Dressed to Kill, Chapter 2 (ASOIAF FI)

The parasitic consciousness nested inside the young girl’s mind, more accommodating than the Dothraki warrior it possessed. She was an unfurnished home, the previous occupant having left and taken everything with them, while ‘Lazarro’ clearly had questionable taste in interior decor and entirely too many suspicious stains. They were ordered out of the carriage, the cartful of slaves huddling around a campfire, a large pot of something between thick soup and thin stew set above the flames, chunks of day-old mutton thrown into it before it could go bad. Stolen memories were enough to know Dothraki only rarely ate mutton, much preferring horse, beef and pork, in that order. 

“At least they won’t starve us,” One of them muttered under their breath. A man, one of the few who tried to fight except he was taken out of the battle by the kick of a horse he avoided so narrowly it still broke his nose. Still better than getting his skull caved in, or so he had groused during the journey. 

One of the matrons - an elderly woman, gray hairs mixing with brown and face starting to wrinkle - gently pulled on the nameless girl. She played along, following the requested movement as she joined the circle around the fire. The wagon could have fit twelve people comfortably - it carried twice that number, although they bore some freedom of movement. There were no shackles or restraints to prevent escape - they were all on foot, and the Dothraki horses were independent beasts. Trying to steal one would result in the thief being thrown off, and running on foot was doomed to failure, no ordinary human could outrun a horse or quickly hide in these plains.

“Come. You need to eat,” The matron all but demanded, offering the body a wooden bowl of the thick soup, chunks of boiled lamb floating in it, pressing a ladle into her hand. “While we still live, the Great Shepherd watches over us.”

“What happened.” The parasite had no idea how to pitch its host’s voice to sound hoarse, so it contented itself with making it flat with fake shellshock, eyes staring out into the middle distance. The girl’s hands worked on automatic, taking the offered food even as she spoke, stirring up the waters of every mind in sight to see what would flare up. “Everything before the carriage is… gone.”

Slow movements lifted the bowl to her mouth, sipping on the broth, distractedly chewing as if the order to eat was the only thing actually making her do so. It wasn’t hard, with the host body mostly on autopilot as the creature curled up inside her skull peered out at the neighboring psyches. Nothing but chaotic flashes of recent memories, images of violence and chains and rape. 

Useless.

Seemed like the parasite couldn’t gather any information worth a damn by casting a wide net, at least not while working off of nothing but instinct. They’d need to focus down and see what could be dredged up, so the purple puppet turned to face the matron fully, something plaintive in her eyes hiding the tendrils of psionic power reaching in. 

The older woman’s mind was unprotected, the turmoil and shock of recent events yet to settle fully - it made the search through the memories slower than it could have been, but the mental probe operated at the speed of thought. A dredged memory of tailoring surfaced, associated experiences connected to it, a thin bone needle stitching together fabric with a woolen thread that was tied to fragments of time spent shearing the herds of the village. Another path between thoughts tinged with a distant, faded fear as the parasite’s intent crawled along it - a desperate search for a lost child that wandered off, found due to her striking hair. Faded purple hair was not at all subtle in fields of green, a name and relation surfaced alongside the image: Avaneh, daughter of Arnos and Iriam. The body the parasite was currently nestled in was the niece of the matron’s half-sister, not truly close but enough of a connection that the aged lady cared more than if this were a random girl.

Hence, the silent, dead stare ‘Avaneh’ gave her resulted in a sudden, tight hug as the matron embraced the girl. “Oh, you poor lamb,” She whispered, one hand reassuringly stroking her hair, the other holding the small girl close. “Everything will be alright. The Great Shepherd will guide us, for we are his flock.” 

The meal and the other slaves were forgotten, whatever physical injuries they sustained were deemed lesser in comparison, at least to the matron. Some of the other elderly women who had some skill in treating wounds did what they could without supplies, the parasite saw from the corner of ‘Avaneh’s’ eye.

Still, even that was information - these people seemed to exclusively follow the Great Shepherd, spoken of in tones of religious reverence. The lack of even a militia at the village - no apparent retired soldiers, just shepherds and potters and other professions that tried to fight, deeming death preferable to seeing their life’s work razed - suggested a lack of military service, perhaps even a lack of overarching authority that could organize an army. The emotions in the matron’s mind, mixed with the most whole and recent memories, seemed to have an undertone of long-held fears coming true more than a sudden raid. 

Combined with the memories of ‘Lazarro,’ the Dothraki treated these people almost like they were sheep as well - raiding along smaller villages and merely demanding tribute from the larger ones. Once the countryside was repopulated by people seeking prosperity away from the cramped cities, they came by and ‘sheared’ them once more.

An efficient system, for all that it was repugnant.

“Sorry.” ‘Avaneh’ said, seemingly apologizing for the distress she was causing. Body-hopping monster or not, the entity did feel for a life’s work crushed under pitiless raiders, everything and everyone stolen or destroyed. 

