Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

Fair Warning: Some words or phrases used in this story may be offensive to certain parties. Please understand it is done for the sake of realism and authenticity in regards to the story and the characters. The opinions, thoughts, and/or actions of a character or group of characters does not reflect those of the author. Thank you.

I

Daenerys

Her people were starving. They had been rationing their supply of food and water for weeks, but now the stores were beginning to run dry. Sooner or later they would have to begin eating the horses. When the meat was fully consumed and the blood used, though, she feared for what came next. Would they resort to cannibalism? Would they be forced to commit to lotteries to decide who lived and who died? Or would she be forced to make those decisions herself? The prospect was as frustrating as it was terrifying. After all, she had promised her people their enemies would die screaming.

But how did one make hunger and thirst scream?

Daenerys Targeryen did not know the answer, nor did Ser Jorah Mormont – her most trusted adviser. So, in an act of desperation, she had sent her best warriors to act out as scouts. One to the East, the second to the Northeast, and the third to the Southeast. That task, however, had been given days ago. Now she and her remaining people who had not yet perished in these badlands sat in wait, hoping for any sign of good news in the form of a returning scout. They could do little more. Their bodies had begun thinning from hunger, and their lips had long grown chap from the shortage of water. Every hour of every day was met with the sweltering sun above, leaving her usual fair white skin burned and battered. Her normally elegant silver-gold hair was bleached due to overexposure.

"Khaleesi." She was brought out of her wandering thoughts of dread by Jorah, who was resting under the shade of the same erected canvas as herself. The middle-aged Westerosi exile was in even worse physical shape, having preferred to share much of his rations the past few days with the newly titled Mother of Dragons. He was as kind and noble as he was loyal. His poor reputation with the lords of the North may have been justified years ago, but she couldn't help but feel it was undeserved. "It's Rakharo."

Daenerys barely registered his words before the man struggled to his feet. It was then she noticed the figure of a horse and its rider approaching, the heat and her exhaustion slightly clouding the finer details. It didn't take long for recognition to come, and all too quickly she felt a surge of energy flow through her body. Little time was wasted in her decision to stand up and follow behind Jorah.

As the horseman stopped in front of them, appearing rundown and malnourished like the others, his lips managed to twitch lightly upward. "Blood of my blood," he said in his native tongue of Dothraki. His voice was rough and scratchy, indicating his restlessness and depravity. "I return to you."

She looked at the young man with a genuine smile. Rakharo, the scout to have gone Northeast, was her most loyal Blood Rider. The one who had always stayed at her side, even after her late husband's death. "Blood of my blood. You return with good news, I hope?"

At this, his face turned to a small frown. "Not good, but..." He then looked over his shoulder to something behind him. "Not bad either."

Daenerys' smile disappeared when she followed his gaze and realized he had not returned alone. Being dragged gently in the dirt by the stallion was a canvas-made-stretcher, carrying within it an unconscious man wrapped in Dothraki cloth from shoulder-to-foot. She immediately, but slowly, walked over to the unknown individual and knelt beside him. Hastily examining the details of his face, she instantly took notice of his features: light colored but sunburnt skin, shortly cropped dark brown hair, long and hairless face, and squared chin. "He looks Westerosi." She looked back to Rakharo with a questioning stare. "Where did you find him?"

"In the sands, Khaleesi."

Confused by his answer, she took on a more piercing look in her eyes. "You simply came across him? In the middle of the desert?"

"I know it sounds impossible, but it is the truth." The Blood Rider shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. "He was already nearing death from a wound on his leg when my horse almost trampled him. He would have died had I not stopped the bleeding."

Jorah chose this moment to interject into the conversation, speaking in Westerosi. "I do not believe it was wise for Rakharo to bring him back here." The response Daenerys shot back at him was a swiftly turned glare. He explained himself before she could say a word. "We are already low on food and water as it is, Khaleesi. This man will be nothing more than another mouth to feed. A mouth that, might I add, will provide us no aid." He gestured to the unconscious man to emphasis his point. "In his current state, he will only serve as a liability."

