Chapter 671: Aemon and Quaithe

The Dothraki Great Grass Sea

Vaes Dothrak – Mother of Mountains

The Dothraki horde crossed the vast, endless expanse of the Great Grass Sea, returning to the sacred heartland of their horse-lord clans. At the entrance to Vaes Dothrak, two towering bronze horse statues stood guard over the avenue, symbols of the horse gods the Dothraki revered.

Along the wide road, statues of harpies, dragons, griffins, and other creatures lined the path—some charming, others grotesque and terrifying. These relics, trophies of conquest, had been plundered from the Free Cities and distant villages, carried back by the Dothraki as proof of their dominance.

At the foot of the Mother of Mountains, the holy peak sacred to all Dothraki, the clash of metal rang out suddenly.

Clang!

A silver-haired boy in an animal-skin coat, his face flushed with exertion, swung a Dothraki arakh with furious energy. His blows were relentless but uncoordinated.

"Too slow, False Dragon," mocked a scarred Bloodrider, a seasoned warrior of the league, effortlessly parrying each attack. His tone was flat, as if unimpressed by the boy's efforts. Each time Aemon's scimitar came crashing down, the Bloodrider blocked it easily, flicking the blade away with a casual twist of his wrist.

"Ah! I won't believe I can't beat you!" Aemon shouted in frustration, swinging the curved blade—longer than he was tall—in a wide arc.

His once-pale skin had turned a deep wheat color from months under the relentless sun. His tight animal-skin shirt left his chest exposed, giving him an air of wildness that contrasted sharply with his noble origins. In stance, at least, he resembled a warrior.

Bang!

Without warning, the Bloodrider lashed out with his foot, landing a hard kick squarely on Aemon's collarbone, just below the exposed skin of his shirt. Aemon grunted as the force sent him flying backwards. He tumbled across the ground, adding fresh scrapes to his already bruised and scarred arms. His vision swam as he tried to focus.

"Stupidly clever. Truly hopeless," the Bloodrider muttered with disdain, spinning his arakh behind his back before striding off toward the Mother of Mountains. According to Dothraki tradition, no iron weapons could be carried within the sacred grounds of the mountain. Every time he beat the boy senseless, he had to descend the mountain, only to climb it again later. It was tiresome.

"Ahem..." Aemon gasped for air, struggling to his feet as the Bloodrider's figure disappeared into the distance. His chest felt tight, his heart racing from the lack of oxygen. He was close to collapse—classic signs of near-cardiac arrest. He had almost died.

"Damned Dothraki. Damned Bloodrider," he cursed through gritted teeth, pounding the grass in frustration. Training was always an excuse to beat him senseless. Aemon knew they weren't even in the same league. What use were the Dothraki's legendary skills when their strength was so wildly unmatched?

Clop, clop, clop...

The sound of soft hooves approached from behind. Aemon's violet eyes flashed with caution as he quickly turned.

"I brought you a gift."

Leah smiled as she rode closer, her long legs straddling a white horse with a silky mane. In her hand, she held the reins of a bay stallion, just as tall and strong.

"For me?" Aemon hesitated, glancing at the red horse, which stood tall and proud—far more imposing than he had expected.

"Yes, as a reward for your training," Leah replied. She dismounted gracefully and handed him the reins of the bay horse. Her tone grew serious as she added, "In the Dothraki world, no one is truly Dothraki without a horse. Both men and women must ride, or else they are nothing more than slaves."

And slaves, she reminded him with a solemn look, were unworthy of respect.

"Thank you," Aemon murmured, his emotions conflicted as he gently stroked the bay horse's sleek fur.

"Whoa, whoa..." The horse was restless, its front hooves tapping nervously, ready to lash out.

Aemon remained calm, his fingers lightly scratching the horse's chin. His voice softened, turning soothing and steady. "Easy now, good boy... no need to worry."

The bay horse seemed to sense his calm, gradually settling down, its resistance fading. It stood still in the grass, allowing the strange silver-haired boy to touch it freely.

"You're amazing," Leah said, her voice full of admiration. She knew this horse—it was one of the most headstrong in the stables, a young stallion she had chosen on purpose to test him.

