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.

III

Jorah

He watched and waited, patient and vigilant. He used each passing second to gauge the recently awoken stranger's reaction. Would the man have a fit of hysteric laughter, thinking what he was told to be a bad joke? Would he cry out his disbelief, denying his current circumstances? Or would he lash out with mixed emotions? Jorah didn't know Anthony Lehmann. Even though Daenerys had shared some of what was written in the journal they found, only she had read it. She likely had a better understanding of what kind of person they were dealing with. With that being the case, though, it was still impossible to truly determine who exactly Anthony was without any prior interaction. What were his greatest fears? His proudest strengths? Was he conceited? Audacious? Was he principled and honor-bound? Did he have a benevolent nature? Or was he a man who delighted in cruelty towards others? The Westerosi exile just didn't know.

And so, he observed like a wary hawk. To protect Daenerys.

Several moments passed after the Mother of Dragons had provided an answer – if a somewhat vague one – to Anthony's question regarding his whereabouts. It was several moments of silence with the man merely staring at her, an expression of utter confusion on his face. Jorah started to wonder if he would say anything at all, up until the moment the sound of laughing began echoing throughout the room. It was quiet at first; a chuckle barely escaping the lips. But it raised in volume soon enough, eventually reaching the point where anyone outside was surely hearing it.

So it is to be the first, he thought sourly.

Daenerys visibly grew agitated. She didn't groan or necessarily scowl in an outward show of frustration, but there was a distinct fire that reached her eyes. "You find this humorous?" Her voice was nearly muted by Anthony's laughter, but he seemed to hear well enough. The way he looked at her before gradually beginning to calm himself down indicated so.

"I find it fuckin' hysterical," he declared as he wiped away a small tear building up in his right eye.

That was something Jorah had caught onto quickly: Lehmann's unabashed attitude and apparent lack of manners. Ignoring the man's strange and unrecognizable accent, he spoke like an uneducated commoner even while his journal provided evidence to the contrary. Although most of his entries were described by Daenerys as hasty and unintelligent, she also told of a few instances where it appeared he had put real thought and effort into what he wrote. It was obvious he knew how to read and write effectively. However, the fact made it that more concerning when he decided to act and speak in such a rash manner. The least the man could have done when approached in a civilized fashion was not behave so undignified.

"You stand in the presence of a lady," Jorah stated heatedly.

"I'm apparently talking to a queen, didn't you hear? 'Queen of the Andals and the First Men', whoever the hell they are." Anthony chuckled again, apparently finding everything funny. "What was that, like four titles?"

"It was five." Daernerys' glare was deathly, seemingly trying to burn with looks alone.

"Right, because that makes it so much better." The man burst into another small fit of giggling, his hand coming up to cover his mouth in a futile attempt to keep himself quiet.

It was at this point Jorah's patience had run dry. With his anger obvious, he took a step forward and brought his hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip in an intentionally exaggerated fashion. He wanted Anthony to know he was armed and ready to use the weapon. "You will cease your disrespect or I will cut out your tongue!"

The man's gaze traveling to the sheathed sword before moving back up to lock with the Westerosi exile's own stare, but he didn't seem to be either threatened or afraid by the warning. In fact, he appeared unimpressed. "You're going to use a sword?" He looked between Jorah and Daenerys with an amused incredulity. "Are you kidding me? You live in a place like this and somehow can't get some old A-K off the black market?" In a surprising show of strength and willpower, he then pushed himself up off the seat with only the slightest wince. It gave Jorah an excuse to draw his sword halfway from its scabbard. "Fine," Anthony exclaimed loudly. Standing fully, the expression on his face turned dark. "Go ahead and try it!"

"You believe I won't cut you down where you stand?" Jorah was becoming uncertain with this turn of events. This wasn't how the meeting was supposed to play out, and now this unarmed stranger was raving like a lunatic. In front of Daenerys no less! He was practically begging to be gutted with a blade. "Do you truly have such little care for your own life?"

"I haven't been afraid of death for a while now."

An intense silence filled the room in the following moments, leaving Jorah to momentarily wonder what it was they had been thinking when they decided to nurture the crazed man back to health. He quickly concluded they should have just left him in the desert to die from his injuries and save themselves from this madness. "So be it." With a little bit of satisfaction, he took hold of his sword completely. The sound of drawn steel bounced off the walls.

