Jhasato sat tall astride his horse, once more standing upon an endless expanse of grassland, the wind causing it to ripple in sibilant waves. Almost an endless expanse, for jutting from the horizon was a great mountain, rising from the surrounding sea of grass. Hope wrestled with doubt in his mind: could it truly be the Mother of Mountains? The sacred land of his homeland? He gave his mount a sharp kick with his heels, sending it thundering across the plain.
Blood tinted the foam in the corners of his stallion’s lips pale crimson and still the rider urged him faster. They crested a small rise, only to spook a herd of horses, every color imaginable swirling around them. He had nearly reached the base of the Mountain when he saw him: another Dothraki warrior, curved arakh gleaming in the sun where it rested upon his shoulder.
Jhasato pulled short and lifted his bare hand, palm out in greeting. “M’athchomaroon, gaezo!” Greetings, brother. The warrior twisted to face Jhasato from astride his horse, placing a closed fist against his chest and leaning forward slightly, as if greeting a Khal. He smiled as he straightened, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he and his steed turned a dull brown before dissolving away into chaff on the wind. A cold dread gripped Jhasato, and he leapt from his exhausted mount to stride into the collection of tents at the base of the mountain. Every person he encountered was the same, from the small children playing with sticks, the women carrying laden baskets, the men gambling with a pair of human knucklebones. All paused, greeted him as befitting a Khal, and then scattered in the wind. In the distance, the whinny of the horses grew indistinct; he turned his gaze up, to the face of the mountain, only to be confronted by the stone walls of a city carved into the mountainside. A gust of wind swirled around him, the tents flapping frantically before similarly dissolving away, leaving Jhasato alone at the foot of the mountain. The wind howled, raging, and as he shielded himself against it, his own hands began to dim and dissolve away into grass.
- - -
Jhasato awoke coated in a sheen of cold sweat. Despite the pitch black surrounding him, he could smell the stone walls pressing in around him on all sides. He slipped from the furs, careful not to rouse the woman sleeping beside him, and stepped out into the open night air.
He slid down to sit on the cool stone, his back against the wall, and looked up at the night sky. The tiny fires of the Great Stallion’s khalasar glittered across the inky Night Lands. The Moon hid her face this night; perhaps she had gone to lie with her husband the Sun, but her absence left only the stars to light the sky. The fallen Dothraki of the past...they were the only Dothraki he had in this world. There was no doubt he had met others who came close. The woman sleeping within, who possessed a ferocity in battle like he had seldom seen beyond his people; the dark-skinned woman who had sat engrossed with each story or bit of knowledge he had shared; the man with hair like fire, who dove headlong into a nest of dragons with the spirit of the craziest bloodrider....
The stars winked back at him, their fires cold and distant. Perhaps, he mused, it was time for him to join the only other Dothraki in this world. He quickly shook such weak thoughts from his mind, standing abruptly and turning to splash cold water in his face. He crept down the ladder and retrieved his horse, bridling and saddling the stallion by touch. He could not think with stone walls around him, at the same time he could think of nothing but the mountain in his dream. And so, once clear of the oppressive buildings, he mounted up and did what he was born to do: he rode.
Blood tinted the foam in the corners of his stallion’s lips pale crimson and still the rider urged him faster. They crested a small rise, only to spook a herd of horses, every color imaginable swirling around them. He had nearly reached the base of the Mountain when he saw him: another Dothraki warrior, curved arakh gleaming in the sun where it rested upon his shoulder.
Jhasato pulled short and lifted his bare hand, palm out in greeting. “M’athchomaroon, gaezo!” Greetings, brother. The warrior twisted to face Jhasato from astride his horse, placing a closed fist against his chest and leaning forward slightly, as if greeting a Khal. He smiled as he straightened, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he and his steed turned a dull brown before dissolving away into chaff on the wind. A cold dread gripped Jhasato, and he leapt from his exhausted mount to stride into the collection of tents at the base of the mountain. Every person he encountered was the same, from the small children playing with sticks, the women carrying laden baskets, the men gambling with a pair of human knucklebones. All paused, greeted him as befitting a Khal, and then scattered in the wind. In the distance, the whinny of the horses grew indistinct; he turned his gaze up, to the face of the mountain, only to be confronted by the stone walls of a city carved into the mountainside. A gust of wind swirled around him, the tents flapping frantically before similarly dissolving away, leaving Jhasato alone at the foot of the mountain. The wind howled, raging, and as he shielded himself against it, his own hands began to dim and dissolve away into grass.
- - -
Jhasato awoke coated in a sheen of cold sweat. Despite the pitch black surrounding him, he could smell the stone walls pressing in around him on all sides. He slipped from the furs, careful not to rouse the woman sleeping beside him, and stepped out into the open night air.
He slid down to sit on the cool stone, his back against the wall, and looked up at the night sky. The tiny fires of the Great Stallion’s khalasar glittered across the inky Night Lands. The Moon hid her face this night; perhaps she had gone to lie with her husband the Sun, but her absence left only the stars to light the sky. The fallen Dothraki of the past...they were the only Dothraki he had in this world. There was no doubt he had met others who came close. The woman sleeping within, who possessed a ferocity in battle like he had seldom seen beyond his people; the dark-skinned woman who had sat engrossed with each story or bit of knowledge he had shared; the man with hair like fire, who dove headlong into a nest of dragons with the spirit of the craziest bloodrider....
The stars winked back at him, their fires cold and distant. Perhaps, he mused, it was time for him to join the only other Dothraki in this world. He quickly shook such weak thoughts from his mind, standing abruptly and turning to splash cold water in his face. He crept down the ladder and retrieved his horse, bridling and saddling the stallion by touch. He could not think with stone walls around him, at the same time he could think of nothing but the mountain in his dream. And so, once clear of the oppressive buildings, he mounted up and did what he was born to do: he rode.
![[Image: Raewyn-Signiture.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/T1hxSd2/Raewyn-Signiture.jpg)