Aemon said nothing, adjusting the saddle and stirrups with practiced hands before swinging onto the horse's back with one smooth motion. The bay horse didn't fight or fidget but moved slowly, obediently carrying its rider.

Aemon's silence deepened as he guided the horse. After spending half a year wandering with the Dothraki, he had learned their ways—herding, drying hides, and, of course, caring for horses. Riding a horse, he mused, was far easier than riding a dragon.

"Shall we go for a ride?" Leah's eyes lit up as she mounted her little white mare, her excitement palpable.

"Sure," Aemon replied, patting the horse's neck. Then, almost under his breath, he muttered, "Let's go... Trickster."

The word slipped out unexpectedly, and a wave of loneliness washed over him, cutting the moment short.

"What's wrong?" Leah asked, catching the word 'Trickster' but not understanding its meaning. Dothraki didn't care much for lies or deception.

"Nothing," Aemon muttered, his fingers tightening around the reins. After a pause, he spoke more quietly. "Let's name the horse."

It felt like a small beginning, something new. A name for a new life. A way to distance himself from the shadows of his past. Yet no new name or life could erase the memories that haunted him—each vivid detail of the accident, etched permanently in his mind. His photographic memory meant he could never forget a single moment of that night.

The terrifying image of the pale dragon's jaws, the dismembered green dragon's body, the suffocating saltwater filling his nose and mouth... those memories dragged him from sleep, haunting him relentlessly.

"What name comes to mind?" Leah's sweet voice broke through his dark thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

Aemon blinked, momentarily frozen, and looked around—the vast green sea of grass stretched endlessly in every direction, the sky above still so familiar. Yet the sight of all that green twisted something inside him. He had once loved the color, but now it only reminded him of what he had lost.

"Let me think," Aemon said, his gaze drifting to the clear blue sky. His heart still ached for the freedom and pride he once had, soaring high above the world as a dragonrider. Now, he had fallen—deep into the mud—reduced to a captive of the Dothraki. That crushing sense of loss always clung to him, binding his fragile spirit.

The sky was cloudless, but faint stars were just visible, twinkling faintly in the daylight. Aemon, having studied astronomy under Grand Maester Munkun, found solace in observing the constellations. His knowledge of the stars, a skill that seemed almost useless here, still provided him with a sense of purpose.

"Look, that's the bear constellation," Aemon said, a flicker of excitement in his voice as he pointed upward.

Leah, squinting at the sky, looked puzzled. "Stars?" she asked, her voice doubtful. "We Dothraki look to the sun and the moon, not to stars. Can a bear really be up there?"

"It looks like a big bear," Aemon explained patiently, rubbing the long ears of his bay horse. "There's also another group called Ursa Minor. From now on, let's name him Ursa—to represent the stars and strength."

A moment of melancholy passed through Aemon's eyes. The Ursa Major constellation, the great bear, reminded him of home, of a mother figure watching over him. He, like Ursa Minor, felt small, hidden in the daytime, and adrift in a distant world.

Leah, perceptive as ever, narrowed her eyes. "You're homesick again, aren't you?" she said, her voice gentle yet direct. "Otherwise, why name it Ursa and talk about Ursa Minor?"

Aemon glanced at her, his expression tightening with discomfort. How was she so good at reading him? But there was no point in yearning for home—he couldn't go back. Even if he could, the memories that awaited him there were too painful to relive. His dragon was gone, and he had fallen into this miserable situation. In the eyes of the world, he was already considered dead. Returning would only mean living in a prison of grief.

"You can't go back," Leah added softly, her tone slightly disappointed. "Father won't let you." She quickly brightened. "But he'll be back soon, and he'll bring you something from the outside world—something to cheer you up."

Suddenly, a rumble echoed in the distance, like the pounding of drums. The ground trembled beneath them, and Aemon and Leah turned their heads toward the sound.

At the foot of the Mother of Mountains, a massive Dothraki cavalry force—thousands of riders—galloped toward them, kicking up a cloud of dust that darkened the sky.

"Whoa, whoa..."

The front rider, The Khal, reined in his black stallion just in front of the mountain's entrance. The entire Dothraki horde came to a halt behind him, their scimitars and longbows put away as they followed their Khal.

