Those Who Ride

by Mitch H

The Stew-Pot

The khal's mirthful laughter made it somewhat difficult for Sunset to deliver the outrider-mahrazhs' replies to their orders, but she endeavoured, stone-faced. Qortho, one of the khal's favorites, pulled Sunset aside as the khal and his other bloodriders rode on to other matters. Qortho gave her a further assignment, and the now-bone-weary unicorn set off to deliver the khal-khasar's dinner demands to the mobile kitchens, along with instructions on where they would be that evening, and where the food should be delivered.

Sunset found herself wandering within the great moving mass of the khalasar, the khal's court kitchens having somehow disappeared in the blink of an instant. She cast back and forth across the main body of the slow-moving bands and elements which were an entire people on the march, and then, suddenly, she found herself among a band of riders moving against the tide of beast and man.

Hunters, from the look and smell of them, recurve bows strapped across their backs, their horses draped in the murdered corpses of various fowl, small furry things, and in one or two cases, a deer or deer-like creature strapped behind a saddle. Sunset's nostrils were affronted with the stench of fresh blood.

In the middle of the pack of Dothraki hunters, rode the khaleesi's stringy-haired brother, sweltering in chainmail, with a helmet hung behind his sweat-stained head. Beside him rode the other, slightly less-pale man from the Sunset Kingdoms who Sunset had seen at the wedding, and then never again - what was his name?

"Denne," said the Westeroi, in some gutteral tongue, "Your grace er derfor, at ingen i Westeros rent faktisk jager i fuld rustning. Ikke i denne slags vejr, i hvert fald."

"Jeg er ikke uvidende om ordentlig skik, Jorah!" snapped the skinny young man who was, Sunset had been told, king of the distant Andals. If only they'd recognize him as such.

"Do you wish to discuss this in proper Valyrian, Your Grace?" asked the vassal of his liege. Sunset, who had drawn closer to the two Andals in hopes of hearing more of this new language, was disappointed. But a look in the older Andal's eyes told her that perhaps the King of the Andal's accent in his supposed native language was perhaps… not perfect.

"Obviously! I never understood why we let the peasants continue using that barbarous jabber. Yes, as I was saying, all true Westerosi hunt in their armor, cap and pie!"

"Erm, pied en cap, your grace?"

"Yes, that! I saw my brother come back from the hunt, many a time, in chain and greaves, his people bringing his kill behind him."

"Prince Rhaegar was, all men agree, a great warrior. But not, perhaps, much of a hunter?"
"Take that back! My brother was a paragon af mønster-kortalle dyder!"

"Er, were you trying to say ‘paragon af alle dyder, your grace?"

"Oh, yes, something like that. And I would have done better, if it weren't for these blasted Dothraki and their sneaking about with their blasted bows. There were supposed to be beaters, and a stop-line to catch the fleeing prey!"

"The Dothraki do this, it is true. In the true plains to the east. Here, in the broken terrain of the Debatable Lands, they prefer to stalk their prey. It's simpler, and takes fewer men. And to be brutally honest, your grace, it is more the style in the northernmost of your kingdoms, to stalk and creep, than to make a great deal of noise."

"But where is the fun in that? It's boring!"

"Well, we can try again to get them to do things the noble-hunt fashion, your grace…"

The hunters turned off the main road that both they, and Sunset had been following, marching towards what her sensitive nose told her were the butcher's camp carts, pulled aside, where the butchers were clearly waiting in rendezvous for the returning day's hunts.

Sunset thought about exiles, and cultural differences, and the example of the exiled king, trying to hunt in armor and a lance, among the wild plains-nomads with their swift horses and recurve bows. Was there anything like the Beggar King and his clanging awkward foolishness in what she was doing? Was Sunset falling into that very trap?

---

Eventually, wandering within the strung-out, endlessly sprawling chaos along the network of trails and roads that was the khalasar's central column, Sunset discovered where the mobile kitchens had fetched up. Clues extracted from confused zafra and riders encountered on the main road eventually pointed Sunset in the direction of a water-meadow far down the road. The kitchens had advanced infuriatingly far, the cooking-zafra having almost raced their heavy cooking-baggage ahead of the rest of the khal's entourage. They could now be found not far from what would, in the coming hours, become that night's temporary encampment.