"You will yield your blade, Ser Jorah!"

The exiled knight froze in place at the command. His eyes were determined yet pleading when he turned to look at the Mother of Dragons. "Khaleesi..."

Her sour stare never left Anthony as she continued. "There will be no blood spilled here today," she declared in a lower volume. Her tone, however, was still fierce and dominating. "Not yet, anyways."

Jorah looked back at the man with a strong desire to slay what he perceived to be a threat, regardless of what was ordered of him. He controlled the urges, though. No matter his enmity for the stranger, his feelings and respect for the woman he followed were greater. With an acute reluctance, he stepped back and sheathed his sword.

"Anthony Lehmann..." Daenerys' face contorted with disgust and disappointment when she addressed him. "I risked the lives of my people, when they were starving and with little hope for survival, to save you. I dared to make the risk even when I was advised against it. And now? Now you dare stand here and mock me. You disrespect my name and my advisor – my friend – after all we had done for you?"

Anthony took a shaky step backwards as his dark expression faded away. Taking its place was shame and sorrow, the realization of his despicable behavior apparently coming to him. The Khaleesi's words were hitting with the force of an arrow through the heart. "I-"

"Your excuses..." she interrupted coldly. "They mean nothing." She walked around the table and moved closer to him, daring the man to meet her gaze. He couldn't. "I asked of you to hold your tongue and remain courteous out of respect for me. Yet no more than a few minutes did it take for you to fail at that simple request. Are you aware of what that implies?"

"..."

His lack of a response only made her narrow her eyes more. "Since you aren't denying so, am I to understand you hold no respect for me? The one person who ensured your survival?"

To this, Anthony finally snapped his head around to look directly into Daenerys' violet stare. "No, I couldn't thank you enough!"

"Then explain why you would disregard all my efforts. Why attempt to throw yourself upon the nearest blade as soon as you awake?"

Once again, he let loose a chuckle. But unlike before where it was laughter in the face of something humorous, not an ounce of amusement was now carried with it. It was instead dejected and mirthless. "Because what you're saying makes no damn sense."

She continued glaring at Anthony for a few seconds before turning around and returning to the balcony railing. "And what, pray tell, confused you enough to act so shamefully?"

"Do I really have to explain that?!" His wide and disbelieving eyes shifted to Jorah, as if wordlessly asking the exiled knight to tell him otherwise, before turning back to the silver-gold haired woman. "You're over here tellin' me you're medieval royalty, and talkin' about houses and titles and shit! 'Queen of the Andals'? 'Khaleesi of the Grass Sea'? Or better yet, 'Mother of Dragons'? The hell is that even supposed to mean?!"

Daenerys turned her head to the side, motioning over her shoulder but not looking back at Anthony. "Do you say that because you don't believe my claim as a monarch?"

"It's everything," he admitted bluntly. "Not only do you expect me to believe you're some queen, but also that you just happened to come across me while I was unconscious in the middle of Afghanistan? You can't stand there and tell me that doesn't sound absolutely fuckin' crazy!"

Jorah liked to believe his knowledge of the known world and its recorded history was better than most, likely only bested by that of the maesters of Oldtown. Ever since his expulsion from Westeros, he had visited nearly every major point of interest in the continent of Essos and read about the rest. Yet there is was. Afghanistan. The name of a country unknown by any map or people. A place the exiled knight had never heard a single reference to in all his travels. It was a significant reason, among others, that caused him to first think lehmann's journal nothing more than a work of fiction. As he looked upon the man's expression of honest bewilderment and exasperation, however, Jorah began doubting his assumptions. He still refused to accept everything that had been written down in that book as the complete truth. Too much of what was in there would have been unbelievable even for the most gullible of men. But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Anthony Weber believed Afghanistan was as real as this very room.

"But we did not find you in this 'Afghanistan,'" Daenerys affirmed.

"What? What do you mean you didn't find me in..." Anthony paused and brought his palm to his forehead, stress and an even more severe level of confusion crossing his face. When he continued speaking, it appeared it was more to himself than anyone else. "That's impossible! The Black Hawk should have been on its way to Kandahar. There's no way it could have crossed the border!"

