Haggo I
The Dothraki Sea had blessed the high moon night as the fire spread against the tall grass of the plains.
The flames danced like wild spirits, leaping from stalk to stalk, turning the endless sea of gold into a raging inferno that lit the night brighter than a thousand torches.
The air was thick with the crackle of burning grass, the acrid smoke stinging his eyes and filling his lungs with the sweet scent of destruction.
Haggo, bloodrider to Khal Drogo, son of Bharbo, watched from atop his bay mare, the heat licking at his bare arms like a lover's tongue.
The screams of the dying mingled with the roar of the blaze.
He watched with a gleeful smile as his Khal roared in pleasure, the arakh now seemed as if a hook in his hand as he brought it down on the bloodrider of Khal Roga.
The fool had charged at Drogo like a stallion in heat, Drogo's arakh, curved and cruel, caught him mid-leap, the blade biting deep into his shoulder with a wet crunch that echoed over the flames.
The bloodrider howled, blood spraying from the wound like wine from a burst skin, but Drogo twisted the blade, hooking it under the man's collar and yanking him from his saddle.
The rider hit the ground hard, bones snapping like dry twigs, his body twitching in the dirt as blood pooled beneath him, dark and sticky in the firelight.
He has been by his Khal's side since the day he was given the oath, but now Drogo had changed.
He remembered that day as clear as the moon above, the day the khalasar had camped by the Mother of Mountains, and Drogo had wandered into the sacred caves alone, seeking the whisper of a Stallion.
He had returned at dawn, his body marked with those strange red lines that pulsed like veins of fire under his skin. His eyes had burned with a new light, and when he wrestled a old stallion bare-handed that day, he broke its neck with one twist, roaring to the sky.
The dosh khaleen had proclaimed it: his Khal had been seen by the Sky Stallion, he is to bring the Stallion Who Mounts the World. The word had spread like wildfire through the khalasar, and men like him, Cohollo, and Qotho had sworn anew, their blood mingling with his in the ritual cuts. Drogo was no longer just a khal; he was touched by the Great Stallion, a storm in man's form.
He watched as his Khal laughed, holding a bloodrider's braids and smashing him against the ground as he held it by his hands.
Another of Roga's riders had tried to avenge his fallen brother, charging with an arakh raised high. Drogo caught him by the braid, those long bells jingling like death chimes, and yanked him close.
The man's scream was cut short as Drogo's fist crashed into his face, bones crunching like eggshells, blood exploding from his nose and mouth in a red mist.
Drogo lifted him one-handed, the rider's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and slammed him down onto the burning grass.
The flames took him then, his screams rising high as his flesh blackened and peeled, the smell of roasting meat mingling with the smoke.
Drogo laughed, deep and thunderous, the sound rolling over the battlefield like the stomp of a thousand hooves.
His Khal now stood bigger than the biggest Stallion he had seen, the brown mount of his Khal barely holding his weight as he rode it into the flames.
The Great Stallion's touch had changed him, his muscles swelled like knotted ropes under his copper skin, his chest broad as a barrel, his arms thick as a man's thigh. He towered over them all, a giant among horse lords, his presence alone enough to make lesser men piss their breeches.
The red marks on his body glowed like embers in a forge, pulsing with each beat of his heart, and as he charged into the inferno, they flared brighter, turning the night to day.
"Maegi scum!" Haggo heard from across the field as Khal Roga rode from the other end, his black mount carrying him by the wind as he rode for Drogo. "Roga will rid you from the sea!"
Roga was a hulking brute, his braids thick with bells from a hundred victories, his arakh scarred from a thousand cuts. He came like a thunderclap, his khalasar at his back, screaming curses and waving weapons. But Drogo only laughed, the sound booming over the crackle of the fire, and spurred his mount forward. The brown stallion, a beast as fierce as its rider, barely stood under the weight, its hooves pounding the earth like war drums.
Cohollo and Qotho both rode behind him as Drogo's laughter faded, the red marks across his body now gleaming and turning blue as he pulled his mount and turned around.
The change came upon him like a storm—his eyes blazed with unearthly light, his muscles bulged even larger, veins standing out like ropes under his skin. The blue glow spread from the marks, wrapping him in a halo of power, like the Sky Stallion itself had lent him its strength. He roared, a sound that shook the ground, and charged to meet Roga.
"Come to your death and feel my rage, my fury!" Drogo roared in anger, his mount picking pace as he rode forward to meet Roga.
The two khals collided like mountains crashing. Roga's arakh swung in a deadly arc, aiming for Drogo's neck, but Drogo caught the blade in his bare hand, the steel biting deep into his palm. Blood flowed, dark and thick, but Drogo didn't flinch. He twisted, yanking Roga from his saddle with a strength that snapped the man's arm like a dry branch. Roga hit the ground rolling, screaming in pain, but he came up swinging with his free hand, a dagger flashing.
Drogo leaped from his mount, landing like a cat, and grabbed Roga by the throat. The smaller khal's feet dangled off the ground, kicking futilely as Drogo squeezed. Roga's face turned purple, his eyes bulging like overripe grapes, but he managed to stab the dagger into Drogo's side.
