Two Tales too Many- A series of Short Stories

First story- DaenerysxJon.

The sky was darker with the snow whirling around Jon snow's eyes. Betrayed. There was no use to deny that. The turncoats stood around him with dirks in hand, their eyes pierce their lord commander. Once a man they took orders from no longer, their knives near his body. Jon stood his right leg resting a few inches back behind his left ready for death. Mentally he knew it was imminent.

Ser Alliser stood forward no dirk in hand a frown upon his face. "No, we won't kill you. I have a much more, pleasant solution for our lord commander." He said in a mocking tone with a smirk resting on his face.

Jon was brought across the narrow sea not by hi own will but in chains. Tossed, sold to a master and into the fighting pits. There he found only death, killing men before him as death became constant. More and more in the pits death occurred, yet he won every match. Every and each battle brought a foe from all of Westeros or Essos. Men he under no circumstances knew the fighting styles of, until now. In these stadiums his skills were not matched by any. The name was becoming know all throughout Essos. The bastard of Weteroes, who fought and won in numerous contests. With this feat he was brought to Meereen the grand city where he was to fight before the queen.

In the dank chamber, lit only by the sunlight that filtered through bars high overhead. Deep In the cell Jon waited for the sound of the horn that would sound. The horn that meant a fight and death no matter how anyone put it. The sword rested in his hand, his only possession his weapon, his friend, prepared for a fight. Whenever in battle he thought of the men who betrayed him. Anger filled his veins with a passion consuming and drowning in his own decay he had yet to know. In light leather amour he waited for his fate, deep in thought.

Beside him his only friend sat, named Snaky a slender man who slipped from any blade. An older man whom always gently spoke, a slave who fought in supplementary battles than he knew any man to this day. A slave like him desperate to remain alive in the pits. A friend was not common and on several occasions Jon kept the man from death. Merely for death to attempt catch himself several times. They sat heavily on the cold wooden bench. Some of the other men were raucous after a victory, happy to be alive. Some he knew cherished the feeling of the kill, the proof of their prowess. Jon felt only emptiness. And he and another were never close as him and Snaky, no two fighters became close. All know that if they live long enough they will face each other in the arena. He and Snaky had been in the same training class, death was a reminder of how capricious the fate of a fighter can be. But there was more. He knew he should be the one being dragged to the graves on more than one occasion. When the surge of battle would pass, he remembered the look of a face as the signal to fight was given, the slight curl of lips, the light in the eyes of a man who was to die.

Men fought not for victory, but for freedom. It's difficult to throw a fight and attain a clean, honorable death in a way that doesn't end with both fighters pained. Jon kept moving on, every competition another to win and nothing else. His thoughts were broken once the slaver came into the cell. The man whom bought Jon for several coin.

A tall man entered, his hair piled high in the tight curls of a patrician. He said nothing, his mouth and nose were covered with the hem of his shimmering saffron wrap, but his eyes made clear his authority. Jon had seen so much silk before, only slavers and small kerchiefs that came fluttering down from the upper tiers when rich men and woman lost them in their excitement. Jon knew few men in the pits to be valuable to their slavers. More so after victory, but the worth of the silk he wore was many times the price of his own life.

"Ready my boy, you will make a rich man out of me." The rich slaver said with a bright smile. The sundry fights Jon partook had brought the slaver coin, beyond his dreams and ended with Jon as his personal favorite.

With a nod Jon stood, departing the cells and towards the landing, foremost out into the pits. The slaver remained beside him down the hall, on either side more cells filled with slaves. "Be sure you raise your weapon for the queen. Do not make me a fool. And a decent show is undisputable for all. But particularly the queen… you discern. And last do not die." The slaver said clearly as he slapped Jon on the back and went. Jon did not need to be told as the former weeks were constant. Trying to avoid death was an endless task as his next breath.

Further the sunlight glimpsed through the dark wooden gates that lead out into the massive arena. Men about him waited with different weapons. Covered in different color amour some wore heavy sharp steel while others only a tunic. All stirred their bodies some chanting, some nervously shaking. Although all carried some weapon. The glimpse of swords filled his eyes as countless couldn't wait for death. The sun was demise above, the doors only a few meters from him. From life to death, it was permanently the end for so many.

A larger warrior with a spiked helmet that covered his face came up beside to Jon. the large man looked over Jon. He knew the fighter beside him, the bastard of Westeros was a champion who fought in many pits and won.

"You," he stated. Jon considered, finding the gladiator almost eight feet tall. "You are nothing Bastard. A man in the pits are just like any other, and they are not my problem they are weak and will die as you will soon enough." The man before him stated with a smile, standing beside him. Jon paid the man no mind, men would spout such things oft.

The horn blew, loud blistering, deafening all else and without word they moved. The heavy clunks and clangs rang his ears, men for the virtue of death. Perhaps to death no one thought of demise before them when it was likely. It wouldn't happen to them but everyone else.

The gates flew open, men in heavy amour yelled commands to the fighters. Jon moved in tandem with the rest, a sword remained in his hand. Down the large hall screams and chants ran from many, as cheers from the arena reached him. Further and further until ascending from the gates into the large stadium. Entering the arena his adrenaline started pumping at the sound of the cheers. The sky had a purple quality as the sun shined bright. Numerous torches lit the exquisite architecture. Greeted to the bright blinding sun and loud blistering screams from the many, watching death. Staring at the crowd numerous chanting, few even knew his name chanting the bastard. The herald announced the competitors once they were in the stadium to thunderous cheers and applause. Even though this was the largest arena in the city of Meereen it was still packed to capacity with people paying no small amount of coin to attend.

Meereen was famous throughout the lands for its gladiatorial games. The city was far the largest Jon visited, yet he saw little of the city. Only the lowest slums on his journey to the arena. Decades ago, it was primarily slaves and convicts who competed, but now fame and fortune could be found for any whom wished. Jon found that here, having witnessed the names written down on the walls leading to the arena. Names of hundreds who fought and died, slaves whom found glory.

In the blistering sands Jon hated the heat, foreign, the north was always his friend. The cold became a part of him as much as his family and he missed the comfort of the snow. Further apart the men spread a few meters and turned towards the queen weapon in hand. Raising his sword up for the queen in the balcony. With his hand held high his stance waiting for the battle to begin. Legs spread apart, he stood in the sand prepared, the sun running down his face. All waited for whom he would kill.

Gazing over on the balcony he saw the queen sitting upon a cushion, her beauty had a classic quality. Her hair cascaded to her shoulders in waves permeated her sliver, blonde locks giving a striking effect. Her skin was a pale and her bright violet eyes completed a sensational portrait of a woman that any man would desire. Her white silk gown hugged her curves, that Jon not dare look away. Several had spoken her name, Daenerys mother of dragons, breaker of chains. A conquer whom fought for her people and loved them the same. She was a woman to be admired and the last known Targaryen. Jon knew much about Targaryen's from his books when he was just a child. Yet never believed in his life to see a Targaryen in person. The beauty of the queen was not matched by any whom he had perceived. If he would die, he hoped it was her he saw last.