"Move faster, you lowly Lamb Men!"

The crack of whips followed, the sound sharp in the air as the Dothraki lashed at the backs of their slaves. Bound together with thick hemp ropes, the slaves—strong and healthy—moved in terrified silence, their heads bowed.

"The slaves from Slaver's Bay are the best," Khal Orka boasted, clearly proud of his latest haul. "Stronger and more useful than any others."

These were young slaves, taken from villages during raids. The old and weak had been traded away, while the strong and able-bodied were kept—skilled in building, smithing, and sustaining the tribe.

"I'm going to pick a slave girl for myself!" Leah exclaimed excitedly, grabbing Aemon's arm and pulling him toward the line of captives.

Aemon glanced coldly at the scene, his interest nonexistent. The sight of the slaves—broken, fearful—left him indifferent.

Who wasn't a slave here already? he thought darkly, resigned to the truth that they were all prisoners in their own way.

...

As night fell, the sky above Vaes Dothrak glittered with stars. The Dothraki campfires flickered across the Mother of Mountains, casting shadows as warriors celebrated, brandishing their weapons and dancing in wild revelry.

In a quiet corner, far from the chaos, Aemon stood in the stable, brushing his bay horse. The animal nudged him affectionately with its long tongue.

"Behave, Ursa," Aemon muttered, pushing the horse's head away gently, though his mood remained somber. He felt out of place among the Dothraki, their brutal ways alien to him.

His thoughts drifted back to Volantis, where his Third Brother Maekar ruled. Slaves were plentiful there too, but at least they were fed and treated with a semblance of care. Here, among the Dothraki, slaves were nothing—beaten, broken, and discarded. There was nothing Aemon could do to change that, and worse, he was reliant on the protection of a young girl for survival.

Suddenly, an unsettling feeling washed over him. The hair on Aemon's arms stood on end. He felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him. Silently, he lowered his head, glancing around with caution.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a skinny female slave tied to a haystack nearby. Her dark skin and cowering posture made her look like someone from the Summer Isles, neck bent in submission.

"No... it's not her," Aemon whispered, eyes narrowing. He scanned his surroundings again. His father had always said that Aemon possessed a natural intuition—a heightened spirit that allowed him to sense things others couldn't. Someone was watching him. He was certain of it.

After a careful sweep of the stable, he saw no one else—no movement except for the flames flickering in the distance. But his gaze returned to the thin girl by the haystack. She was pale-skinned, with a flat, round face.

A sudden realization hit him. "Lamb Men?" he muttered, his eyes widening. The girl wasn't from the Summer Isles at all. She was one of the Lhazareen, a tribe devastated by the Dothraki. How had he not noticed?

Aemon spun around sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for the dragon pendant—Meraxes—hanging from his neck.

Pop...

A slow clap echoed through the air. Emerging from the shadows was a masked woman, standing by the haystack, her hands softly applauding. She wore a golden bandeau and a short skirt, her shaved head gleaming under the firelight. Her veil, made of fine gold chains, revealed a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" Aemon asked, his voice firm as he took a cautious step back, his gaze never leaving her. He could tell immediately—she was a witch, or worse, a sorceress capable of illusions and deceptions. She was dangerous.

"My boy," the woman purred, her voice smooth and magnetic, as if crafted to lure. "You are as vigilant as your father." She approached with the poise of a noblewoman, her hands resting confidently on her hips.

Aemon's eyes flashed with suspicion. "You knew my father?" He stepped back again as she moved closer, wary of the danger she might pose. His father had always despised witches, especially those who came unbidden. The fact that this one still lived after crossing paths with his father meant she was no ordinary sorceress.

"Don't be so wary," the woman said, her gaze sweeping over his young, familiar face with amusement. "I know what you're thinking," she continued, her voice honeyed with seduction. "And I also know where to find a red dragon."

Aemon's heart skipped a beat. Her words were like a knife, cutting through the air between them. Quaithe—this mysterious woman—knew more than she was letting on, and her mention of a red dragon sent Aemon's mind racing.

(Word count: 2,334)