Dressed to Kill, Chapter 9 (ASOIAF FI)

“This is a problem.”

Nobody in the room disagreed, the assembled local and not-so-local leaders, influence-peddlers, merchants and herdsmen and priests showing as much joy as a funeral. The Lhazareen may not have had unified governance, but they did have an informal structure of leadership, with the chamber they now occupied playing host to nearly all from the town of Kosrak and its surroundings.

“Our people being freed from slavery is a good problem to have,” One of those present declared, an older man, clad in clothes that were almost unassuming. Undyed, unpatterned wool - but of uncharacteristic craftsmanship, a full step beyond what would be considered luxuriously-woven. “Yes, some of them grouse. Yes, they are calling for an end to our submission to the Dothraki. Yes, they are a burden on the granaries and larders that are less stocked than we’d like,” He listed off all the objections that have been spoken so far. “You treat it as if they are about to declare our lands a kingdom, kill us all, and crown themselves a ruler. They won’t.”

“Easy for you to say that, Aharen is married to your daughter and he is one of the returned,” Another in the room jeered. The old man’s reaction was a simple, slow shrug.

“So he is. Consider that a confirmation of my statement: I know him. He is too dutiful to cause us problems. He even warned us of Ladon unprompted,” He answered, casting his gaze around the room. “Action is needed now, not endless arguments on who will get to assert what authority they have.”

“Someone will need to lead that action,” Another joined into the conversation.

“Good thing, then, that some people already are,” The old man placidly countered. “Leaders have already emerged amongst them on the way here and while they were kept in slavery. A solved problem - give them permission, and they will start their own villages close-by, fed by the camaraderie of shared suffering ended at the same time. Some will doubtless stay in the town itself, but the lack of numbers will make it easier for them to settle in as a return to home.”

Another man, attired in dyed fabric that all but screamed he was a merchant, let out a bark of laughter. “Yes! And considering that you speak for such villages in the surrounding region, you surely could not stand to benefit from such an arrangement!”

His elder met the accusation with a slow, befuddled blink. “Yes. I was under the assumption that we were here to argue the solution that would give the speaker at any given moment the most benefit. I understand this is your first time here, young man,” He spoke near-paternally, voice a soothing rumble fit for a loving father. “But that is no reason to speak with such fervor. Besides, I imagine the merchants would benefit as well - more wool and more labor never made local goods more expensive.”

“I get the feeling I am being left out of this conversation,” The closest thing Kosrak had to a mayor joined in, being met with a shrug.

“Unless you’ve been failing to tax our kin, and regular complaints assure me that is not the case, I fail to see what more you want,” Was the answer that immediately kicked him back out of the discussion. “If we are to finish making a decision here before the next horde of Horse-Lords comes riding by and demanding tribute, I would much prefer if we kept to ideas on solving the problem and not demands to not have one because you don’t like it enough.”

A few moments of silence were shared in the room, eyes glancing towards compatriots to seek support. “And what gives you the privilege to issue such demands?”

“The fact that I’m well past the age I should have joined the Great Shepherd at and thus have no respect for any of you,” The old man answered. “So you’re going to listen to my wisdom because you can’t ignore me and because I am willing to sacrifice more of my influence and wealth to get you to go along with this and you are to stop me.”

“...I still insist all of them should stay in the town,” One of the less-experienced people grumbled.

“Absolutely not. By the next time the Dothraki come, I may well be dead of age and I expect you fools to hand them over as tribute for a second time. I can hardly give you the tools to start a revolt through sheer incompetence.” The elder ground out, looking just about ready to give them a taste of his cane.

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A hand twitched for the handle of a blade, lips turned low in a furious snarl as the table shook and the impact of his fist rang out. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE GONE?!”

The scout handled the shouted demand with extraordinary impassiveness, staring straight ahead without even blinking. “It is as I said, my Khal. Ko Boro and Ko Goqo are both gone. The latter, we have found the corpse of, as well as that of many of his riders. The former is gone - his Ko’s tracks led North, back towards the Great Grass Sea,” He repeated, tone even and voice straddling the line between clear enough to be heard and soft enough to not draw attention. 

“THREE THOUSAND RIDERS!” Khal Maggo continued unheeding of the answer. “A FIFTH OF MY HORDE’S NUMBERS, A THIRD OF ITS WARRIORS!” The leader of the Dothraki force raved, his fist smashing against his table for a second time in as many breaths. He took a moment to inhale, still shaking with raw anger but the act alone let his complexion fade back into something healthier. He glanced over to the scout, still standing at attention. “Go. Fetch a woman, relax. My anger is not directed at you.”

The rider took that as permission to depart, practically darting out the flap of his tent.

