Chapter 109: The Fierce Dothraki
Artos was frustrated.
Very frustrated.
And this time it was not because of his new role as Hand of the King, though that was certainly part of the burden. No, the reason was far more personal. It was his nieces.
For some gods-forsaken reason, the two girls simply could not get along. They bickered over everything, fought over nothing, and seemed determined to test his patience at every turn. Watching them reminded him of Benji and himself in their childhood, always competing, always arguing, always getting under each other's skin.
That, at least, had changed once they had been separated. Artos had been sent to the Umbers, though he had remained a frequent visitor to Winterfell even after that. Time and distance had done what words could not. They had made brothers of them again.
He knew Sansa and Arya would find the same peace eventually.
They only needed time.
At the moment, however, they were still bickering.
"Both of you, will you be silent for the sake of the Old Gods?" Artos said at last, letting out a tired sigh.
"Yes, Uncle," both girls replied at once.
But even as they obeyed, both looked chastened. The scolding had stung more than they wanted to admit, and Artos could see that plainly enough.
He sighed again.
"I know your days have been dull here," he said more gently. "But you cannot keep fighting with each other. That is why I thought of something for both of you."
"What, Uncle?" Sansa asked with careful elegance.
"Are you finally going to teach me how to fight?" Arya asked at almost the same time.
Artos smiled at the contrast in their voices.
"Well, first, Arya — yes. You are finally going to learn how to fight. It has been long overdue."
Arya let out a cry of delight and threw herself into his arms.
Artos laughed and hugged her back, though he quickly lifted a hand to calm her excitement.
"But it will not be me teaching you," he said. "I do not have the time for that. I am already swarmed with my duties as Hand of the King."
Arya pulled back and looked up at him. "Then who?"
Artos's grin widened.
"Vakho."
Arya blinked. She knew the man. He had spent a great deal of time in Winterfell when she was younger, quiet as a shadow and hard to read.
"Vakho?" she repeated.
"Aye," Artos said. "You are small, and you do not have much strength in those bones yet. So you will need speed and more Ferocity. A style suited to what you are, rather than what you are not. Vakho is Dothraki. They are masters of speed and savage fighting. Very few men can match them once they close."
Arya nodded slowly, already interested.
"But can he teach me swords?" she asked. "He uses other weapons more, doesn't he? I want to learn a sword."
Sansa muttered something under her breath about ladies and swords, but nobody paid it much mind.
Artos chuckled.
"He knows how to swing a sword better than most men. Arakhs, daggers, knives, and more besides. Useful weapons. And you love archery, do you not? Dothraki learn to shoot from horseback when they are little more than children. Vakho can teach you that too."
Arya's eyes widened.
"He can?"
"Aye," Artos said. "He is nearly perfect for you. Fast, fierce, and dangerous."
Arya hugged him again. "Thank you, Uncle!"
"Do not thank me yet," Artos said with a smile. "Just remember one thing: Dothraki are among the fiercest fighters I have ever known. Learn what you can from him. Vakho is a special man. He is the one who took my eye. Not many men can claim that."
He tapped the patch over his missing eye and smiled faintly.
Arya and Sansa both went quiet at that, each thinking in her own way.
Then Sansa, who had been watching and listening more than she let on, lifted her chin slightly.
"What about me, Uncle?"
Artos turned to her with a gentler expression.
"You, my precious niece, have always seen the world through your mother's stories. The South as something bright and graceful, all songs and gallantry. But I think your journey to King's Landing has begun to show you otherwise."
Sansa's face shifted, the first signs of confusion and sadness crossing it. The world she had imagined was not as simple as she had once believed.
Artos's voice softened further.
"If you wish to keep believing in fairy tales, then by all the gods I swear I will do my best to preserve that world for you. But as your uncle, I would rather you learn what the South truly is. What the realm truly is."
He studied her a moment, then continued.
"I want you to serve as my cupbearer while I attend to my duties as Hand. You will learn much that way. You will hear things. See things. Understand the South in a way no song can teach you."
That gave Sansa pause.
She looked uncertain now, caught between the lessons her mother had taught her and the harsher truths her uncle was offering. Yet curiosity had begun to fight with innocence, and that was a dangerous thing in its own right.
She knew, too, that Artos had protected her, Arya, Lady, and Nymeria from harm. She was grateful for that. More than grateful.
At last she gave her answer.
"I will go with you," Sansa said quietly.
Artos nodded once, clearly satisfied.
"Good. It will not be easy for either of you. But you will learn much, and in time you will be thankful for it."
He ended the matter there.
The Dothraki Camp
Across the sea, in the Dothraki camps, Waymar was more satisfied than he had expected to be.
The negotiations with Khal Drogo had gone well enough. To his and Yugo's surprise, they had even received a grim gift: the head of Viserys Targaryen, its features covered in gold.
It was a strange present, but Waymar had learned enough of the world not to be shocked by every ugly things especially when thier target has been achieved. He accepted it on behalf of Artos.
They had also given rich gifts in return: one of the finest arakhs , a horse trained by Lord Artos himself for Khal Drogo, strong mead, and costly dresses and jewelry for the khaleesi.
They had remained among the khalasar for several days after the meeting, and were preparing soon to return to Braavos with the successful end of their mission.
But to their surprise, they were summoned by the khaleesi.
Waymar bowed his head when Daenerys appeared.
"Khaleesi."
Yugo did the same beside him.
"Ser Waymar," Daenerys said, "and Yugo. I wanted to ask you about Lord Artos. Or rather, Khal Artos as you have said so many times."
Waymar took a slow breath.
"What would you like to know, Khaleesi? I am not sure where to begin."
"A lot," she said. "His story. Why he was in Braavos. And how he became Hand of the King."
Waymar gave her a small smile. "That is a long story, Khaleesi. I am not sure it is the sort of tale that would interest you."
Daenerys looked at him with quiet seriousness. "I am sure I can decide that for myself."
Before Waymar could answer, Ser Jorah Mormont spoke up from nearby.
"The khaleesi has asked a fair question."
Waymar's face hardened at once.
He looked toward the traitor with open disgust.
"Shut up, traitor," he snapped, and spat into the dirt in his direction.
...
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