"Then what would you have me do?" The Mother of Dragons' question was sharp, but not filled with any anger. Truth be told, she agreed with her adviser. This man did not belong to her Khalasar. He was a stranger who, for all she knew, might not take too kindly to be in the proximity of Dothraki. If his appearance was any indication to his ancestry lying in Westeros, he might favor being in the presence of a Targaryen even less so. Or he could drop to his knees the moment he woke up and declare his support for her. She just didn't know. Regardless, she remained hesitant to the idea of abandoning a man who so clearly needed the help. "Are you suggesting we leave him here to die?"

He remained silent for a moment in contemplation before meeting her gaze. "Sometimes it is best to forego the providing of aid when there is no such aid to give. If you care for your people, then you must tend to them and only them during their times of need."

It pained her to admit it, but Jorah won this debate. It was either risk the lives of her Khalasar even further or abandon a total stranger with no ties to her. For anyone else, it would have been an easy choice. But for Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, choosing to practically kill a man who had not yet proven to deserve it was difficult. Perhaps it will be easier knowing he will perish in his sleep, she thought morbidly.

"There is more, Khaleesi." Rakharo quickly gained their attention with that statement. "You can't see them now, but his clothes... they are strange."

Jorah's expression changed to one of puzzlement. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but instead decided against it and chose to investigate himself. After crouching down beside Daenerys, he began unwrapping the Dothraki cloth covering the unconscious man. What this action uncovered only led to bewilderment.

What the man wore was unlike anything they had ever seen. Both his shirt and pants were decorated entirely with a strange blocky pattern of colors, which varied from a light brown to a desert tan. Over his chest was what could only be described as a dark tan sleeveless vest of some sorts. Hanging off the front of the vest were several large pouches, containing what appeared to be pieces of metal – some large and blocky while others were small and spherical. Out of curiosity, Jorah knocked on the vest several times, only for his knuckles to hit something hard. It was like a plate of steel was hidden under the exterior's softer material. The strangest detail, however, was a small patch made from some kind of fiber or cloth that was attached near the top of the vest.

Daenerys leaned forward to get a better look at it and found words written upon it, much to her surprise. Even more astounding was the fact the words were using alphabetical letters from the Common Tongue of Westeros. "L-C-P-L Anthony Lehmann," she read aloud, not truly understanding what she was reading. "U-S-M-C." Placed above the words was a bizarre symbol: a marble combined with a ship's anchor and an eagle. Confusion clearly written on her face, she looked back toward Jorah. "Can you make anything of this?"

He shook his head in response, the expression on his face showing his equal confusion. "Only that 'Anthony Lehmann' sounds like a name."

"It is a name unlike I've ever heard." She pointed to the symbol on the patch. "And this sigil. I don't recognize it."

"An eagle, a marble, and an anchor. I can't say I recognize it either."

Before any more could be said or discovered, Rakharo reached behind himself and removed a large sack that had been hanging off the back of his horse. He let it fall to the ground, resulting in a loud and metallic impact. "I also found these on him. They are stranger."

Daenerys was the first to maneuver over to the fallen sack and open it, revealing an array of outlandish devices as well as a rucksack adorning the same pattern of colors as the man's clothing. What caught her eye above everything else, though, was a bulky tool of blackened metal. If what she had seen before was believed weird, then this object laying before her was truly the strangest thing she had ever seen. There wasn't any real way she could describe it; only that it was as long as a short sword, had a steel pipe sticking out of one end, what appeared to be a handle on the top meant for carrying the object, and had a sliver of metal vaguely similar in design to some crossbow triggers she had seen. Was that what it was? Some sort of crossbow-like weapon? If it was, she couldn't tell what it fired or how it did so. There did not seem to be any kind of mechanism that enabled the loading of a bolt. Nor were there strings that allowed for the firing of such a projectile. For all she could really tell, it looked like a culmination of several blocky pieces of iron crafted together.

She reached to pick up it with both hands, expecting it to weigh a considerable amount. However, she was taken aback by how light it truly was, the object not possibly weighing any more than ten kilograms. "So large, yet light," she muttered quietly before turning to Jorah. "Do you have any idea what this could be?"

"I cannot hope to tell you," he answered soberly. He too was eyeing the object in curiosity. "I'm just as baffled by this contraption as you are."

