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.

VI

Jorah

The stench of blood, burnt flesh, and an odd smoky odor permeated the air around the growing gathering, providing a noxious aroma to the exiled Mormont's sense of smell. The ground beneath him, once a clean walkway of paved stone, had been redecorated with burn marks and patches of red. The moans of a few still living, some in pain and others in mourning, broke any semblance of silence in the courtyard. He didn't know what to make of it all. He knew what he was looking at, but how exactly the scene before him came to be remained elusive. Especially the mangled bodies of three young Dothraki adolescents. It was as if a small, yet powerful and fiery force tore through them, most of one's arm having nearly been severed. The extent of the lacerations done to the limb was thorough; one would have been hard pressed to recognize it as an arm and hand at all.

Kneeling next to one of the wounded from the incident, a Dothraki mother whose infant child had thankfully remained unharmed, he spoke in her native tongue. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I do not know," she said, her tone confused and somber. She held her injured thigh as she did, other arm wrapped tightly around her child. "One of the boys were showing a prize he took. Then there was a wind, and a great pain in my leg."

"This prize, did you see it," Jorah asked, eyes narrowed. A 'prize' to the Dothraki people was more a stolen item.

She nodded a bit franticly. Her hands were trembling, he now noticed, the shock of recent events having yet to pass. "Yes, but it was not something I knew."

"I need you to slow down and take a deep breath." He watched her take a few. "What did it look like?"

Her shaking hands and rocky speech having calmed down some, the mother remained quiet, her searching expression telling of her difficulty to remember. "A ball," she declared after a moment.

"Was it big? Small?"

"It was small." She nodded, apparently more to convince herself of the memory. "Small enough to fit in the boy's hand. And it was... green."

A small, green ball, he thought to himself, somewhat frustratingly. It wasn't a very comprehensive description. "Were there any markings on it? Anything that stood out?"

"I do not remember." The woman's voice cracked, evidently noticing Jorah's frustration, and began panicking again. "It all happened fast, and I did not look long before walking away!"

The Westerosi exile sighed, his irritation deflated. He hadn't intended on pressuring the woman. "It is alright. You have helped greatly." His thankful words appeared to relax her, though her hand was still holding onto her leg wound and occasionally rubbing at its edges. Seeing an opportunity to redeem his previous misguided grievances toward her, he reached for the makeshift bandage. She winced at his touch. "May I?" After a short consideration, she nodded. With her consent given, he proceeded to unwrap the cloth, not truly expecting what sort of injury he would find, and delicately revealed the bloodied mess underneath.

It was the oddest of wounds. Protruding from deep within the open gash in the Dothraki mother's thigh was a solid piece of iron, its visible surface just smaller than a centimeter. It was charred, even warm to the touch, though such an action caused another pained moan from the woman. How such a metal fragment could imbed itself into her skin, was the question that immediately entered Jorah's mind. The next was how far into her thigh it penetrated, and if pulling it out would do more harm than good. "How much does it hurt?"

"Not as bad as it looks." Avoiding the injury directly, he carefully moved his hand to her kneecap, then began slowly moving it up along her thigh bone while intermittently pressing down lightly with his finger. He ceased moving upward once he reached the closest point to the wound. "Does that hurt more?"

"No."

He continued moving his hand a little farther up her leg, then removed it when he was certain there would be no painful response. "Can you try lifting your leg?"

"I will try."

He watched as she successfully lifted her left several centimeters off the ground, although not without a hurt expression. "Good. It is not too deep, and it has not touched the bone."

"Will you pull it out," the woman asked pleadingly.

He looked into her dark almond-shaped eyes, a distinct feature of her Dothraki blood, with an assuring smile. "Yes, but not here or we risk sickness." The Westerosi exile then carefully rewrapped the wound with fresh cloth before calling for a nearby warrior, instructing him to help her move to a comfortable location, preferably a bed. A more genuine smile crossed his lips as he watched her infant child be carried away in its mother's arms, its similar little eyes never leaving his until it was out of sight. Now, with her and the child cared for, he moved to the three bodies and crouched beside them, his smile deteriorating into a frown.

