Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 210: I’ve Embraced the Faith of the Seven

"Prince, are we going to war with the Dothraki?" Regis asked, though all eyes were fixed on Viserys.

Viserys surveyed the room, noting the faces full of expectation. Even without detailed explanations, the military merit system he had established was enough to stir the ambitions of many who saw war as a path to fortune. Yet, something about the situation struck him as unusual.

Instead of answering Regis directly, Viserys gestured for him to sit and called for Jhaqo to enter. "The Dothraki envoy has arrived..."

The crowd turned, curiosity sparking as they anticipated the arrival of the Bloodrider to the mightiest Khal. Moments later, Jhaqo entered the hall—a man with intricate tattoos on his face, gold earrings, a gold nose ring, and his chest and arms partially exposed. His presence was jarringly out of place, like a donkey that had wandered into a theater, clashing with the grand and refined atmosphere around him.

The envoys from Myr and Lys looked apprehensive at the sight of the fierce Dothraki, but Jhaqo remained unconcerned. As he stepped into the hall, he was momentarily taken aback by the grandeur of the scene. 'These people who live in stone houses can actually create such a beautiful place,' he thought, comparing it to the nine towers manse in Pentos, which now seemed inferior. He was delighted, finding the enormous three-headed dragon banner and the tall statues far superior to anything in the Dothraki's tents.

Sensing the gaze of the crowd upon him, Jhaqo quickly masked his surprise, proudly raising his head like a strutting goose as he fixed his eyes on Viserys' throne. The sight of Viserys, with his silver hair and black robes, filled him with envy. He longed to sit on that throne himself.

"Greetings, Prince Regent," Jhaqo said casually, his eyes darting around the room.

Viserys, noticing Jhaqo's flippant demeanor, spoke up sternly, "State your business."

"Prince Regent, there's been a shortage of food on the grasslands recently, and Khal Drogo has asked to borrow some grain," Jhaqo replied, completely omitting the so-called 'apology' that had been expected.

His provocative tone and dismissive expression stirred unease among the audience. Conwyra and the other officers of slave origin quietly placed their hands on their sword hilts, ready to strike at Viserys' command.

"And what else?" Viserys asked, his tone still flat and controlled.

Jhaqo sneered inwardly, thinking this Viserys was easily manipulated. He continued, "Our great Khal Drogo hopes to form an alliance with you. He wishes to marry your sister, Daenerys."

At the mention of Drogo's name, Dany frowned, her expression filled with disgust. Ever since Illyrio had first introduced her to the idea of Drogo, the very name had made her feel physically ill. The thought of being tied to a man she considered a beast, a savage, was unbearable. Her revulsion had only grown with each mention of the Dothraki.

For the envoys from Lys and Myr, the proposition seemed like a straightforward solution: trade Daenerys for peace. If it were their own houses, they would have eagerly washed their daughters clean, eager to use the marriage to gain political capital. But now, they were mere spectators, their opinions irrelevant. They quickly noticed, however, that the officers of Tyrosh were on the brink of a violent outburst.

"You fool! How can the blood of the Dragonlord be mingled with that of a beast?" Meris, who stood closest to Dany, rose to her feet, pointing an accusatory finger at Jhaqo.

It was clear to all that Viserys' advisers had already accepted Dany as their future queen, and Jhaqo's so-called "marriage proposal" was nothing short of an insult. Meris was the first to speak out, but her outrage quickly spread, and almost everyone in the hall rose in protest.

"How dare you! You deserve to burn in hell!"

"Filthy barbarian, go back to where you came from!"

"Do you think my sword isn't sharp enough?"

The outrage was palpable. The officers, along with the bureaucrats, were even more furious than the soldiers. To them, the idea that this barbarian would dare try to take away their "Young Mother" was an affront beyond tolerance.

Jhaqo, now faced with a hall full of armored men glaring at him with deadly intent, felt a wave of anxiety. He had never expected such a violent reaction to his proposal. Suddenly, he found himself at a loss, his bravado crumbling. Desperately trying to regain his composure, he reminded himself of the fifty thousand roaring warriors waiting behind him and attempted to recover his confidence.

Jhaqo looked up at Viserys and issued a threat, his voice with a forced bravado. "Prince Regent, I come with the desire for peace. Do you want to hear your people continue to wail under the Dothraki machetes?"

His neck stiffened, and his tone was so agitated that his thick gold earrings and nose ring quivered with each word. Viserys observed the scene before him, noting with satisfaction that under his rule, there were no cowardly generals among his ranks.

"Who will go with me?" Viserys asked, his voice calm but resolute. Jhaqo's heart sank; this was turning into a disaster, one that he might not survive.

"Prince, let me go with you! My crossbow is nearly rusted!" Dick stood up eagerly.

"Master, please, let me fight for you, for Daenerys!" another shouted.

The room surged with emotion, leaving Jhaqo overwhelmed by the fervor of the crowd.

"Prince, no one knows the Dothraki's tactics better than I. Let me go with you to fight them!" Caggo's voice was low, yet his towering presence made him impossible to ignore.

Though once a Dothraki, Caggo had decided to put down roots here; he no longer saw himself as one of them. If he failed to prove himself in this war, he knew he would never truly belong. Jhaqo recognized him instantly.

"Caggo! You shameful Dothraki, serving the milkmen!" Jhaqo spat.

Caggo unsheathed his curved blade and approached him. "I'm talking to the Prince, so why are you interfering?"

"What are you doing?" Jhaqo demanded as he and his entourage drew their weapons. The air grew colder as the metallic chorus of unsheathing swords filled the hall, the glint of steel reflecting off the walls. Suddenly, Jhaqo and his men found themselves surrounded, their hands and feet frozen in place.

"Stop!" Viserys' command rang out, forcing everyone to halt and retreat. For a brief moment, Jhaqo felt a flicker of relief, believing he had escaped danger. But Viserys' next order made his blood run cold.

"Caggo! Cut off his nose!"

"No! You can't do this!" Jhaqo protested, but his words fell on deaf ears as his guards were swiftly subdued. He himself was held at spearpoint, unable to move as Caggo advanced toward him.

Paralyzed with fear, Jhaqo could only watch as Caggo approached, his sneer deepening. "Caggo! You are a disgrace to the Dothraki! The Horse God will spit on your soul!"

Caggo smirked. "I believe in the Seven now."

With that, a blinding pain shot through Jhaqo as part of his nose was sliced off. He gasped for air, but the blood that poured out choked him, filling his nasal cavity and lungs. He coughed violently, struggling for breath. Caggo casually tossed the bloody piece of flesh to the ground and crushed it underfoot, a cold, final act of dominance.

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