Game of Thrones Iron Stark

The southern coast of Essos stretched empty under a dying sun. Three travelers stepped onto the golden sand—Happy Sheep, Boiling Sheep, and Ser Jorah Mormont. They'd ridden hard for days and finally reached the sea.

The beach glowed in the last light. Waves rolled in soft and steady, coconut palms swayed overhead, and the water shimmered deep blue. Even Jorah had to admit it was beautiful. They decided the search for awakening grass could wait until morning.

They pitched camp before full dark. Night on the beach meant mosquitoes, scorpions, and worse. Happy Sheep and Boiling Sheep climbed trees for coconuts while Jorah stripped off his armor and waded in with a bamboo spear.

"Jorah, we don't eat meat," Happy Sheep called down. "Seaweed and coconut will do us fine. You want protein, go catch some fish."

Jorah grinned. "Bear Island boys eat fish. Watch and learn."

He dove in with a splash that sent spray flying.

Far across the Dothraki sea, Khal Drogo's riders had run into something they couldn't handle. Dozens of his best warriors lay scattered across a hidden valley, broken and bleeding. Drogo himself knelt in the dirt, breathing hard, his arakh snapped in half.

Standing over them was a single figure—tall, broad, with curved horns rising from his head. Not a sheep man. A bull man.

Drogo wiped sweat from his eyes. "Who the hell are you? No one fights like that."

The bull man kept his back turned, wooden staff and shield in hand. "This valley is our home. We raise pigs, cattle, horses, and sheep. We don't want war anymore. We've had enough killing."

He'd taken down forty Dothraki warriors by himself. Drogo had never seen anything like it.

"You'll let us leave?" Drogo asked carefully.

"We're tired of blood. Tired of fighting. We just want peace. I see your wife and child will walk a road of fire and blood one day. When that happens… what will you do?"

Drogo felt the weight of those words like a blade at his throat.

"Leave. Don't come back to the Roro Wu people."

The bull man started walking away. Drogo called after him.

"Your name. What's your name?"

"Mamaka."

A sudden bleating broke the quiet. A flock of sheep came running down the slope, spooked by something. Mamaka's eyes went wide with panic.

"No, no—don't run! Please, come back!"

He chased after the sheep like a frantic shepherd, not a warrior who had just crushed an army. Drogo and his men stared, jaws hanging open.

"That monster… is scared of sheep?" one bloodrider muttered.

Drogo remembered Daenerys's words about dragon blood and fire. He clenched his fists. Whatever path his moon and their child walked, he would stand between them and the flames. No one would betray her. No one.

Night fell on the beach. Moonlight silvered the sand. Happy Sheep and Boiling Sheep munched seaweed and drank coconut water while Jorah roasted fresh fish and shrimp over the fire. The smell made his mouth water.

He glanced at the two sheep and smirked.

"You sure you don't want a bite? Fish and mutton together—that's what we call flavor."

Happy Sheep grinned back. "We're sheep, not deer. Deer eat meat sometimes. We don't. But if you want to offer your own paws, Ser Jorah, we might make an exception for bear meat."

Jorah shuddered. He'd seen what these two could do. Happy Sheep could outrun a horse. Boiling Sheep could probably bench-press a destrier. He wasn't picking a fight.

"Joke's on me. My mistake. Carry on."

The tide had pulled far out, exposing crabs and shells across the wet sand. One shell stood out—a large conch, strangely perfect, almost glowing in the moonlight. It looked… wrong. Too clean. Too deliberate.

Jorah stared at it, fish forgotten. Something about that shell made the hair on his neck rise.