The cooks had run ahead of the front of the main column, to get ahead of the rest of the people they'd have to feed in the evening. The rest of that part of the horde for which they were responsible, would catch up to the kitchen, rather than vice-versa. Some of the camp-captains had cast even further ahead, laying out the encampment the kitchens would feed, in a better-drained series of fields on a rise between the water-meadow and a small river.

The kitchen-zafra had unloaded their stew-pots and grills and set them up on their temporary tripods over piles of near-green brush and hastily-dismembered tree-corpses beside the rather brackish puddle that filled the center of the water-meadow. The once-sickening stench of the meat-heavy staples of the Dothraki diet hung like a miasma over the slightly swampy environ the mobile kitchen had found itself.

Minela the Lhazareen knew her business very well, and her dinner-plans for the scattered and not-quite-countless members of the khal's court were well in hand. The copper-skinned and wrinkly khaljolinaki with her immense sense of gravitas and that forbidding manner merely waved in irritation at Sunset's relayed instructions. She gestured at her platoon of jolinaki-vikeesi re-heating the mutton and the beef and the other savory-jerked meats that so dominated what the apes around Sunset devoured on a day to day basis. Yet more of Minela's harridan-cooking-assistants were spread out around the water-meadow, harvesting the semi-wild barley-like grasses and onions and garlic-greens with small, not-particularly sharp sickles.

The Dothraki were rather lackadaisical about keeping a close eye on their zafra, their slaves, but that didn't extend to giving them access to seriously deadly tools that might be turned against them in their drunkenness. Truly stupid Dothraki generally didn't live to adulthood.

Sunset tried again to echo back at Minela the words she heard from the khaljolinaki's minions.

The Lhazareen rolled her eyes at Sunset. "Speak the masters' words, you sachi-ivezhof. You will never learn the words of the Spawn. Only the Spawn know the words of the Spawn."

"I don't believe that," said Sunset, provocatively. "There is no language which is so secret that only the speakers can know it. Words are for learning, and understanding - how can there be understanding if there is no sharing?"

"Fool ivezho, fool beast! The Dothraki share nothing, and care nothing for understanding! They take, and they steal, and they say go here, do this, or we hang your crones, and rape your girls, and butcher your sons! If you will not leave me be, go help my vikeesi, my crones cut the greens that will make this wasteful broth edible."

And so Sunset went, resting her aching frogs by picking up a sickle from the pile of tools, and following along the line of harvesters, cutting this bit of greenery, and that. Three times, a vikeesi-harridan - who were, by Sunset's very shaky grasp of ape-people's ages, not nearly old enough to be denounced as ‘crones', but whatever - had to correct Sunset's cut, and keep her from including this weed or that noxious plant in the greens-harvest.

---

Sunset meditated upon the diet of her new herd, and the one she had grown up within. Among the Dothraki, eggs were a delicacy, but milk and cheese were common. There were entire bands within the khalasar which specialized in milch-herding, and cheese-making, their carts hung heavy with treasured cheese-cloth bags. The cooks struggled to get anything else, anything which wasn't meat, into the pots. The Dothraki regarded anything requiring settled cultivation with a cultural disdain that bordered on homicidal fury. To eat grass was to make yourself not-Dothraki, not a mahrazh, but rather a rhoa, an animal.

I may starve to death, in the midst of plenty…

A shadow fell over Sunset where she sat with the sickle in her hooves, idly cutting wild-barley into her bushel. She looked up, to find Jorah-the-Andal looking down at her.

"That, is something I never thought in my life to see. A horse harvesting its own fodder. With a blade, no less!"

Sunset started, sending her basket tumbling, and she scrambled to get out of the reach of the palid not-Dothraki.

"Nemt, nemt let der pige," said the Andal in a soothing voice. "Jeg vil ikke skade dig."

Sunset had set her hooves in preparation, ready to spring away, or to slap back the palid not-Dothraki. Although perhaps that was a mis-characterization? He wasn't in the fancy get-up she remembered from the wedding, and he'd shed the floppy hat and some of the clothing he'd been wearing when she'd seen him earlier on the road with the Beggar King. As he was dressed, he might be mistaken for a slightly sickly Dothraki.