The iron bit that had been lodged in the woman's leg; she had been on the opposite side of the courtyard, a good thirty meters away, when whatever had killed the adolescents and sent the fragment her way occurred. The fact bothered him, and his gut instinct pointed him to the scene of the crime. All the answers must have been in the details.

Examining the first corpse, the one closest, however, didn't provide additional findings. Nothing but dead flesh and exposed bone. The second and third were where the puzzle pieces began coming together. At first glance, they didn't appear any more mangled, but a closer inspection of the various wounds around the two bodies proved otherwise. Several deep lacerations that had pierced completely through, leaving holes on the back of the body larger than connecting ones on the front, appeared on both. One such wound stole his attention from the rest. In the third body's chest cavity was an entrance hole like the others, but when he searched for an exit one, Jorah found none that matched. Curious, and with an unusual idea coming to mind, he pressed two fingers inside the wound. It didn't take long to hit a strange metallic touch, hidden amidst the bloody heat of the still warm corpse.

Daenerys made her appearance then, the relatively young Targaryen hurrying to the scene wide-eyed and horrified. "Ser Jorah," she called out to him in Common tongue, noticeably in distress, as she stared upon the mutilated bodies. "What happened?"

He removed his hand from the open wound and met her gaze. "Khaleesi." Witnessing the state she was in, in turmoil with the sudden deaths, nearly broke the middle-aged man's heart. He wanted to comfort her in his arms but knew she wouldn't accept such familiarity. Not from him. "I'm still figuring that out myself."

For a split second, she seemed angry with his answer, as if it beyond unsatisfactory. However, seeing a teenage Dothraki girl, likely not much younger then herself, lamenting over one of the deceased boys, softened the Mother of Dragons for a moment. She knelt beside the girl and whispered soft consoles to assuage the youth's grief. "I trust you to find the cause of this." She then looked back to him, strength returned to her voice and fire in her eyes. "The deaths of my people will not go answered."

"Khaleesi!" Rakharo came rushing toward them, noticeably worried. "Are you hurt?"

She turned to him with surprise before sending a questioning gaze. "I am not hurt. Why are you here?"

The Blood Rider stopped in his tracks, likely confused by the sharpness of the question. Then the noxious smell must have reached his senses, for his nose crunched in distaste before he covered it with his sleeve. He spared the cadavers only a brief glimpse. "I heard a loud noise, sounding like a BOOM. I came to protect my Khaleesi."

"I welcome your protection, but it is not needed. Who is watching our guest?"

Jorah recoiled from the implication, then gave Rakharo a harsh glare. "You left him alone?"

Rather than yield to the stern scrutiny, the young Dothraki warrior stood firm and determined. He gave back just as much. "Blood of my blood comes first."

His accusation confirmed, the Westerosi exile wasted not a moment. He started into a run, making for Anthony Weber's housing posthaste, and only barely noticed Daenerys follow behind. They reached the man's room soon enough to find it vacant, much to the Dragon Queen's chagrin and to Jorah's expectation. He had known not to trust him. Now it was a matter of finding their lost 'guest'. Four more Dothraki, including Kovarro, had joined them by this point. They split into two groups; himself, Daenerys, and her Blood Riders in the first, and the other three warriors in the second. The second group moved immediately to begin searching the building's numerous rooms, starting on the same level as Anthony's chambers. He led his own party away, singular destination in mind.

Within the farthest room down the hall they found him, wearing his strange pocketed doublet and searching through the chest Jorah had hoped to find untouched. Having been fashioned entirely for storage, the chamber had no windows. Not a dash of sunlight reached its darkest corners. Though it wouldn't have made much of a difference; evening was already setting upon the day. Only a single candle provided a dim light, with it resting on the table behind Lehmann, casting the man's silhouette in an ominous shadow. Yet a helm could still be seen atop his head, it decorated with the same colored pattern as his garments. Attached at the forehead was a black device.

They just finished filing through the doorway, blades drawn and moving to surround him, when the American extracted his finding and lifted it towards them. "Stand back!"

The Westerosi exile ceased his advances and moved in front of the Khaleesi protectively, seeing it for what it was. He never discovered its function, but his imagination had some ideas from past examinations. He was not about to take any risks. "Stop!"

