There is no word for thank you.

But she never had a reason, either.

Orvik. Whip.

What he snapped around the Khal Raggat that brought her Khaleesi's brother crashing to the ground.

Drozhat. To kill.

He was a bloodrider of the khalasar.

Qiyalat. To bleed.

The last thing that he ever did.

Zhilat. To love.

There was a word for that.

Awazat. To scream.

The sound that was heard after being cut down.

But he was brave. She knew her Rakharo never screamed.

She wasn't like him.

She wasn't brave.

She felt the dirt in her mouth. The red waste was everywhere. It clung to her hair and clothes. She didn't look like she used to. Now she felt drenched in blood.

She recognized his horse immediately. Red striped it like blood and she felt it all over her. She felt it in her lungs and beneath her fingernails.

It consumed her and all that was surrounded her was red waste.




This wasn't him. Those were her screams that she heard. That was the hot sand burning her knees and those were hear tears scalding tracks down her face.

Did he hurt?


Did he hurt?

Stripes like blood blurred her vision and she was on the ground.

Did he hurt?

His head was in a bag and his braid was severed. His blood clung to the strands but she had no care for the shame. Her Rakharo could never be shamed.

She would never see him again. He couldn't ride.

She knew what the feeling in her chest meant. She knew why she hurt so. It wasn't for the heart of his that stopped beating and the breath of his that would no longer move her hair.

It was his that was also hers. Not the heart or the blood or the lungs. She knew why her chest hurt so. It was something destroyed. Something in her was destroyed because he was destroyed.

"They killed his soul."

She clung to her Khaleesi. She clung to blood of Rakharo's blood. She clung to the blood and the only thing she had left.

But he was gone.

Her soul hurt because it was torn from his.

All this destruction. All this waste.

"We will build him a funeral pyre and I promise you Rakharo will ride with his ancestors tonight."

She clung to her Khaleesi because it was the only thing she could do.

Her soul hurt.

The breath of his would no longer move her hair.

They had not burned him. Her soul still hurt and she knew she had to believe in her Khaleesi's strength. It was all she had left.

They showed her Rakharo no respect.

They tore it all out.


In the tent his eyes were soft while hers were hard.

But this was the red waste.

"They killed his soul."

Blood ran hot in the red waste.

This is my first GoT fic, so I hope you like it. I had to write something after Rakharo's untimely death.