Prelude

Vaes Dothrak

281 BC

Khal Drogo looked upon the man in barely veiled shock. His dark white hair was styled in curly tresses which laid perfectly pinned on his head yet, falling carelessly on his forehead, his tanned skin glistened with the sweat of riding on the black stallion, Daemonfyre, for seven days straight, and his bright golden eyes sparkled with mirth which greatly contrasted with his weary appearance.

Drogo knew then at that moment as the burning sun hit his brother's golden eyes perfectly, displaying the flames that had burned once his foreign Mother found her conception of him known. It was almost as if Drogo was transported back into that memory, right then in there in front of his sixty thousand men and Bhargis and his fourteen. The only thing he could smell was the acrid blood of the raw horse, his Father's musky scent of battle, his Mother's scent of fresh berries, and his Father's second wife's scent of blood and freshly cooked fish. The only thing he could see was the crinkling, dangerous…

Fire.

Fire burned in the middle of the sacred tent of Vaes Dothrak. It burned so brightly and suddenly that Drogo drew back in fear, hoping neither his Father nor his bloodriders saw his shameful actions. He was a young man of two and ten summers, already sacked his first Khalasar with nothing but six of his closest companions of similar ages, yet he was afraid of the Fire that foretold of his birth and would now foretole of his brother's.

He glanced at his Father. Worry clenching his heart unto beating powerfully against his chest, thrumming along to the beat of the drums as the dosh khaleen slammed on them painfully hard His Father was taller, taller than him by about three heads, with dark brown hair that flowed on his back to the dirt floor of their sacred tent. He was Khal Bharbo, son of Khal Ghargis, and him son of Khal Ghargo. There had never been a day that he had seen his father lose in battle, even the day when Khal Ghargis had died and he had fought the agile men that once were his Father's bloodriders; Once Uncles to him, now enemies.

His Father stood with his Mother, the Khalessi Alyn. His Mother was born with sharp features that were more austere than beautiful. Alyn had sharp perceptive black eyes that danced around the room in excitement and a pursed look, as if she had sucked a lemon dry once every day.

His Father was handsome, strong, and respected upon the Dothraki, yet Drogo could never understand why he had chosen his Mother as his first wife. Although, Drogo loved his Mother, she was harsh and sharp in areas that most Dothraki found sharp in areas. Not his Father apparently. They had been married when they were both four and ten summers, only three summers older than Drogo was himself. A summer later Drogo was born and another more, Khal Ghargis was dead and Bharbo was declared Khal after defeating four bloodriders.

His Father had married a second wife, ten years after Drogo had been born. There had been whispers that the only reason Khal Bharbo was so taken with Euroen Agasrd, was because his wife wished to share her bed. Drogo could admit that those rumors were partially true. While Alyn was harsh and formal, Euroen was soft and light. His Second Mother carried silver hair that danced whenever she walked and bright purple eyes of the foreign land she was borne on, and curves that the Dothraki men and his Mother valued. It was no surprise when his Father and Mother fell in love with her once she washed up on shore the black sea with her foreign two sisters.

Old crones, Drogo thought with a light, handsome smirk at the thought of Euroen's sisters. Thalya and Thi Asgasrd had the beauty of their younger sisters but the age of the Dosh Khaleen that resided in the city that they stayed at the moment.

He furrowed his brows in patience as he watched Euroen dig into the heart of the stallion. The old, thick warm voices of the Dosh Khaleen caressing him until all he could feel was peace. He was a frequent visitor of Vaes Dothrak when he was younger. He had preferred the company of the wise Dosh Khaleen, rather than the warriors of his Father's khallassar who wore thick frowns on their faces whenever he walked passed, because he was the boy which caused them to cut their hair in the first time of their lives.

He had been said to become a strong, swift Khal at his Mother's own Stallion Heart ceremony two and ten summers ago, yet Drogo found himself hating that destiny. He enjoyed being apart of the Khalassar and being the Khalakka, however he knew that the fate of leading his Father's men upon Bharbo's death was not for him. He much preferred the action of slicing an enemy's head off, riding into battle, proud and strong and defending his hoard's title of most bloodthirsty and vengeful. He lacked the perception and dept a Khal needed. His Father knew he did. Both his Mother's did, and Drogo hoped his Second Mother ate the heart quickly so his brother would receive the fate he awaited.

Euroen tore viciously into the heart on the Khalassar's and Dosh Khaleen's encouragement and cheers. Her dainty, fingers, that he suspected had never been lifted in her cast over the black sea, adeptly managed to tear pieces of meat aside, shoving them into her bloody, plump mouth. His Father leaned against the edge of his chair, excitement whispering on his lips. Drogo smiled along with his Mother, the sight vastly different. He took after his handsome Father and only inherited his Mother's black eyes, not his Father's warm, inquisitive golden.

The Dosh Khaleen stopped beating, faithfully, as Euroen lifted the remaining piece of meat in her mouth, swallowing it whole, and licking her lips once the deed was finished. Most of the khalasar stared at her in lust, admiration, and bemusement. Euroen, although desirable, was notably high maintenance, used to the feeling of servants supplying and tending to all of her whims and wishes. Drogo had heard the restless nights of arguing his parents had as the impending ceremony drew upon their heads, riding on the rays of the sun. Drogo knew the times Euroen had vomited, not due to morning sickness, but sickness and worry awaiting the ceremony.

Now, however, Euroen took upon a new personality.

"Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres," the Dosh Khaleen whispered in unison, their voices low but caught in the tent among everyone's ears.

They repeated the phrase yet again, thumping the beat of the drum to another, steady tempo. "Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres." Drogo smiled harder. His brother happened to be better than he could ever be, the perfect khalakka for his Father. The Stallion Who Mounts The World. Drogo could see it now, bloodrider to the mighty Stallion Who Mounts The World. He could imagine the mighty battles he would throw himself in to defend his Khal's honor.

His Father turned to look at him. Telling him with his warm eyes that he was excluded from his role of being the khalakka, his new title would be a faithful bloodrider to his young brother.

"Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres," Drogo repeated along with the harsh whisper of the contents of the room. The Stallion Who Mounts The World born with the seed of Khal Bharbo and the egg of High Valyria. And most importantly in Drogo's eyes, his beloved younger brother.

As those words left Drogo's lips, he woke up in a cold sweat on his bed. The reminder was clear, sent to him straight by his God. Find his Brother or the Stallion Who Mounts The World will be simply a tale told to young warriors and not the legend painted into reality it was supposed to be.

Alright, the Rewrite's Prelude is up. It's a little shorter than the chapters I'm going to be giving for this story. Yzavian Arturian will be changed to Arteyu Hill. They are the same person but just different names. I hope my writings changed for the good. Review!