A prickle of intent, and Lazarro’s horse got to work, every mount that it saw systematically subsumed into the network, becoming a new vector as the puppetmaster’s influence spread like wildfire. And much like wildfire, it grew as it consumed.

Perhaps not at the same rate as physical fire would have, but as each horse was added to the collective, the subsequent animal became easier to overwhelm, their minds hollowed out and claimed by the parasite with greater speed and less effort. Its presence encroached across the steeds of the entire kosar, from the mounts of the raiders to the beasts of burden pulling the wagons. It had leverage, now, even as the brunt of its presence nested inside ‘Avaneh’s’ mind. A command sent through the spiderweb of psychic links, no different than willing the fingers of a hand to curl, and all progress would grind to a halt. Crash and burn together with the morale of the Dothraki, leave them utterly incapable of fighting as their traditions and training demanded.

A further benefit was awareness - while it was not quite seeing everything that each of the horses saw individually, it was enough to spot anything that happened to be out of place - like, say, a lone Dothraki walking with purpose, yet sticking to the shadows of the early night as he moved. It drew attention - focus that honed in on him, no psychic intrusion just yet as a distraction formed - perhaps a consequence of the parasite’s sudden growth, or it being simply denser here, the diffuse presence from before made itself known. 

It seemed to be tied to something that eluded it, flickering slightly with the steps of the raider attempting stealth and with the direction of psychic attention. The presence was faint, despite its apparent proximity. A horse bent down to graze, head dipping low, and that gave contact. Ripples spread out like a stone thrown into a placid lake - it was the grass, somehow housing what could not in truth be called a mind - a cursory psychic probe suggested it was about as intelligent as memory foam.

There wasn’t even an articulated thought, just hunger spilling out like ink on a page, root systems letting the puppetmaster’s strings spread without resistance. There was even sensory feedback from it, dull and muted to what was perhaps the absolute minimum of sensation. But it was enough to feel footsteps, the places where the tents pressed down on the grass, the weight of bedrolls pressing down. 

Becoming properly acquaintanced with this stripe of body would have to wait, however: the lone Dothraki that was attempting stealth approached the huddle of slaves, advancing with a casual bow-legged swagger as if he were still atop a horse even as he walked. Qaro’s warning came to mind, a detached note of amusement accompanying it - his idea that the first attempts would only come later appeared to be incorrect.

As soon as he was vaguely in her earshot, ‘Avaneh’ perked up with a curious noise at the back of her throat, twisting in the matron’s fussy embrace just enough to look at the man dead in the eye. The startle that elicited didn’t only let a mind probe slip in unnoticed, but it kept his attention firmly on her. 

Unlike the slaves, his mind is whole, memories as ordered as can be - anger and lust at not finding a woman fit to take as a personal slave mixing with triumph from the recent raid; snippets of thought as he rode on horseback, his blade cutting down the farmers and herders that attempted to fight back or flee; an older memory of defeat and of the loss of a woman of his own, the victor of that duel cutting his braid and taking the slave he kept to warm his bedroll yet leaving him alive. 

His intent could not be more obvious - he might not even be taken seriously if he challenged ‘Lazarro’ for the woman he took once one accounted for the differing length of braids and respect afforded to each of them. So he’d sneak closer, intimidate the slaves into silence, and rape her. Lazarro would know someone fucked his slave, but not who. A spectacularly short-sighted plan considering it relied on the cooperation of unbroken slaves.

In the time it took to extract that information, he processed the eye contact from ‘Avaneh’ as a grin spread across his face. His arakh was pulled free, the scimitar-esque blade twirled with a flair and a momentary spike of surprise/fear/embarrassment within his mind as he nearly fumbled and dropped the weapon. He managed to keep a hold of it, though, placing the edge of the weapon against the shoulder of the nearest slave. “Where’s the girl with the strange hair?” He demanded without preamble or subtlety.

The matron shifted her embrace around his apparent target, adjusting the wool blanket to pull it over her head as if it were a hood and hiding her hair the best she could, despite how late her effort came. The Dothraki was outright oblivious enough to miss that happening not twenty paces away, still lit by the blazing campfire.

‘Avaneh’s’ wan smile was the only warning he got before a leathery knuckle tapped his shoulder. The moment he twisted around with a snarl on his lips, he got treated to the taste of an arakh’s pommel. The grass underfoot shifted and tangled, turning an ungainly reel into a humiliating fall backwards.

“And what business–” ‘Lazarro’ said as his foot made itself comfortable on the fool’s ribcage, deflating the hot air he was so filled with a raspy wheeze, “–has pond scum like you with one of mine?”

