The Birth of Dragons

Rakharo

"Now. Do it now." The command comes in whispered Dothraki from Prince Aemon, and Rakharo nods. Barking a few sharp orders to his men, they move their horses toward those who had sworn themselves mistakenly to a Khal who had forgotten his people. He draws his arakh slowly, allowing it to whistle out, and then he begins the killing. Rakharo knows that there are those who might question the wisdom of what he is doing. Khal Drogo has never lost a battle, his braid is proof enough of that, but he has also broken more promises than he has kept.

Rakharo remembers well the slaughtered villagers, the girls screaming, his own sister, dying in his arms, his mother taken off and sold into slavery. He remembers meeting his mother once more, of seeing her shackled and drawn, her body limp in his hands after he'd killed her. Drogo had done that to his family, revenge had come easily to him. Prince Aemon was a man who remembered things, who remembered who he was. He had sworn an oath long ago, and the Prince had reminded him of it. The arakh cuts through the skins of men not yet prepared for what is to come.

The Khal is somewhere, drinking, he knows that Prince Aemon wants the honour of having him to himself, and so Rakharo continues swinging his arakh leading the other horse riders away from the Prince. The Prince who will give him his revenge, and a chance to atone for past wrongs. The Prince is a good man, and Rakharo is more than glad to take part in this plan. He swings, and bones crunch under his blade, he has always known he was a good fighter, he had trained long and hard for this moment. Waiting, praying for the day someone would come to allow him to exact his revenge. The Prince was that person, and though the prince was someone who could turn when the need arose, he was a man who remembered his friends. Rakharo swings his blade laughing as Dothraki bloodriders come at him trying desperately to outdo him, they fall to his blade and he laughs even more.

He feels a fist smash into him, and he sees a man he knows only as Drogo's brother, most likely a half-brother, standing there before him. The man is tall, and not someone who would fight on horse-back. He comes at Rakharo hard, and Rakharo soon finds his arakh being knocked out of his hand, his horse sent splattering to the ground. He staggers up, and begins swinging his own fists. One hit, the man rolls, another hit, the man staggers, then picks himself up and swings at him. Rakharo blocks one blow, takes another blow, and then another. He feels as though he is being cut in half, but still he goes on. He had learned how to fight like this long ago. He keeps himself calm, eases his breathing, swinging once more. He feels his hands come back bleeding, but onward he goes. One more hit and then another, he falls down to the ground, but picks himself back up once more. He will not falter now.

The image of his mother, screaming for clemency, flits into his mind, and that fills him with a righteous anger. Drogo is the one who broke their family, Drogo is the one who broke his mother. His mother who was so strong, who was the one who taught him who he was. Drogo tried to make him forget, as he forgot. Prince Aemon reminded him of whom he was, of where he came from. Prince Aemon spoke Dothraki, not the bastard way Drogo spoke it, but the way it was supposed to be spoken. Prince Aemon was the one the crones spoke of, of that Rakharo was convinced. The brute before him hits him, his eyes are swelling up now, but that does not matter, he hits back harder, faster, using his lithe build to dig in. The brute sways and then falls, he grunts slightly at the pain in his hands. He staggers, picks up his arakh and then moves on.

The Prince is within sight, as is Barbo, and Kublai, they defend the Prince with grace and savageness, Ser Jorah the Andal is with the Princess, protecting her, to ensure she does not escape. His arakh is slick with blood, it runs red onto the ground, but that does not matter, he moves forward, stepping over bodies, and all other sorts of things, keeping one eye on the Prince as he moves forward, and as enemies come toward him, Rakharo cuts them down, taking savage pleasure in removing them. Blows are rained down on him, but he cares not for them, he simply keeps moving. His arms ache, and he is convinced one of them might be going dead, but he keeps moving determined to not let that stop him. Khal Drogo has emerged now, Rakharo can tell because of the number of men spilling forth from the tents and the ground. They come their blood up, Rakharo does not know if they can stop them. He hopes so, he wants to be able to claim a life, the closest he can come to the Khal.

Blows come hard and fast now, as men from the Khal's side come at him, he blocks most of them, but those he cannot block leave sharp blows on his chest and head, making him shake and shiver. Blood pours down his face and his chest, from open wounds. He moves forward, determined to stop from falling. He keeps going, he cuts down two men, one of them no older than he was when he first killed a man. He keeps going. One more man dies, another falls and never gets up. He keeps moving, onward, ever onward, until the fighting stops suddenly. A roar goes up, he turns through bloodied eyes and sees the Prince, glimmering in armour, holding up the head of the Khal, his voice commanding. "Your Khal is dead. Bend to me and live, or keep fighting and die. You have two choices." Rakharo sways slightly but he watches all the same as many of the former Khalasar get down onto their knees, some fall and never rise, but others soon take up the chant. Rakharo leading.