The blade sank deep, blood welling around the hilt, but Drogo only grinned, his teeth bared like a serpent, He pulled the dagger free with his free hand, the wound closing before his eyes, the blue glow pulsing brighter as flesh knit itself back together.
With a flick of his wrist, Drogo snapped Roga's neck, the crack echoing like thunder. The body went limp, and he tossed it aside like a rag doll, the corpse tumbling into the flames. Roga's khalasar faltered, their screams turning to wails of despair as their khal fell.
But the battle was not done. Roga's bloodriders charged, three fierce warriors with braids as long as his own, arakhs gleaming in the firelight.
They came at Drogo like a pack of hyenas, slashing and thrusting. The first swung low, aiming for the legs; Drogo leaped over the blade, his boot crushing the man's skull as he landed. Bone shattered with a wet crunch, brains spilling out like curdled milk, the body twitching in the dirt.
The second thrust at Drogo's chest; he caught the arakh between his hands, the blade biting into his palms but not drawing blood this time—the blue glow flared, and the steel shattered like glass.
The bloodrider stared in horror as Drogo's fist punched through his chest, ribs cracking like dry wood, heart bursting in a spray of red. Drogo pulled his arm free, the man's lifeblood dripping from his fingers, and flung the corpse into the fire, where it sizzled and popped.
The third, wiser or more cowardly, came slow but Drogo roared, his voice shaking the ground, and hurled his arakh.
The curved blade spun through the air, embedding in the man's back with a thunk that split spine and flesh. The bloodrider fell face-first into the burning grass, his body igniting like a torch, screams bubbling from his throat as the flames consumed him.
Haggo laughed then, a deep belly laugh that shook his frame, for his Khal was invincible, a Great Stallion among horse lords. The khalasar surged around him, bells jingling in triumph, arakhs raised to the moon. But Drogo was not done. He mounted again, his stallion groaning under his weight, and charged into the heart of Roga's broken riders.
What followed was a slaughter that would be sung for moons, Drogo waded through them like a storm through grass, his arakh a blur of death.
He cleaved a man in two with a single swing, the body splitting from shoulder to hip, entrails spilling out in a steaming pile. Another he grabbed by the leg, swinging him like a club to smash into his comrades, bones breaking with each impact, blood spraying in arcs that painted the field red.
A woman rider loosed an arrow at him; he caught it mid-flight, snapped it like a twig, and hurled it back, the shaft burying in her eye with a wet pop, her body tumbling from her horse in a spray of brain and bone.
The Dothraki Sea burned around us, the flames leaping higher as if feeding on the carnage. Men screamed as they died, their bodies torn and broken, limbs scattered like discarded flesh.
One rider tried to flee on foot; Drogo rode him down, the stallion's hooves crushing his skull with a sound like a melon under a hammer. Blood and brains splashed across the horse's legs, steaming in the warm night air.
Haggo fought beside his brothers, Cohollo and Qotho, their arakhs singing songs of death. He took a man's head with a clean swing, the blade biting through neck and spine, the head rolling into the fire where it sizzled and popped. Another he gutted, his intestines spilling out like snakes from a basket, hot and stinking as he clutched at them, screaming for his mother.
But all eyes were on Drogo. His rage was a living thing, the blue glow pulsing like a heartbeat, his laughter booming over the screams. He was the Stallion Who Mounts the World, prophesied and blessed, and in that moment, Haggo believed it with every fiber of his being.
Roga's khalasar broke at last, the survivors fleeing into the night, their mounts foaming at the mouth. Drogo let them go, his chest heaving, blood dripping from a dozen wounds that closed before his eyes. He raised his arakh to the moon, roaring in triumph, and the khalasar answered, our voices shaking the stars.
The battle was won, the grass sea claimed another victory for Khal Drogo. But as he looked at his Khal, bigger than any man, his eyes burning with godly fire, he knew this was only the beginning. The world would tremble before him, and Haggo would ride at his side until the end.
—------
Varys I
296 - AC
The Small Council had been summoned at an hour better suited for hangovers than governance, and on such mornings even the Red Keep seemed to sigh in quiet protest.
The long table gleamed beneath the tall windows, polished to a dull shine that reflected goblets, inkpots, and the pale light of a sun still climbing over Blackwater Bay.
Varys took his seat last, as was his custom, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, smile gentle and unreadable. He listened first. He always did.
King Robert was already deep into his cups.
Wine stained his beard and his laughter came too loud, too sudden, the sound of a man fleeing thought rather than confronting it.
Thoros of Myr stood near him, red robes loosened, tankard in hand, matching the king cup for cup with priestly enthusiasm and very little restraint.
Across the table, Jon Arryn sat rigid and weary, his fingers laced together as if in prayer. The Lord Hand's voice had been measured, pleading even, but it had washed over Robert like rain on stone.
Varys watched it all with soft eyes.
Renly Baratheon, young and bright as summer silk, was the first to truly seize the room.
"The complaints grow louder each fortnight," Renly said, lounging back in his chair with studied ease. "Bandit camps near the Roseroad, broken patrols in the kingswood, gold cloaks taking bribes in daylight. It makes the Crown look… lax."