"Keep your distance, Andal!" Sunset snarled in the half-Pentoshi, half-Targaryen mish-mosh into which her Valyrian had degenerated. She knew the man spoke that, at least as well as she did.

"So it is true, I wasn't there for the commotion. You do speak like a man!"

"I speak like a mare, and you shouldn't sneak up on ponies like that."

"Fair enough. What is a mare, and what are ponies?"

Sunset's eyes widened as the Andal said the two Equuish words. In the weeks she had been with the Dothraki, and the months before that among the Pentoshi, she'd not found anyone who could replicate the vowels and aspirations that characterized her native tongue.

"I can teach you those, if in exchange, you can tell me what nemt, jeg, and uvidende mean!"

"Ah, I thought you looked like you were listening to us on the high road. You shouldn't spy on your betters, lille orange hest."

"It's hardly spying when you're yelling at each other in the midst of multitudes, Jorah the Andal! And my name is Sunset Shimmer. Good to meet you."

"I am technically en ridder, you should call me Ser Jorah."

"Are we in the land of the Andals?" Sunset snarked. And saw the ‘en ridder' (what was a en ridder?) finger his long-bladed weapon, hung heavy from his belt, and decided better of her ill-timed humor. "Well enough, then, Ser Jorah."

"You are trainable! Interesting. Yes, Sunset Shimmer, I will teach you Andalese, if you care to talk to me about other matters. Such as where you came from. Are you real? Did some sorcerer turn you into this? Are there more like you?"

"I think, Ser Jorah, that is a tale for another time, because your king is coming towards us with blood in his eyes, and I have to finish what I'm doing if I want Minela to feed me before she sends me off with the khaleesi's dinner."

Sunset gathered up the cut greens into her spilled basket, and barely listened to the irate Beggar King as he berated Ser Jorah for walking off and not telling the king where he was going.

The queen of the cooking slaves gave her Andal-attracting orange pest a bowl of stew with ill will, grabbing the half-empty basket and muttering sulfurously over the quality or lack thereof of Sunset's work.

Afterwards, Sunset sat with her bowl of greens and unidentifiable meat-broth and watched as the rest of the bands, carts, and foot-columns straggled past the kitchen. The great mass of the Dothraki people passed by her and straggled up the rise to the staked-out camp-sites which would become, for a night, the heart of the great khalasar of Khal Drogo - terror of Lhazar! Ibben! and the Free Cities! - the armed might of a continent, fetched up on a nameless low rise in the western middle of nowhere in particular.

Sunset sat, and drank from the crock of stew the Lhazareen witch-cook had given her, chewing on the greens soaking in the meaty broth. It was strange, the flavor. Thankfully, there wasn't much in the way of actual meat chunks in it, just enough to make it not really like an Equestrian soup. But Sunset figured she needed some calories, somewhere, somehow. This was it, this was what she would be getting, unless she wanted to graze with the herds.

Celestia preserve her, she could get used to that taste. But she wasn't sure about the texture...

---

The assistant-cook balanced the yoke across Sunset's shoulders and withers, supporting the two heavy crocks of stew and steaming, bagged roasts intended for the khaleesi's camp. Sunset had made sure to request a nice, large wheel of mares-milk cheese, and it took up most of a pannier on her left side. The unicorn staggered a bit under the burden before she found her footing, and straightened out, balancing the weight with a rolling shrug.

"Thank you, Fannula. Did I upset your mother too badly?"

"What are you on about, Sunset-horse?" the young girl asked in Dothraki, no more inclined to use her mother's native-tongue than any other member of the khalasar. "Minela loves you. I've never seen her warm to a new zafra that fast. Go with the great Shepherd, Sunset-horse." Fannula, who looked far more Dothraki than like her moon-faced, Lhazareen mother, slapped Sunset companionably across her croup, and sent the unicorn on her way.

Sunset passed the porters carrying the racks of steaming roasts intended for the khal's table as she left the water-meadow, and headed off to the rendezvous-point for the khaleesi's train, the other handmaidens, and the assorted khalzafra. The camp-captains always assigned the khaleesi's carts and tents to a particular stretch of the eastern quadrant of the camp, no matter how the encampment was sited that particular night, or where.