The Dothraki, however, only knowing a weapon to be a sword or bow, didn't know what the man held. And whether it was due to a refusal to obey or a simple failure to understand the order in time, Kovarro continued pushing to Anthony. The response was swift and without hesitation. The large contraption, one of the boxes containing the pointed bronze pieces now affixed to its underbelly, was aimed to the ceiling and released its fire.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

Though shortly lived, the ungodly sound that echoed off the walls was akin to a set of lightning strikes all occurring within the confines of the small room, inside the span of a single moment. It brought a bizarre ringing to Jorah's ears, and his hands went to cover them out of sudden reflex. He almost dropped his sword in the process. When he recovered, he found the man's weapon once again aimed at the Blood Riders, who had just about collided with the walls to their backs.

"I said stand back," the Marine hollered again.

The other group of Dothraki came rushing into the room then, likely having been drawn by the contraption's resounding effects. Anthony tensed at the new arrivals, and he looked about ready to act when Daenerys stopped the three warriors from moving further. Jorah noticed a sprinkling of dust in her silver-gold braids which hadn't been there before. He curiously ran his fingers through his own hair, surprisingly finding crumbs of the same rocky substance.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Mother of Dragon's voice was fierce and vicious. Her gaze betrayed a hint of fear, however, as it shifted between the American and his alien weapon. A faint woefulness was also heard beneath her ire, if only barely.

As if having just noticed her then, the American briefly lowered his weapon. His hesitation lasted but a moment before he raised it again, though it was never aimed at her. "I'm taking back what's mine, then getting the hell out of here."

"You were not our prisoner!" Daenerys pushed past Jorah, ignoring his objections.

"I was under guard and restricted to my room!"

"You were awake for less than a day. How could we trust you with such freedoms, without knowing the person to be roaming our halls?"

The elder Westerosi interrupted the banter, his greater attention having been elsewhere. "Empty your pockets."

Surprised by the sudden question, Lehmann's following stare was deeply suspicious. "You ain't gonna be demanding anything of me, old man."

"What do you have to hide?" Jorah braved the thunderous weapon aimed at his chest and took two steps forward.

"I'm not hiding any-" Thinking to have seen an opportunity, Jhogo moved on him. But the Blood Rider wasn't fast enough; the end of the American's weapon met his advance and was nearly shoved in his mouth. "Get the fuck back, you Haji mother fucker! Lady, tell your boys to back off, or so help me, I'll blow this one's head off." Only when the order was given by Daenerys, and the Dothraki warriors retreated to the chamber's doorway, did the younger man continue where he left off. "Don't lecture me about keeping secrets. You haven't told me everything either."

Jorah firmly stood his ground, an image of stoicism. He couldn't be sure of his conclusions. It was as plausible as it was unlikely for it to have been an intentional action; a distraction to serve a greater scheme of escape. All that proved true was what his own eyes bore witness. Everything else be damned to skepticism and distrust. In that moment, all he could see was a small pouch hanging empty. "Yet your own so far have shown their dangerous nature."

Anthony's stare was scathing, but the remark had its desired effect. He was silenced by the implications. Rather than give a combative retort, his left hand – the one not gripping his weapon's trigger – began patting down the two smaller pockets along the bottom half of his vest. When coming upon the empty one, shock briefly crossed his face before being replaced by a heated desperation. "Fuck!"

Daenerys, on the other hand, appeared mildly confused. "What don't I know?"

The exiled knight let the Marine answer that. And loudly so he did, his foreign accent growing more apparent. "Who the fuck took my grenade?"

A small, green ball, Jorah recalled. Now the object had a name. "Perhaps you could tell us?" It was more an accusation than a question.

"Fuck off!" The contempt oozed off Anthony's tongue. "I was the one locked in a room. You and Daenerys were the only two people I've really talked to since wakin' up." Taking a step forward, weapon once again aimed at Jorah's chest, a fury not dissimilar to the Khaleesi's burned in his eyes. "Who took my grenade?"