"I can assure that you had not crossed any country's borders beforehand." Daenerys was staring at him again, her eyes giving away no indications of dishonesty. "You were laying in the middle of the Red Waste, the largest desert in Essos. Alone and hundreds of miles from any signs of civilization."

"The 'Red Waste'? 'Essos'? What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I do not like to repeat myself, Anthony Lehmann."

Anthony's skepticism became visible. "You're kidding me, right," he asked with a snort. "That bullshit you said about this being a different world?"

Daenerys' eyes lit up with the intensity of a roaring flame once again. She clearly didn't take kindly to the idea of being accused of lying. What she said next in response to the implication was raised not in volume, but in sheer tone and ambience. Her voice was firm and dominating in comparison to Anthony's puzzled and desperate. "Ser Jorah. Retrieve us a map."

—

They were now alone in the room, Lehmann having returned to his own lodging a minute prior. The previous conversation, if it could have been called that, had been tiring. The Westerosi had never removed his hand from the pommel of his sword. Even with the map of the known world at hand, Anthony had been stubborn to accept what the Mother of Dragons attempted to convince him. When he saw the parchment displaying the continents of Westeros and Essos, he questioned its integrity. He said such lands did not exist. However, his words had been shaky. Jorah's previous use of the sword especially seemed to cement those seeds of doubt, if not curiously so. Their argument began turning in their favor even further when Daenerys explained they had never before heard of the countries he spoke of. The 'Afghanistan' his journal said he waged war in and the 'United States' he had eventually personally admitted to being his homeland. When she had finished presenting her case with all the seriousness in the world to prove she was not lying, the 'American' – that is what he titled himself as – had frozen in place with a dreadful look before quietly leaving with a painful limp. He even refused to accept aid by Irri, who had been waiting outside during the entirety of the meeting.

And so there they were. "That man should not remain here," Jorah implored Daenerys. "He is too dangerous."

She gave him a questioning look. "You find him too much for you to handle?"

"I find him to be a threat we shouldn't give to chance." Jorah didn't trust Anthony Weber. He was the soldier of an unknown faction with unknown intentions and agendas. His journal did not help the matter; the way it seemed to glorify the 'War in Afghanistan' at some points was disturbing at times. On several occasions in the book he had referenced how the warriors like him – the 'Marines' – were trained to be cold blooded killers. 'Born to Kill,' in his own written words. And if the recently finished discussion showed anything of his mental health... "He is not of a stable mind. And his disrespect toward you and your name-"

Daenerys interrupted before he could finish that last statement. "His disrespect, while despicable, was not intolerable." She met her advisor's gaze, eyes soft but steady. "We must remember he is not of this world, Ser Jorah."

He didn't want to admit to her he still didn't believe that claim. The ramifications of such a fact would've had to entail the only oddity that could have made it possible: Magic. Such an unknown only served to make him grow further anxious. However, he kept his opinion of the matter to himself, not wanting to approach the subject of another disagreement. "And that is exactly why you need to practice caution!"

"Do not presume to know what I need," she countered sharply, no longer carrying any softness in her nature.

Jorah frowned slightly, recognizing his poor use of words. "Khaleesi... we know little of where he comes from. What we do know is entirely from the man's own accounts."

She stared at him for a moment longer before looking away back towards the direction the wounded man had left. "I understand your concerns-"

"Yet you ignore them."

"-but I don't believe Anthony Lehmann holds any ill intent."

He didn't understand. How could she be so blind? Anthony was unpredictable, rash, and had no respect for those of noble blood. The man had a lethal skillset as a trained soldier, even if said abilities were not fully understood. Jorah saw the clear and present danger posed, but he just couldn't figure out why Daenerys didn't. "How can you be sure of that? Why do you insist he is a good man after what you've seen of him?"

"I do not insist anything!" Her fierce glare and heavy tone prompted his silence. A moment later, she turned to the room's round dining table and walked towards a small rectangular-shaped bundle of Dothraki cloth. It had been laying there since earlier in the morning. When she unwrapped it, Anthony's journal was revealed to be hidden within. She quietly stared at it for several seconds before speaking again, her voice having turned slightly sober. "I had intended to return it to him."