The Khaleesi gently placed it back down, not seeing the point of looking any longer for answers from something that cannot give them. She returned to the pile of various other odd gadgets and just could not help but wonder what they all were. She decided probing through it all was best for another time, and instead chose to examine the rucksack. Seeing what was inside it, however, came as a bit of a challenge. "I don't understand," she declared in frustration. "This is a bag, is it not?"

Jorah raised an eyebrow. "It appears to be so."

"Then why can I find no way to open it?"

"Allow me." Rakharo had dismounted his horse by this point. He took the rucksack when Daenerys surrendered it and unsheathed a Dothraki dagger, then plunged the blade into the bag and ripped into it. It took a bit of effort with the material being quite tough, but he nevertheless returned the bag to her with a new opening.

With a thankful nod of her head, she dipped her hand inside and started poring over its contents. She actually felt a tinge of excitement to search for the treasures it might hold. But much to her disappointment, she found nothing but more strange items and more questions. There wasn't a single thing she recognized. The Mother of Dragons was on the verge of giving up when, at the very bottom of the rucksack, she came across a small booklet about thirteen centimeters wide and twenty centimeters tall. Pulling it out in the daylight, she noticed the title on the all red hard cover appeared to have been written by hand. Furthermore, whoever wrote it had scribbled out two other titles before apparently finding one that was favorable. "'Days of a Devil Dog' by Anthony Lehmann." Her gaze shifted back to the unconscious man when realization hit her.

It was his journal.

Finally, she thought with a sense of relief. Some answers. Daenerys opened the small booklet to the first page, ready to dive into this Anthony Lehmann's story. Jorah, however, stopped her with a tap on the shoulder. "Perhaps it can wait." It was more a statement than a request.

"Why," she asked, slightly annoyed her investigation was halted. Jorah didn't answer, instead allowing her to notice how people had begun gathering around. Their expressions were equally curious and wishful, hoping for some good news to have been brought back with the returning scout. One young Dothraki woman in particular separated herself from the rest and proceeded to close the distance between herself and Rakharo. A strained but no less genuine smile spread on her lips, and as the Blood Rider met her gaze he responded in kind. Daenerys watched them embrace with a small smile of her own.

A moment later, Jorah turned back to the Mother of Dragons. "I'll begin collecting everything for you. Maybe I'll manage to give it all a semblance of order by the time you wish to go through it."

"You do that." She nodded her head in agreement and stood up to her feet. She was about to return to the meager shade of the erected canvas tent, but her advisor had yet to move. His eyes were still upon her as if he still wished to speak. "Yes, Ser Jorah?"

He finally looked away towards the unconscious man. "And what of him, Khaleesi?"

In the wake of the question, she too brought her attention back to the man. Laying down in the jumble of Dothraki cloth, he almost appeared to be in a state of peaceful slumber. Innocent and helpless. Of course, she thought it highly unlikely this grown man was worthy of such regard, but she couldn't help it. Everything they had seen of him, from his clothing to his equipment, spoke of a great mystery. A mystery she wished to solve. And it would only be solved if he was to survive his wounds and awake to tell his story. "We will look after him...

"... for now."

Three Days Later...

I'm not sure why I got this weird idea to start writing a journal. Just happened to come across some books and supplies one of the guys was getting rid of and the thought just came to me. Maybe I had some stupid feeling that I needed to start writing down everything that happens from here on out. Maybe it's just the nerves. I don't fucking know. No one ever said going to war doesn't put you a little on edge. It's freaking me out as much as its hyping me up. Doesn't really matter now anyways. I'm getting shipped off to fight and kill some Taliban.

Entry #1
July 17th, 2008

- First day in the sandbox. Farah Province, Afghanistan. I'm already hating it. Don't know why anyone would want to live here. It's nothing like the United States. The terrain is shitty. The government is shitty. I wouldn't trust the local Afghan police with a dollar bill, let alone an AK at my six. Place looks like it'd probably all go to hell in an instant if we weren't here to keep things in check.

Nick hates it even more. The guy hasn't stopped bitching and moaning since we got off the bird.

- At least there's some sweet looking haji girls to look at every now and then. One of them really cute ones waved at us while we were on our way to the outpost. With fine women like that, it's beyond me why the Taliban likes stirring shit up.

- Outpost Lorenzo. Nothing more than a bunch of hesco and sandbags strapped together with glue and duct tape. Our new home for the next few months. Guess I shouldn't have expected anything less from the Corps.