The Mother of Dragons swiftly stepped in front of her adviser, ignoring his minute complaint and pushing through his late attempt to stop her. The American shifted his weapon away in response. "My people do not take orders from you! Cease this petulance and lay down your weapon now." Understanding the unspoken threat of consequences, most of the Dothraki tensed, ready to make a move on her command.

A low, almost animalistic growl escaped through grinding teeth. His weapon remained raised. "You don't have any damn authority over me either. Don't try to demand respect and servitude from me."

They stared each other down then, murky brown meeting deep violet; two stubborn personas conflicting in a battle of wills, both daring the other to push further and harder. Jorah could almost feel the rising intensity. A wild heat on his skin. He imagined two dragons contending, dousing each other in flames that could harm neither. "I am not some mere woman," Daenerys declared with all the fire of a true Targaryen. "I've been abused and sold like a broodmare, raped and defiled by those most would consider savage. I have lost people close to my heart, and I've killed those who would threaten them. My whole life I have been an exile, running from the blades of men who'd see me dead, the last of my family. And after all that misery, I survived to lead my own people through the Red Waste. After all that suffering, I brought dragons into this world, the first in centuries." She stepped forward, stopping a meager arm's reach from the American. "After all of that, I saved your life. I've done all that I have with nothing more than the belief in one thing: Myself. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. I don't demand respect, Anthony Lehmann. I command it."

The Westerosi exile watched Anthony express a wide range of emotions as Daenerys spoke. He saw it all, from the shock and pity to the guilt. Even a brindling anger for her past sufferings and an unhidden skepticism at the mention of dragons. When the Khaleesi was finished, her posture an image of barely contained fury, the marine reverted back to his frustration. It was different. He looked at her with a certain gleam in his eyes, one which wasn't there before. Beneath the American's aggravation, Jorah saw an unexpected approval. Or was it admiration?

"It appears the Mother of Dragons has finally met a man to test her metal."

All in the room turned to the deep yet smooth voice of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the bald dark-skinned Summer Islander casually entering from the hallway as if ignoring the rising tension in the air. Jorah barely contained a grimace. Xaro's mere presence never failed to incite a flicker of ire in the former knight, and he worried how the wealthy merchant might attempt to manipulate the volatile situation.

Xaro's lips curved into a small smile. "And to think I had believed that man was me."

"What the- who the hell are you?" Confusion and suspicion evident, Anthony had already trained his weapon on the newcomer.

"Xaro," Daenerys greeted peacefully, if somewhat unpleasantly so if her glare was anything to go by. "I recommend you not interfere in this matter."

"Its grand size may understandably bring you to forget the fact, but this estate is still my home, Daenerys Targaryen." His tone was pleasant, but the words were sharp nonetheless. "I am obliged to investigate when guests perish within it, and my place among Qarth's gentry particularly requires it."

"Can someone fucking answer me?" His earlier question ignored, Anthony had visibly grown more irritated. "Who is this guy, and what the hell is he talking about? Aren't you the queen?"

Jorah saw the young Targaryen's jaw tightened, but neither of the two managed to form a reply before the Summer Islander spoke. "Forgive me for failing to properly introduce myself. I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos, merchant of Qarth and member of the Thirteen." He gave a small bow, smile wide. The contraption pointed at his chest was casually disregarded. "And you are Daenerys' esteemed charge, a man shrouded in great mystery."

"Since we're being all formal... Lance Corporal Anthony Lehmann, 2nd Battalion 7th Marines, United States Marine Corps."

The upward curve of Xaro's lips dropped ever so slightly. "I'm afraid your titles are beyond my current knowledge and understanding. Nevertheless, the famed Mother of Dragons has shared much since the start of your stay here, and I would like to finally claim the chance to personally welcome you into my residence. A pity it has to be done at such an inopportune time."

"This is an inopportune time, Xaro," Daenerys declared bitterly. "This is not the place to be giving cordial introductions."

"And that is where I believe you are wrong. There is no better a time than now." The merchant gave her a momentary glance before turning back to Anthony, his gaze lingering a second too long on the American's weapon. "I will have to respectfully ask you surrender your fascinating device if you wish for cooperation. Hostilities in my own home cannot be allowed, and I fear what the consequences of our Targaryen queen's wrath may bring if we entice it any further."

