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.

II

Anthony

When he first opened his eyes, feeling the warm air in his throat and the dry climate against his skin, it came as a shock. He hadn't expected to awake again. He had been dying alone in the middle of a desert with a mangled leg, the effects of heavy blood loss stopping him from properly re-bandaging it. There had been enough red everywhere to warrant such an assessment. Never would he have claimed to be highly proficient in medical aid, but even he could have accomplished the task had unconsciousness not claimed him. But even if he had managed to somehow survive his injury, it appeared he had gotten left behind. Abandoned in the endless stretches of sand. By all rights, he should have been dead, whether from the bullet hole in his leg or the any number of grimly demises a desert could inflict upon a poor lone soul.

Momentarily putting aside his miraculous escape from death, Anthony's next thoughts went to the bed he now found himself resting in. The last time he had a chance to relax on a quality mattress had been much too long ago. Ever since his enlistment in the Marine Corps first began and he was dropped into the small hell that was Parris Island, he hadn't taken to affording the comfort of anything beyond government-provided furniture. Bunks in the military weren't meant for leisure; they were barely acceptable for sleeping on. With this bed, however, he could've easily lost himself in its soft and inviting cushioning. It was an object made for luxury.

Following that was the spacious room around him. Brightly lit by sunlight flowing in through several open-air windows, it looked like something out of a rich man's dreams. The windows were lined with curtains made of silk so fine and smooth they alone must have costed a small fortune. Extravagant furnishings littered and decorated the room, and the table in the center held china so ornate it all appeared to be akin to a well-kept antique collection. In fact, everything seemed like it was ripped straight out of a historical museum exhibit, candle stands and all. He figured the owner of the building was ridiculously wealthy, as well as incredibly forthcoming to have taken in a wounded marine under his or her care. American sympathizers tended to be large targets for the Taliban. Which only further begged the questions: Where the hell was he? And who had saved his life?

He attempted to sit up then, his muscles stiff and aching from lack of use, when he noticed for the first time the unfamiliar clothing he was wearing. Replacing his desert MARPAT camouflaged FROG combat shirt and trousers were a pair of cotton garments. The white shirt was a bit tight around the shoulders, while the brown pants were well fitted around his waist but stretched too far passed his heels. Similar to everything else he'd seen so far, the clothes looked very old fashioned. Almost like it better belonged in a renaissance fair.

A feminine gasp suddenly echoed, giving Anthony cause to see a lone woman now standing near the doorway at the other end of the room. She had brown hair so dark it was nearly black, and the shade of her skin combined with her facial features gave her a fairly Arab appearance. Her clothing, however, was far from Middle Eastern in style. They were something to be expected from a... well, the only thing he could think of to make a comparison to was a Mongolian nomad. Seeing as she was stunned by finding him conscious, he decided to take the initiative in setting up a dialogue. Unfortunately, he didn't know any Arabic – there was no reason to believe he wasn't still somewhere in Afghanistan – and so had to fall back on the hope she understood English. Should've remembered those damn lessons from the Marine Net course, he thought grudgingly. Only makes sense that mistake would come back to bite me in the ass. "Uh... hi." It wasn't one of his best introductions by any stretch of the means, but these were strange circumstances.

She responded near instantaneously, but not in English or Arabic. Although he couldn't speak it, the marine had heard it enough times to know what it sounded like. What she spoke almost sounded like the Middle Eastern language at first, yet it quickly proved to be something else entirely. More guttural and rough. She must have noticed he didn't understand her, as she hastily went on to correct the problem. "Stay." Only one word before she turned around and left the room.

Her use of English startled him for a moment, but he recovered quickly. Guess my luck hasn't run out just yet. Finding no reason to disobey the woman's command for the meantime, Anthony took the opportunity to inspect his leg. He found its wound, located a few inches above his kneecap, wrapped tightly in white gauze. It wasn't stained red, indicating either the bleeding had long been stopped or the dressings had been changed recently. However, he couldn't examine it any further. The sound of footsteps at the room's entrance drew his attention.