Maggo let himself fall back into the carved wooden chair - elaborate, gilded and silvered, but too small to be called a throne in truth - and glanced over to the map rolled out onto the surface of the table. He was still two weeks away from Meereen if he assumed no delays, and the more ambitious of his subordinates would surely take recent events as a sign of weakness and start causing enough problems to double the travel time. Combined with the loss of riders, slaves, and reputation that the presumed defection of one Ko and the death of another brought with it, he was tempted to turn back, raze Hesh to make up for the fact he would not get to demand tribute from Meereen - not with a warband so diminished - before returning to the Great Grass Sea to have his revenge.

He knew it would not work nor be worth it - the Lhazareen towns were not wealthy. They had wool and wood and metal and slaves, yes - all things useful for a khalasar for they were necessary supplies to keep the riders content and equipped, but they were not what the best horsemen of the world considered wealth. Slaves from Meereen were more skilled in labor, more beautiful when intended for bed, and generally obedient. The tributes of gold and jewels and weapons forged of steel were what all Dothraki sought when they travelled to the Slavers’ Bay.

To turn around and admit failure would damage his standing further for some nebulous vengeance. He would have to commit. Take what Meereen would give to sate his demands, declare matters a success, and nurse his anger. 

It was a familiar feeling.

That night, he slept fitfully.

It was not enough to save Ko Hrago from the outcome of the duel in the morning, the first challenger for his station slain by his own hand with relative ease. His band obeyed his order to begin packing up camp and they were riding West shortly after sunrise, parallel to the Skahazadhan river. They moved as fast as they could, horses and men both exerted but there was more than enough water and food to keep them fit.

The exhaustion of such haste meant he was spared a challenge for the warband’s leadership when the sun rose the next day, and he took the opportunity to press them just as hard, speeding along the plains, although unlike the previous day, there was an interruption - the sun was starting to set, but had not yet dipped so low as to make the call to form the camp necessary.

The slowly-darkening sky was split in half a brief moment that faded a handful of seconds later: not a falling star or comet but something far faster and brighter that lit the plains well enough one could see as if it were noon, a shimmering trail of blue-purple light left behind as it crossed from the skies to the ground in the time it took for a man to take a breath.

Its impact was silent but ever-brighter, a second Sun briefly born on the horizon before it winked out. He glanced over to his bloodriders, and saw the same look of reverence he imagined he now bore. “Delay setting up camp. We investigate,” He ordered, and the khalasar obeyed. They were exhausted, but the omen revitalized them - a sign from the encroaching night sky, taken as approval of the Dothraki now in the Nightlands, riding through the dark skies once the sun set.

None of his warriors complained. Some slaves attempted to, and were beaten for it even as they rode well after sunset - yet their path was lit not just by the stars but a full moon that shone bright enough none of their steeds tripped, their speed barely slowed beneath the cloudless sky. His horse took him over a small hill, and he immediately tugged on the reins to bring him into a halt, eyes snapping to the star that fell.

Made of cut gemstone with three sections, a central body being an eight-sided cylinder capped on the top and bottom by a dull point. Larger than a man and carrying the same glow that split the sky mere hours before, it hovered steadily above the grass, rotating slowly before pausing. His warband followed, parting around him and surrounding the floating crystal, wide-eyed and muttering of how wonderful it was.

He felt himself drawn to it, approaching on horseback and reaching out to touch it– 

Something seized his mind.

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An unprotected mind of flesh, easily bent into the right shape. Vulnerabilities in belief made its work easier as priorities were rearranged. Glint-Within-Facet did not know the name of the flesh that touched its surface. It did not care to know it either. The mind-bent shouted orders for his followers to approach it, the fervor in his voice and sudden grin splitting his face serving as enough encouragement they obeyed. 

Matters quickly degraded into violence, desires interpreted by a stranglehold on their thoughts - it was potent in its efforts to take control of others, but it could not do so without limit. The conflict served as a culling method. It could guide and hold a mere five hundred. An effort was made to preserve its own assets, the light of the stars and the moon absorbed and refracted across internal facets and lenses, focused by its will as blazing lances burst forth from its surfaces, the only warning the source of its name, a momentary glint coming from the facets of its surface.

Two dozen blazing lances burst forth, each striking down a creature of flesh at the very least, most managing to slay three or four. It let the lesser minds dissipate into the Aether, for it would take more effort to gather the rapidly-dissolving thoughtforms than it would gain.

The battle around it shifted decisively on the first firing, and was won by the second, the morale of those it did not guide breaking at the display of psychic might. Glint-Within-Facet let them flee. They were not its objective - the one that drew it to this world was a fellow Esper, diffuse and slippery to its senses but growing in strength quickly, a foe the mind of which promised much potential for its own future growth.

A wordless command rang out. Its forces split into five equal hosts of one hundred, splitting apart as each took a different route towards the region its target felt the most present in, the hovering crystal leisurely rising higher as they rode off.