"I'll be keeping my gun, thank you very much," the marine snorted. "I don't know you, and I sure as hell don't trust you."

"You are not in a position to make any such assertions!" Daenerys's scowl returned. However, Jorah swore he saw a hint of worry in her eyes.

Xaro chuckled, but his smile again faded marginally. "You are surrounded and greatly outnumbered. Even if you were to miraculously manage to escape this room, you certainly won't make it outside this estate's walls. My personal guard, numbering in the hundreds, will see to that. Please, there is no need to turn to violence."

Anthony hesitated, Jorah assuming it was the mention of strong opposition. Then, his eyes wandered the room again, looking over and briefly studying every person in it. It was as if he was weighing his options before his gaze eventually fell back on Daenerys' own. The Westerosi exile shifted uncomfortably. "I can play nice," the Marine stated slowly. "But I ain't afraid to rodeo. You either let me keep my gun, or this shit gets real."

Xaro's lingering smile finally disappeared, replaced by a frown. "I don't thi-"

"I'm not talking to you, you Kanye West-lookin' mutha' fucker. I'm talking to her."

The Mother of Dragons was undoubtedly surprised at the gesture, and the exiled noble understood completely. He asked her. Not Xaro. Not anyone else. For the first time since their venture across the Red Waste began, since they stepped foot in the city of Qarth, someone questioned not what she could give, but what she wanted. After weeks of faux pity and borrowed luxuries by those who would take advantage of her, someone at last gave her a semblance of true respect. Anthony was looking at her as a Khaleesi – as a Queen. Jorah knew it was equivalent to a breath of fresh air for Daenerys, though she maintained her bitterness. It was still in the form of a threat, after all.

"Fine."

And he didn't know how to feel.

—

"Fuck!"

Fists slammed against a rocky surface.

"Fuck you!"

An animalistic growl echoed.

"You just had to mess with shit that wasn't yours! Now look at you! Are you happy? Content with what you got? Guess it don't matter now, 'cause your fuckin' dead!"

The Marine stood in front of the three bodies, laid side-by-side on stone tables, in a boiling rage. Raging at what exactly, no one was sure. The dead? The living? Himself?

"Stupid fucking kids!"

He began pacing along the tables, seemingly in search for something to hit or throw. Finding nothing which wouldn't result in the desecration of Human remains or a broken finger, he settled for an almost childish stomp of his foot.

"Fuck." And for as vibrant as the fury had burned, it just as quickly appeared to extinguish shortly after. Lehmann's shoulders dropped as if having been sapped of all energy, and his hand began rubbing his suddenly tired face.

Jorah and Daenerys watched in stumped silence. Neither had expected such an adverse and conflicting reaction, the intensity and passion of it as unique as its owner. A barrel of wildfire waiting to be ignited. The exiled knight turned to the Mother of Dragons, her dazzling eyes wide and staring upon the estranged man. He momentarily wished for the ability to see the way she did. To see what he could not. The thought was fleeting, however. He would keep trust in her. "You know what killed them," he asked coldly, looking back to the Marine. He was sure of the answer, but the question was obligatory nonetheless.

Anthony released a slow sigh more fitting of a man twice his age. "Yeah. It was the fucking grenade they stole."

Daenerys stepped forward, carefully so until she stood a few feet beside him. "And this, gri-nade..."

"I'm tired of answering other people's questions," he interrupted harshly. "No more. Not until you start being honest with me."

The Khaleesi met his gaze with a heated scoff. "You dare to insinuate I've lied to you?"

"I don't know." Anthony's eyes dark eyes were as cold as ice. "Have you? Because that Zaro guy, or whatever the fuck his name was, didn't seem to give a shit about you being royalty." He took a creeping step forwards when she didn't find an immediate answer. "You've shown me the maps, told me about this world like I'm Alice in-goddamn-Wonderland. But, you've barely told me anything about you." Another step, and the Mother of Dragons now visibly cowered at his baleful advance. "You mentioned you've been an exile all your life. So, what exactly are you queen of?"

CHAPTER END