The response was a wordless whine as lungs desperately tried to draw in air - but a link between bodies was already established, the moment of physical contact enough to begin draining his vitality. Not a pleasant combination with the foot pressing down on his torso and denying his lungs room to expand. A desperate swing was made, drawn back by gravity and unnatural exhaustion, ‘Lazarro’s’ own weapon sliding into place with almost contemptuous ease, batting the blow aside as his victim’s arm fell limp. Almost too contemptuous, beyond what the energy it was fed by the puppetmaster should have made possible, the vigor drained from the fool settling into the body and being absorbed, layering onto its own.

In the Psychic Aether, the parasite’s own assault was far less gentle. Prior telepathic contact provided a convenient egress as the sudden intrusion forked and branched, the Dothraki’s consciousness and memories breaking apart to be digested just like Lazarro, enough of a framework left to pull the body into the expanding network. He offered little new information or immediate insights into the tribe, but the lifeforce steadily seeping into ‘Lazarro’s’ body was another matter. He could simply let the new puppet skitter off with the right performance, but there wasn’t exactly a shortage of bodies here.

A contemptuous twist of ‘his’ foot and the husk he hadn’t even bothered learning the name of was on its back, its head and braid separated from its neck with a single chop. With the spine severed and body dead, the link connecting the vitality of the two men yanked back like a rubber band, most of the energy of the disposable Dothraki dissipating away into nothing, but perhaps a quarter of it was pulled into ‘Lazarro.’

The feeling that followed was exhilarating - the exhaustion of the day banished, the faint twinges from old scars and once-broken bones erased, the wear and tear from several years of rough living wiped away. What little vigor remained settled and stilled, pushing the body’s performance ever so slightly further beyond the ordinary.

Performance that was promptly put to the test as the bleeding corpse was hoisted up over one shoulder with nothing but a grunt, the head and braid held in the other arm. “Girl. Follow.”

This ought to get the challengers to pipe down. Even if it was quietly awkward to talk to oneself like this.

‘Avaneh’ rose to her feet, slowed by the matron’s hold as she whispered in her ear. “Close your eyes and imagine yourself home,” She advised - words of little use, but it was clear that while a minor show of defiance could pass, open acts were not yet on the table, the disparity in number and combat prowess too large to even try. That said, ‘Lazarro’ received many dark looks from the other slaves. It wasn’t like they knew who was behind those eyes.

The young girl stepped around some of the blankets the other slaves had managed to bring along as something to sleep on that was not directly on the ground, demurely taking a spot at ‘Lazarro’s’ side. There were no words exchanged, unneeded as they were between the two, further reinforcing the ‘damage’ the touch of the large body had caused. There was a brief contemplation of giving her a pat on the head, rendered moot by the fact both of his hands were busy holding onto something. Not about to start juggling with the bleeding hunks of meat to free up one of his mitts, either.

She followed regardless, staying at ‘Lazarro’s’ side as he dragged the corpse through the camp with ease that belied the dead body’s true mass. The scattered tents and burning fire pits had clear paths leading to the center of the camp where the Ko held court, inasmuch as it could be called that. It was the source of most of the noise, the campsite otherwise almost tranquil. With the small feast to celebrate the successful raid in full swing that was the heart of activity, hazy and wavering minds clustered together.

The smell of meat both raw and roasted was blown on the wind, and approaching closer the carousing Dothraki were passing around pitches of wine and fermented mare’s milk, faces flushed and voices occasionally slurred as they boasted of prowess both martial and sexual. There were women as well, in various states of undress and sexual satisfaction - evidently there was no taboo on public sex. And with ‘Lazarro’ dragging in the body of a dead tribesman, the revelry only seemed to spike in intensity, cheers rising in volume. Ko Boro remained seated at the head of the throng, inclining his head in greeting. “I expect a dispute has occurred.” He glanced down at the dead body impassively. “And resolved as well.”

"The honorless cur wished to lie with my slave behind my back, he died lying on his back like the dog he was." ‘Lazarro’ said with a derisive snort, raising up the meager braid he’d cut together with the head for all to see. That was proof enough that ‘he’ was in the right for summarily executing the fool outside a challenge, as far as the Dothraki were concerned.

Boro let out a chuckle at ‘Lazarro’s’ proclamation. “A pity the duel did not happen for us to see - it would have made the feast more enjoyable. But you have fetched your woman and protected your claim - so come, join the revelry!” Evidently he was not too torn up with the result, his judgment passed and deeming ‘Lazarro’ to be in the clear. With his honor preserved, several of the inebriated tribesmen half-shouted invitations at him to join their table, and with the Ko’s explicit invitation, an outright refusal would probably result in another fight.

The parasite had honestly expected to have to duel a few more Dothraki after parading ‘his slave’ around like this, given how short the nameless idiot’s braid had been. Still, there was no reason to refuse good drink and cheerful company, even as the horses watched and tribesmen collapsed ‘drunk’ whenever they headed for the unbroken slaves. Nobody knew there was a monster in their midst, finally settled down enough to choose a name for itself.

Underneath everyone’s feet, in an ever-expanding network of root and rhizome, Ladon’s invisible jaws yawned open.