When the same woman from a few moments ago came walking in, she was accompanied by a middle-aged man dressed in a dark brown Scottish-style long skirt and a beige cotton shirt with some sort of blue undergarment underneath. He was a bit tall, likely reaching somewhere around six feet, and had a full beard stretching around his face. His light brown hair had feint signs of graying and his face was beginning to freckle, giving proof of his older age. His blue eyes fell upon the recently awoken marine with a sharp look, staring with an inquisitive gaze. It was like he was sizing up a possible threat. "Can you understand me," the man asked stoically with a light British accent.

If Anthony had been surprised to hear the woman speak English, seeing an Englander was knocking his brain sideways. He spent a few seconds looking back and forth between the two individuals. "Um, yeah." The puzzlement in his voice was as clear as day. "I understand you just fine."

"Good. Can you walk?"

The marine's gaze darted back to his wounded leg for a split second. "Not without help, at least until I get used to it."

"I assumed that would be the case," the middle-aged man said with a small understanding nod. He then turned to the woman standing beside him. "Irri here will aid you until a suitable cane can be found."

The woman – Irri as she had been called – wordlessly proceeded to move over to the bed and help Anthony maneuver off the mattress. He accepted without protest; he would've had to be crazy to argue against receiving the attention of a cute girl. And cute she was, in his opinion. "Works for me." A small smile was given to her before he looked back to the man. "But mind if I ask where you're taking me? Actually, think you can tell me where we are to begin with?"

"Any questions you have regarding state-of-affairs will be answered in due time. As for where you are going, we're taking you to the woman who saved your life."

The man said not a word more before he stepped out of the room, leaving the interested marine to be quietly aided to his feet by Irri. "Thanks," Anthony said with another smile before reaching the door, to which she responded with a small nod. They entered a hallway with several other closed doors on both sides once they left the room, finding the middle-aged man to have merely been waiting there instead of inside. He about-faced towards the bright light at the far end of the long corridor upon seeing the two and silently proceeded onward. "So... you said a woman saved my life?"

"Yes," the man answered as dryly as the first time.

"Who is she?"

"You will meet her soon enough."

"How did she save me?"

"She can answer that for you."

Anthony cringed slightly as his irritation with the ongoing back-and-forth grew. The older man was replying to his questions without actually providing any solid answers. Feeling the need to act out his part as a disgruntled marine for just a moment, he decided to take a shot at messing around with the guy. "Is she at least cute?"

To this, the man turned his head to send a not-so-subtle glare. It quickly shifted into an annoyed frown once he noticed Anthony's smirk. "Must you ask so many questions?"

The marine shrugged, smug smile on his face. "I just woke up in a weird place. Can you blame me for being curious?"

"No," the man sighed bitterly. "I suppose not."

The trio reached the end of the hallway at that moment, a sudden wave of heat washing over them. Anthony passed through the open doorway covering his eyes, the direct exposure to sunlight causing them to sting and tear up. Irri ceased their movement and granted him some time to adjust. "Damn," he muttered to himself. It took about five to ten seconds, but when his vision did finally adapt he was met with the fascinating scene of a lush and fertile courtyard. Trees, shrubs, and a wide variety of plant life were placed all about the small area, giving a controlled feeling of natural chemistry rather than wild and untamed growth. The perimeters walls were, interestingly, made from an old style of large brick. They kind of resembled castle walls. "Woah."

"Like what you see?"

The marine spared a glance to the middle-aged man and nodded. "Yeah. It's..."

"Marvelous?"

"'Marvelous' is a good word for it, I guess."

"If you admire these gardens, you might be surprised by the splendor of the rest of the city."

City? Anthony's attention shifted entirely back to the man, eyebrow raised. Before he could ask the new question on his mind, however, the recipient of his curious gaze started walking down a pathway leading deeper into the courtyard. It was then, as Irri prompted the wounded marine to follow, that he finally noticed the other people moving throughout. Men and women all dressed in attire similar to his aid's. What truly caught him off guard, though, were the tools all of the men were carrying with them. Are those swords? "Who are you people," he asked her as he stared confounded at the sickle-shaped blades.

