eternity standing there, waiting for death, staring at each other before she shoved him back repeatedly. “Go back to the north, Jon Snow. Go back where you belong. Now and always.”
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