It took some contemplation, but Daenerys' reasoning finally dawned on him. She hadn't shared all that was discovered to be written inside the Journal. She was hiding something that promoted this forgiving nature toward Anthony Weber... and it hurt Jorah to think she couldn't trust him well enough to tell him. "What don't I know," he asked slowly, almost in a whisper. He didn't intend for it to sound like a demand.

"Nothing that you have any business to know."

But you have the right, he questioned her angrily in his mind. The bitterness he felt at the unreasonable answer gave him cause to speak out with a bit more intensity. "How am I to understand-"

Her fingers were flipping carefully but aimlessly through the pages of the booklet as she interrupted again. She still didn't look back at him. "You don't need to understand our guest. Only ensure he causes no harm."

How was he supposed to defend against a threat he did not understand? "But you need to understand him," he asked with growing boldness and skepticism.

Only then did her gaze finally meet his, her vivid violet containing a certain sadness. The emotion, however, wasn't for him. "Someone must." She kept hold of their locked stares for a little longer, but refused to say more before eventually turning away and motioning to leave. When she reached the top of the staircase leading to the courtyard below, she stopped for merely a brief moment. "It is as you said that night. He is likely a broken man."

His eyes widened as he watched her descend the steps, his mind going back to that particular memory.

Two Days Prior...

The contraption was laid down horizontally on the large table in front of him. A complex puzzle daring to be solved. He had been examining it for some time now, attempting and often failing to decipher its exact purpose. It was completely foreign to anything he had ever experimented with before. It was large and metallic – although not all of it he discovered was in fact metal – yet still incredibly lightweight and easy to wield for its size. He did, however, make some recent revelations. Firstly, he believed he managed to figure out how the damn thing was meant to be held. The larger, blander piece on its backend was eerily similar in design to a heavy crossbow stock while the handle piece placed just behind the barrel-like fixture at the front felt as if it had been intentionally crafted for a man's hand to hold. Which further implied it was, in fact, a device meant to fire projectiles of some sort.

And that led to the next and more important discovery. Hidden inside the strange boxes that had been carried within the pouches of Lehmann's vest were these small cylindrical pieces of bronze no longer than his index finger. Hundreds, all exactly alike in shape and size with one end pointed and the other flat, packaged and linked together in some sort of chained belt. Underneath each one was an engraving that began with the letters 'HP' and ended with an assortment of four numbers. It didn't make any sense to him, but he shrugged it off and went on to mull over an idea that came to mind. Were these the projectiles the contraption fired? He didn't see how they could possibly be so; they were too small to be comparable to an arrow or a bolt. Regardless, it was the only conclusion he could come up with.

A woman's voice broke the quiet of the dimly lit room, ceasing Jorah's actions before he could potentially test the theory. "Find anything of interest yet?"

He turned behind to see Daenerys standing in the open doorway. She was wearing a dark purple nightgown, obviously prepared to rest for the night once finished with this conversation. They had been in Qarth for about three and a half days now, and her once sunburnt skin had finally reverted back to its pale – albeit still slightly tanned – hue. There were still marks on her skin here and there, displaying the flaky and dead skin peeling off, but they were only visible unless one was to look closely. "Possibly."

She walked over to the table at a slow and slightly tired pace. When she reached his side, her gaze traveled down to the contraption. "Then by all means, Sir Jorah. Proceed."

He nodded at the subtle command and returned to the belt of small bronze objects laid upon the table. "I believe I may have found what its shoots," he explained while lifting it up for her to see.

The Mother of Dragons raised a curious eyebrow to show her interest. "So you've concluded it's indeed a weapon?" He nodded again in affirmation. "And you think it shoots these bronze... whatever they are, rather than a bolt or arrow?"

"The boxes we found in his vest contain hundreds of them, all linked together in these odd belts that appear specifically designed to carry them. But what I found interesting are their proportions..." He placed the belt back down, then retrieved a caliper from an assortment of scientific instruments arrayed at the side of the table. "Each individual piece has the exact same length and diameter." He demonstrated this by measuring the length of one of the bronze projectiles at the very end of the belt with the caliper. Then, without adjusting the tool's jaws, moved on to the next piece. And the one after that. All three fitted inside the space of the jaws perfectly. "I've measured them at about fifty-seven millimeters long, and a little less than a centimeter wide at the base of the flat end."