She looked at him with a somewhat puzzled expression. "Have you never seen Dothraki before today?"

"Is that what your people are called? Dothraki?" She nodded in affirmation before he continued. "Can't say I have. Are you an Afghani tribe or something like that?"

Rather than give an immediate answer like he expected, Irri instead stared at him the same way as before. She did so long enough for him to begin feeling uncomfortable and confused. "No," she finally said after longer than preferred. Her reply frustrated him further, but not another word was shared between them.

The middle-aged man continued guiding them through the courtyard, eventually leading them to an area that narrowed down to a single stone pathway. At the end of the path was a set of stairs that raised upward to what looked like a large second story balcony at first glance. It was at the bottom of this staircase that the man stopped and turned back toward the marine. "She has already been informed of your awakening, and will be waiting for you above. I insist you remain respectful and provide her the proper courtesy."

Anthony narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't raised in a pigsty if that's what your implying."

"I wasn't implying anything," he stated sharply. The next few seconds were spent with the elder man and the wounded marine staring each other down, before eventually the man decided to end whatever disagreement they were having before it really started. He walked up the stairs and silently motioned for Anthony and Irri to follow.

For whatever reason, it was blatantly obvious to the marine that the man didn't trust him. How an unconscious person near death could agitate someone so, he had no clue. The fact only added another annoying piece to the giant puzzle he found himself in. Damn Brit, he thought sourly as Irri helped him up the stone staircase. His eyes would have been piercing the back of the older man's head had they been daggers. Needs to get that stick out of his ass. Anthony would have continued with that train of thought, but that all went out the window once he reached the top of the stairs. His desire to dwell on his agitation for the Englander flew away like a leaf on the wind.

It was a simply-designed if not lavishly decorated bedroom, with a single queen-sized bed, a round wooden coffee table, two end tables made of stone, and a few other smaller pieces of elegantly fashioned wooden furniture. The window curtains were of a golden, almost see-through fabric rather than silk. In one corner of the room was an immense statue that looked to be made of genuine gold; it was probably worth millions.

However, all of these luscious examples of great expenses paled in comparison to the woman sitting at the small table. Her long slightly curled hair, which reached down to her waist, was of a bright silver-gold color unlike anything the marine had seen before. Her slender and petite figure boasted smooth and unblemished skin that still appeared pale and creamy even while advertising a light sun-brown tan. Her youthful face held no flaws, such as a freckle or a scar, that marred its image of delicate grace. The strange yet riveting dress she wore, consisting of a brown leather skirt, a purple cotton midriff, and a golden trinket that went around her neck and down over her breasts, enhanced her features even more so. But it was her eyes that captured him. Their vibrant and exotic shade of pure violet met his unremarkable dark brown, and in no time at all he was ensnared by their allure. They were almost hypnotic – eyes a man could easily fall in love with at first sight.

The woman in front of him wasn't just beautiful. She was, he dared believe, physically perfect.

"If I didn't know any better, I would say you were frozen in awe by the sight of a living member of my bloodline." Her voice, accented in what almost sounded like a Londoner dialect, carried with it a sense of strength and confidence. "It is good I know better." Her gaze momentarily moved to the middle-aged man, who in turn proceeded to clear his throat.

It was then Anthony realized he had been staring at the women and no doubt making himself look a fool. He awkwardly shifted in place, ignoring what she had said and mentally degrading himself for such a poor first impression. "Alright," he mumbled before straightening his back and speaking up. "Lance Corporal Anth-"

"We know who you are, Anthony Lehmann," she interrupted abruptly with a gentle smile. "There is no need for an introduction on your part." She lifted her hand and gestured toward the chair across the table from her. "Please, take a seat. It must be uncomfortable walking around with a leg that hasn't yet healed."

