Jorah's POV
It's been years since I escaped Westeros for Essos. I blame no one but myself for my shortcomings. Many would think I'm bitter or angry—perhaps, at first, I was.
They were mere poachers, or so I thought. Fucking poachers.
But none of that matters now.
Receiving that letter from the Crown was a saving grace—an opportunity. I had made a name for myself in the Disputed Lands as a sellsword, but the North is my home. Westeros is my home. And if I were to die, I'd rather be buried among my ancestors.
At least, that's what I used to think.
But the Dothraki stopped heading west. Rumors spread of a great Khal uniting the hordes under his banner. I had spent years on this continent and knew enough of the local powers. The largest Khals were strong, none more so than Drogo. But then word came—Qohor had been destroyed.
Then the stories grew more outlandish.
A Khal with a family name. A mystery to all, yet feared by many. Not just because of his name, but because he settled in Qohor and began building an army.
At first, I didn't care. My priority was finding the Targaryens.
But soon enough, news of the "Beggar Prince" and his sister seeking out a Khal spread. Then, Drogo died, and the Princess was engaged to the mysterious Khal—the man who now led the largest horde in decades.
The Undying Khal and his Undead Horde.
Even then, it didn't matter to me. At least now I could find the Prince and Princess easily enough—if the horde wasn't moving.
Gods, I was wrong.
First, we saw the scouts—hidden with paint, riding black steeds by the river. Then, the tents.
A city of tents.
Over two hundred thousand Dothraki. A terrifying thought.
Then, the Dothraki themselves.
Savages? If these men were savages, then the noble lords and ladies of Westeros were dogs.
They were cleaner than most men I'd fought beside. Long braids, well-groomed beards, organized camps. And their Khal—he was different.
Tywin Lannister's eyes.
No—Bolton's eyes.
But unlike those men, his gaze lacked coldness. It was indifferent. Uncaring.
My thoughts were broken by his voice.
"I do not trust you, Bear Man."
His words caught me off guard, but I answered quickly. "My loyalty is to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khal."
A scoff. Flat. Monotone. Empty.
"Bear Man, what is your name?"
"Jorah Mormont, my Khal," I answered.
He nodded. "Yes, Jorah Mormont. You see, whatever enters my city or my camp is mine. And the queen you speak of will be my Khaleesi. She will bear my children, like many of my women."
I gritted my teeth, but he continued, undeterred.
"You have your rules. Your people have their rules. In half a year, I will marry. Then I will ride south, taking everything—every city, every man. I will either leave a city with me ruling it or burn it to the ground and leave it for my return. Then I will take this continent for myself and my people.
Then, I will cross the sea."
As he spoke, a loud roar rang through the city—followed by two more.
Then came the cheers.
"Vezhof Rhaeshisaroon!"
I reached for my sword, but before I could draw it, four arakhs pointed at my throat.
The Khal raised a hand, placating his men.
Looking to the sky, I saw them.
Dragons.
Three of them.
The black and red beast led, with two others—one black and gold, the other black and green—following close behind.
Dust scattered. Stalls crumbled. Merchants cursed as their goods were thrown to the ground.
And still, the Dothraki cheered.
I turned my attention back to the Khal just in time to see his face twist in irritation as the dragons landed. He was annoyed.
Annoyed at dragons?
The great beasts roared, but the men around him showed no fear. Instead, the Khal simply exhaled, looking to the woman who had just dismounted.
No.
The girl.
She had jet-black hair and slit purple eyes. Beautiful, yet… something was off.
Targaryens have silver hair.
She reached to her side, pulling out a crown of bones and scales, securing it atop her head. A black veil covered her face, leaving only a thin slit for her eyes.
The Khal spoke.
"The queen you spoke of, Jorah Mormont."
I froze.
My grip on my sword tightened.
"Princess—no, Queen Daenerys Targaryen! I am Jorah Mormont, former Lord of Bear Island. I have come to offer my—"
Before I could finish, the girl ignored me completely, bowing her head to the Khal.
"My Khal," she said softly, "I can fly with them now. They follow my lead. My Khal, we can move forward with the marriage."**
I felt the words die in my throat.
MC's POV
The older man knelt before me as my little Princess spoke.
I decided to let the Bear Man save himself.
"Jorah Mormont, you are a man who seeks a royal to serve. Then serve her as a bloodrider. A royal is a Khal—whether she is of your people or mine. She is mine—and so is the army that will march into your homeland.
My young warriors do not know how to fight men in armor. Teach them. Find a wife or two. Make warriors' cubs—whatever you choose. But you are in my horde.
And there is no payment that will buy your way out."
The aged man looked up at me, stunned.
Then, a small voice broke the silence.
"I am not a Khal. So how can I have a bloodrider?"
She sounded genuinely confused.
I answered in my broken Common.
"You are queen of your people in the West. And I will take the West to make my horde."
"You will be Khaleesi of all—by my side."
She giggled.
Odd.
Women adapted quickly to their fates in this world they all move to the next thing far too quick many of the former noblewomen who lived in this city are now among two or three women for one man yet they act as if they are far above the slave women quite the oddity.