Daenerys' eyes widened in amazement as her hands maneuvered to pick up the end of the belt. "How can that be," she asked more to herself, her voice nearly a whisper. "Such precision between so numerous metal workings-"

"-would require craftsmen equal in skill to those of Old Valyria," Jorah finished for her. He too had been amazed by the revelation after he first discovered it. But also intimidated by what it might imply to the capabilities of Anthony's home society. "Perhaps greater."

Their musings, however, were soon interrupted by an abrupt wail of pain, it echoing from the room's doorway and the corridor outside. It came just as fast as it went, leaving the world quiet after only a second or two. Jorah's first reaction to the sound was to reach for his sword and position himself between Daenerys and the door. He immediately expected the worst, associating such noise with the act of a blade gutting a man. "What was-"

He silenced her quickly with a mumbled 'shush' and a finger over his lips. A few seconds later, the repeating sounds of footsteps coming from the hallway began growing in volume. The exiled knight pulled his sword from its scabbard then, although slowly as to not allow whoever was approaching to hear the steel be unsheathed, and assumed a defensive Middle Guard stance. The hilt of his sword was held low and to the center while the sword itself was pointed upward.

Fortunately, he didn't have to shove his blade into the first person to walk through the doorway. Rakharo would have lost his face otherwise. "Khaleesi," the Blood Rider immediately called in Dothraki as soon as he appeared and laid eyes on the woman. There was a sense of urgency in his tone. "It is the man. You must come."

Knowing who he was referring to, Daenerys stepped forward still wary but now a bit relaxed in stature. "Is he awake," she asked in the same language.

"No, but he is moving." It was clear he didn't fully understand what was going on either."You must come and see for yourself."

She shared a look with Jorah, both having puzzled expressions on their faces, before accepting Rakharo's request with a nod. The Blood Rider led the way as they left the room and proceeded into the corridor, the Mother of Dragons following behind and Jorah remaining closely at her rear after returning his blade to its scabbard. The trio managed to wordlessly walk halfway down the hall, nothing but the occasional flicker of torch flames to break the silence, when another cry sounded off. This one was louder than the last. "Was he hurt," she asked almost accusingly.

"No," he replied quickly, addressing the underlying question as well. "He began speaking in his sleep a few minutes ago, and we thought he would wake. But he didn't."

They reached the open door to Lehmann's room before anymore could be said, walking inside to be greeted with the mournful moans of the unconscious man. Irri was already at his bedside, holding him at the legs while another Dothraki man – the room's nighttime guard – kept a tight grasp of his forearms. Anthony wasn't violently thrashing about at that very moment, but he was sweating quite profusely and slightly writhing around in the bed. "Why is he being held down," Jorah asked at the sight.

"He was moving. Kicking and swinging," Irri answered. "We are making sure he doesn't start again."

Daenerys immediately moved to the side of the bed and almost pushed passed her adviser in doing so. She had a worried expression as she looked down at Anthony's pitiful state, particularly taking interest in the over abundant drops of sweat coating his skin. "Is he with fever?"

"I believe so."

The Mother of Dragons placed the back of her hand on the man's forehead in response, wishing to confirm the suspicion herself. Her eyes widened near-instantly. "He's much too hot," she stated aloud in Common Tongue before turning back to the Dothraki woman. "I thought his wound was cleaned?"

"It was, Khaleesi, and still is. It is not the cause of the fever."

Her gaze went back down to the bedridden man again, confusion and uneasiness written on her face. It was then she noticed his lips were moving even though he wasn't still moaning out his suffering. She bent down, head turned to the side and ear close to his lips, and listening intently to his mumbling. Jorah mirrored the action, although remained somewhat distant as to not obstruct her. All he managed to hear was two words.

"Should have..."

It wasn't entirely surprising for the exiled knight to hear Lehman speak Westerosi considering the man's journal was written in the language. However, it was nonetheless a notable moment. One he had to ignore for the time being; whatever else had been said was enough cause for Daenerys to be taken aback. "What did he say?"

She lifted her head up and straitened herself before turning to Jorah. Her voice was slow and quiet as she answered. "'Should have been me.'"

CHAPTER END