He didn't know what to make of that. It was to be expected she at least knew his name and affiliation, considering she was the one who saved his life, but the way she was staring at him with that knowing yet equally curious look made him uneasy regardless of her sympathy for his injury. "That'd be appreciated. It's been aching ever since I woke up." It wasn't a lie.

She waited until Irri gently placed him in the chair, then gave a brief nod and watched the brunette leave before turning back to Anthony. "Do you know who I am?" It was a simple and honest inquiry, not a condescending question.

"The person who saved my life?" he asked rhetorically. He motioned towards the middle-aged man, who had positioned himself a few feet behind the woman in a guarding stance. "That's all he told me about you."

She spared the man another brief glance, then looked back to the marine and continued. "And what of my hair, or the color of my eyes? Do they mean nothing to you?"

"I've never seen or heard of anyone with hair and eyes like you." Perhaps it was his inner fool – the one that seemed to be drawn to this stranger's exoticism – that encouraged him to say more. Or maybe the disgruntled Devil Dog inside him that hadn't personally interacted with a woman in a considerable amount of time was making a little push. Whatever it was, it seemed he just couldn't help himself. "But they don't mean nothing to me, ma'am."

To this, her lips curved into a smaller but more genuine smile than the last. However, her expression faded to impassiveness nearly as soon as it occurred. As for the man behind her, his gaze narrowed into a glare as a controlled but still very visible grimace spread across his face. "She is not a 'madam'-"

He was quickly interrupted by the woman's swift raising of her hand. "It's alright. I am sure he meant no offense with the title." As she went on speaking, her violet eyes never looked away from the marine's. "Tell me. Do you know where we are?"

Anthony's eyebrow lifted to the odd question, even as a strange knot began forming in his gut. "Not really. Somewhere in Afghanistan, right?" He looked back and forth between the woman and the middle-aged man, their lack of an immediate and affirmative response unsettling him further with every second that passed. "Where else would we be?"

When she did answer, her voice was slow and carried with it what sounded like a hint of sorrow. "You are not where you think you are." The woman stood up then, her gaze finally leaving his look of bewilderment, and walked over to the balcony to stare upon something unseen by anyone else. "In fact, I believe there are many things you will come to learn are no longer true."

It was at this point the marine was becoming severely agitated. First it was the older man and his irritable attitude, and now it was this woman – who's charm was beginning to wane in Anthony's eyes – with her ambiguity. If he wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, then where was he and how did he get there? Why couldn't someone just give him some straight answers? And now that he thought about it, where was all his gear? "Enough with this," he declared, his grievance clearly heard. "I'm thankful for you saving my life, really, and I have no idea how to repay you. But can you people just tell me what the hell's going on already? Where am I, and who are you?"

The silver-gold haired woman turned back to him then, a certain authoritarian edge now carried in her expression. When she spoke, it was with a sharpness that told of her annoyance. "I sympathize with your frustration, but if you truly appreciate the charity I have given for your life, I insist you do not speak out of turn."

A small growl rumbled in Anthony's throat. He wanted to stand up and talk back, asking who the hell this woman thought she was, but he didn't. Somehow, someway, she had saved his life. As much as their approach to his questioning angered him, he had to give her the respect she deserved. She didn't need to save him, a random stranger in the middle of the desert, but she did so anyways. It was also entirely possible he held himself back merely because she was a beautiful woman. For a twenty-year-old sexually deprived Devil Dog, good looks would likely always have too much influence.

Silence was consent, and seeing as the marine wasn't going to say anything back, the woman gestured toward the middle-aged man at her side and continued speaking. "This is my most trusted advisor and confidant, Ser Jorah Mormont. I have no doubt of his name's unfamiliarity to you." She paused only for but a short moment, seeing Anthony's waiting gaze. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Mother of Dragons." She walked back to the table, but didn't return to her seat. Instead, she remained on her feet, standing over and looking down upon the perplexed expression of the marine. "I will not pretend to understand how or why you arrived in that lifeless desert from which we found you, but..." Suddenly, her voice and eyes took on a more solemn mood. "I fear this is not the world you know, Anthony Weber."

CHAPTER END