He smiled as he spoke, but there was iron beneath it. Renly knew how to place his words.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood like a statue behind the king, hands folded over the pommel of his sword, his expression politely distant. He neither agreed nor disagreed. Barristan never did unless asked, and even then, only with care.
Pycelle cleared his throat, a sound like parchment tearing. "Such matters take time, my lord. Men must be appointed, coin allocated—"
"—and honor restored," Renly finished smoothly. "Aye, Grand Maester. That is rather my point."
Robert snorted and drained another cup.
"Seven hells, Renly, when did you become a septon?" the king grumbled. "Bandits have plagued roads since men first learned to steal from one another."
"That may be so," Renly replied lightly, "but they grow bolder. They wear colors now. Some even claim to act in the Crown's name."
That earned a reaction.
Stannis Baratheon straightened, jaw tightening as if someone had struck a flint within him. His voice, when it came, was hard and unyielding.
"And while the Crown turns inward, the lords of the Stormlands voice other concerns," Stannis said. "Merchants are diverting trade north. White Harbor grows fat while our ports see fewer sails. Guilds across the Narrow sea speak behind doors of winter contracts with House Manderly."
The table shifted.
Varys felt the ripple of interest like a breath drawn in unison.
Lord Baelish leaned forward, fingers steepled, his grin already in place. "Trade follows profit, Lord Stannis. The Manderlys offer safe harbors, reliable supply, and prompt payment. Coin is coin, whether it's stamped with a stag or a merman."
Stannis's eyes burned. "Storm's End has fed this realm through war and peace alike. If the Crown allows its lifeblood to drift north unchecked, it will not be forgotten."
Baelish shrugged. "Nor should it be feared. The ledgers we received are… unremarkable. Timber from the Wolfswood, salted fish, wool, iron in modest amounts. No tariffs broken. No laws bent."
"Enough, both of you," Robert barked, slamming his cup down hard enough to slosh wine across the table. "You squabble like children fighting over cake."
He turned, squinting across the table. "Jon. What did Ned write you?"
Lord Arryn lifted his gaze slowly. "Lord Stark assures us it is simple commerce, Your Grace. He ordered Lord Wyman Manderly to submit full ledgers. They have been examined."
"And?" Robert demanded.
"They are… honest," Baelish said smoothly before Arryn could answer. "Painfully so."
That earned a bark of laughter from the king.
"Then stop whining, Stannis," Robert said, already pushing himself to his feet. "The Stormlords have grown fat on coin long enough. Let the North have a taste. Gods know they need it more than we do."
Stannis looked as though he might argue further, but one look at his brother's flushed face and unfocused eyes stayed him. He pressed his lips thin and said nothing.
His grace waved a dismissive hand. "If there's nothing else, I'll be rid of this cursed table. Wine and whores waits for a man."
He had taken two steps when he stopped.
"Varys," the king said, peering back at him. "What nonsense are your little birds singing today?"
Varys rose smoothly, hands emerging from his sleeves, smile widening just enough to seem amused.
"My birds have wandered far, Your Grace," he said softly. "Some even to Winterfell."
He snorted. "Gods save them from freezing their arses off. What of it?"
"They speak of… sand steeds in snow."
The room stilled.
"Sand steeds?" The King repeated, incredulous. "Have your birds lost their wits entirely?"
A ripple of laughter followed, though it rang uncertain.
"Not at all, Your Grace," Varys replied gently. "Prince Oberyn Martell has delivered the first shipment himself. At the request of Lord Stark."
That silenced the room entirely.
"Dorne?" The Lord Hand said faintly. "In Winterfell?"
Renly leaned forward, interest sparked. Stannis's face darkened further. Baelish's grin sharpened, eyes flicking back and forth as if counting invisible pieces on a board.
But the King stared, then burst into laughter.
"Didn't I tell you, Jon?" he roared. "The cold's frozen Ned's wits at last! Horses from the bloody sands, in the snow!"
"He must have his reasons," Arryn said, though doubt crept into his voice despite his loyalty.
"He's gone mad," His grace declared, already turning away. "Mad as a wet hen."
And with that, the king was gone, laughter echoing down the corridor as Thoros followed, still drinking, still grinning.
The council broke apart soon after.
Stannis left stiff-backed and silent. Baelish lingered only long enough to offer Varys a curious look and a knowing smile. Renly followed his brother, already laughing again. Barristan went first behind the King, as always, a shadow departing with measured steps.
Soon, only Varys remained.
The chamber felt larger without them. Quieter. The windows whispered with wind off the bay.
Varys glanced toward the guards at the doors. They stood impassive, halberds steady, eyes forward. Satisfied, he turned inward, drawing his sleeves back slowly.
In his palm lay a small mark, dark against pale flesh.
A spider.
Its shape seemed to throb faintly, as if alive, as if pulsing in time with something far away.
He frowned, just slightly.
He had seen many signs in his life—omens whispered by flame, secrets bled from men who thought themselves strong—but this… this was new.
The spider pulsed once more.
And Varys, for the first time in many years, did not know what it meant.