They wouldn't be expecting the khaleesi herself for dinner, not on a night when the khal was in such a good mood, although Sunset wasn't sure if the other handmaidens would be aware of the circumstances. With her expanded assignments as an impromptu messenger, Sunset had been seeing less of the khaleesi's train in recent days.

Sunset wasn't sure what to think about that, honestly. It was all part of her plan to raise her value in the eyes of her mistress and her mistress's husband, but it separated her from the mistress in particular. Was that a good thing?

The rest of the handmaidens greeted Sunset's appearance in the camp with delight and joy, and they rushed to unburden her of her pots of stew and bags of dead, cooked animal-flesh.

Later, long after the cheese-wheel had been devoured right down to the last bit of rind, Sunset fished through the remnants of the stew-pot. Not finding any leftover greens, she eyed the piles of jerked meat laying on one of the platters, and thought about her rumbling stomach.

Maybe she'd go see if there was any fresh grass on the edge of the encampment. In the darkness, where no-one could see her.

Author's Note:

Thanks for editing and pre-reading help to Shrink Laureate, Oliver, and the general Company.

Comments

[Neece]

She'll still become a proper carnivore, hunger will make sure of that.

[Anachronon]

Dothraki (aka the 'low-life savages') - Hunt animals, because they need to feed on them, use appropriate techniques every smart predator uses. Trying not to waste what they could get.

Andal nobles (aka the 'most educated civilized') - Hunt and kill for 'entertainment' and 'glory', take lives as they desire and only use what they deem worthy as trophies, leaving the rest behind to rot.

Who is the savage now?

And I hope Sunset doesn't regret her balancing act between pleasing her new 'masters', rising up in their ranks and grace and still learning from every side, 'slaves' and 'enemies' too, as much as possible too soon.

[fmriver]

Sunset thought about exiles, and cultural differences, and the example of the exiled king, trying to hunt in armor and a lance, among the wild plains-nomads with their swift horses and recurve bows. Was there anything like the Beggar King and his clanging awkward foolishness in what she was doing? Was Sunset falling into that very trap?

This shows how empathetic she is even now, even if she lacks sympathy. She can put herself in the shoes of someone like Viserys, and then look at herself and try to be introspective, to determine if she is making the same mistakes. This is a very rare ability. Your version of Sunset Shimmer continues to be a pleasure to read.

Sunset's eyes widened as the Andal said the two Equuish words. In the weeks she had been with the Dothraki, and the months before that among the Pentoshi, she'd not found anyone who could replicate the vowels and aspirations that characterized her native tongue.

Jorah continues to show he is awesome. It's good to show that some humans have hidden talents like so as well. I know Sunset is supposed to come off as super genius smart, but it's always nice to see someone else show smarts like that. I'm slowly starting to see how maybe Jorah will be the one to learn the most from Sunset's origins through context clues, as he IS looking at everything there with the mentality of a spy. A spy doesn't last if he ever underestimates ANYTHING, so he is as sensitive as Sunset is to learning all he can as well as ingratiating himself. Really, their strategies align very well, as both are outsiders in a way.

[Crimson Sol]

I see that Sunset is starting to really develop herself. Sure, her stubbornness/arrogance is still there, but it is now helping her adjust. She's no longer the pain in the flank that we all hated during the first EG movie.

[Dream of Ponies]

A crossover i never thought i would see. Not a big fan of GoT but im willing to see what you can do with this.

[keroko]

Well now isn't this an interesting crossover. And surprising, too. I'll admit, the title, summary, sex tag combined with, well, Game of Thrones and Dothraki made think this was going to be a smutfic, but instead it's an incredibly fun ride of Sunset integrating with Dothraki society without constantly sticking to canon characters and following the plot or getting nailed in the plot.

I can't wait for the moment Sunset gets her magic back and reaches the moment of that beautiful cover art to show them there's a reason she doesn't disagree with being called a witch-horse.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Ah, self-awareness. A critical trait in Sunset's quest to ingratiate and acclimate. Though she has her limits, and eating actual animal tissue is one of them. For now. We'll see how long that lasts. Message running and polyglot training are hungry work.