At least Nick stopped bitching. His shit was starting to get real annoying.

- We finally got ourselves set up and been assigned our posts. I got watch with Hernan tonight at 2100. Southwest barricades. Never really talked to the guy before today, but he seems pretty chill so far. He sure as hell can't be as bad as Nick. I almost feel bad for George. He got stuck with the pain in the ass on the North side.

We did get some good news though. Word is brass is planning a sweep on some village in the area. Don't know where exactly it's going down yet, but it's happening sometime soon. Just thinking about our first taste of combat is getting us all pumped up. This is what we Devil Dogs were trained to do.

- The day passed by without much else happening. Got as familiar as we could with the set up of the outpost, then went off to do all the mundane shit that's expected of us. Change the oil of a humvee. Clean your rifle. Try not to fall asleep around Jackson. The usual crap. I guess it keeps us busy. Stops us from getting into real trouble.

Watch starts in about fifteen minutes. Probably just going to spend the time getting to know Hernan better. After that I'm hitting the bunk and going to spend my first night in Afghanistan. Ain't anything exciting about it.

—

She found it all so very outlandish. Half of what was written didn't make much sense, due in no small part to the extensive use of unfamiliar slang and entirely foreign time and calendar systems. Yet, reaching inside the mind of Lehmann just a tad remained so very alluring. Clearly a soldier if his journal entries were to be interpreted correctly, though much more literate than the average example, he was certainly not of either Westeros or Essos. He wrote of locations even Ser Jorah had never heard of, such as this 'Afghanistan'. Daenerys assumed the country was not his home, but rather the country he was based in during the conflict against the so called 'Taliban' he participated in. He obviously held no love for it. Instead, she thought this 'United States' he mentioned might have been his homeland. It was impossible to be certain until she read further.

Jorah walked up to her then, a water skin in hand. "An interesting read, I presume," he asked while offering her the beverage.

She gratefully accepted it and relished the sensation of water soaking her mouth and throat. Kovarro, her second Blood Rider, had returned earlier that day with full saddlebags and news of a place named Qarth. He didn't return with too much food and drink, but it was enough to last them the journey to the trader city where they hoped to find welcoming hosts. A small smirk appeared on her face after she finished her share of the water skin. "I fear our new companion isn't the greatest of writers."

"Oh?" Her adviser raised his eyebrow in amusement. "Have you refused to let it go just for the joy of setting it ablaze yourself?"

Daenerys chuckled at that. "No, I don't believe I'll be discarding it just yet. While there is certainly room for more charm, the tale it tells happens to be quite intriguing."

"Aye?" As the two of them continued walking, his smile slowly began to disappear. It was soon replaced with an expression of serious concern. "And is it just that, a tale?"

A sigh escaped her lips. She knew what Jorah meant with that question. He wanted to know if she believed the story was more than just fiction. If she thought the booklet told the truth of a world unheard of before now. There was a very real possibility what Anthony Weber had written down was nothing more than the workings of a great imagination. All she'd come to learn could just be part of a large fabrication. But there was this nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that simply wasn't the case. Everything they had found, from the odd items he carried to his clothes, pointed to the man's journal being true to its words. "I don't know."

He accepted the answer with a nod. "All great mysteries have their fair share of truth and lies, Khaleesi."

Daenerys didn't know what his thoughts on the subject were, but she could see he understood the reasoning behind her response regardless. Such acceptance was one of the many qualities of the exiled knight she greatly appreciated. "You may be correct in that assessment, Ser Jorah." She shifted her gaze back to the journal, now closed shut with only the front cover visible, and allowed herself to get lost among her thoughts.

CHAPTER END

Author's Note: This is a shout out to any active or retired U.S. Marines who might be reading this - I'm looking for someone who knows more than me on the equipment, regulations, and operational procedures of you crayon-eaters. As a Navy guy myself, you can imagine I'm not as informed about the specifics of the Corps and the life of an infantryman as you guys, so any information from a first-hand source would be real appreciated. I'm well aware I've likely made multiple errors in this story so far, so any genuine criticisms and fixes you can give me would help a lot in making ALSAD better.

If any of you out there are interested, send me a PM. Thanks.