Destiny of Embers

Daenerys commanded the khalasar to halt, her voice steady and firm—a clear testament to her growing authority. The riders, though puzzled, obeyed, their respect for their khaleesi evident. Viserys, however, did not share their deference. His face twisted with indignation as he stormed toward his sister, his tone dripping with contempt.

"You dare command me?" he spat, his hands trembling with anger. "You are no queen. I am the dragon!"

Before he could go any further, a sharp whistle cut through the air. In an instant, Rakharo, ever-watchful and loyal, lashed out with his whip. The cord snaked around Viserys's neck, halting him mid-step. He stumbled, choking, as Rakharo's stern gaze bore into him.

"Khalakka should show respect to Khaleesi," Rakharo said coldly, his grip on the whip unyielding.

"Enough!" Daenerys's voice rang out, silencing the tension. Her violet eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and compassion as she stepped forward. "Release him."

Reluctantly, Rakharo complied, though his expression made it clear he found Viserys unworthy of such mercy. Gasping for air, Viserys stumbled to his feet, his face red with humiliation.

"You will walk," Daenerys decreed, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That is the way of the Dothraki for one who has shown dishonor."

Viserys glared at her but said nothing, his shame magnified as he trudged on foot behind the riders, the ultimate disgrace among the proud horsemen.

Later that night, as the khalasar made camp, Daenerys sat with Irri, the firelight casting flickering shadows on their faces. Irri leaned closer, her voice soft with reverence.

"Khaleesi," she said, her tone carrying a note of awe. "You are with child."

Daenerys's breath hitched as she placed a hand over her stomach, the realization settling over her like a warm, protective cloak. She smiled, a quiet joy blooming in her chest.

That night, as she lay entwined with Khal Drogo beneath the vast, star-speckled sky, she shared the news.

"I carry your son," she murmured, her voice full of conviction.

Drogo's face softened, a rare and tender smile gracing his lips. He rested a hand on her belly, his deep voice rumbling with pride.

"A prince to conquer the world," he said, his words both a promise and a prayer.

The next day, Ser Jorah Mormont rode beside Rakharo as the khalasar advanced. Their conversation turned to the ways of war, their voices carrying a mix of curiosity and respect.

"In Westeros," Jorah explained, "our knights wear heavy armor, their longswords meant to pierce steel. They are like bears—strong, but slow."

Rakharo chuckled, his tone tinged with amusement. "And the Dothraki are wolves, then. Quick and cunning, with no need for such metal shells."

Jorah nodded, though his gaze grew distant. "Your father—he was a great warrior. I have heard of his deeds."

Rakharo smiled faintly, pride evident. "And yours?"

Jorah hesitated, his jaw tightening. "My father was a man of honor," he admitted. "But I disgraced him."

Rakharo said nothing, though his silence spoke volumes, a quiet acknowledgment of the burden Jorah carried.

When Jorah learned of Daenerys's pregnancy, his reaction was immediate.

"I must leave for Qohor," he announced, his tone urgent. "There is something I must attend to. I will rejoin you before you reach Vaes Dothrak."

Daenerys regarded him with a questioning gaze but did not press him.

"Ride swiftly, Ser Jorah," she said, her voice steady.

As he rode away, the khalasar moved forward, the weight of destiny pressing ever heavier on Daenerys's shoulders.

As they walked onward, the khalasar moved in a steady rhythm, the sound of hooves and rustling grass filling the air. Suddenly, a loud thud broke through the stillness—a deep, resonant sound that silenced the group.

Daenerys halted, her gaze snapping toward the source of the noise. Her violet eyes scanned the horizon, but all she could see was the expanse of tall grass swaying gently in the wind.

Beside her, Jorah turned his head, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. "What was that?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.

"I heard it too," Daenerys replied, her tone carrying an edge of curiosity and concern.

Rakharo, ever vigilant, stepped forward, his bow already in hand. "Khaleesi," he said with a slight bow, his voice steady. "Should I investigate?"

Daenerys hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Go. Take some riders with you."

Rakharo gestured to a few Dothraki, and together they moved swiftly toward the source of the noise. As they pushed through the tall grass, their sharp eyes caught sight of a figure sprawled on the ground.

It was a man.

His long, dark hair was matted with dirt and blood, and he wore strange, unfamiliar clothing—a deep red fabric that seemed out of place in the Dothraki Sea. One of his hands was severely burned, the skin charred and cracked, and blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. His chest rose and fell faintly, a sign of life despite his battered condition.

Rakharo crouched beside the man, inspecting him carefully before rising and hurrying back to Daenerys.

"Khaleesi," he reported, his voice grave. "There is a man—he is badly injured but still alive."

Daenerys furrowed her brow, curiosity flickering across her face. "Bring him to me," she commanded.

Rakharo nodded, and with the help of the other riders, they carefully lifted the man and carried him back to the khalasar. As they approached, Daenerys stepped forward to examine the stranger.

The first thing she noticed was his clothing—unlike anything she had ever seen. The fabric was rich but foreign, adorned with symbols that held no meaning to her. His injuries were severe, his body marred by burns and cuts, and yet something about him seemed... peculiar.

"Place him in the last cart," she ordered, her voice calm but firm. "We will tend to him and question him when he wakes."

The Dothraki obeyed without hesitation, carefully laying the man in the cart. As they secured him, Daenerys watched, her mind racing with questions.

"Where could he have come from?" Jorah asked quietly, standing beside her. "His blood is fresh, yet there is no sign of a fight nearby."

Daenerys nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know," she admitted. "But we cannot linger. We must press on."

Jorah inclined his head in agreement. "As you say, Khaleesi."

The khalasar resumed its journey, the injured stranger now a silent passenger among them. As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the endless plains, Daenerys glanced back at the cart carrying the mysterious man. A flicker of unease mingled with curiosity in her heart. Who is he? she wondered. And what fate led him to us in such a broken state?

After days of travel, Khal Drogo's khalasar arrived at Vaes Dothrak, the great city of the Dothraki. Unlike the walled cities of Westeros, it stood open and unfortified, a vast sprawl of tents and wooden structures. The gateway, however, was imposing—a massive arch formed by two rearing horse statues, their hooves nearly touching in the center.

As they passed beneath the arch, Viserys rode alongside Daenerys, his face twisted in frustration.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Drogo is taking my army further from Westeros with every step. Does he not understand my birthright?"

Daenerys ignored him, her focus fixed on the tasks ahead.

When they made camp, the unconscious man was carried gently from the cart and placed inside a large tent. Khal Drogo followed, his expression guarded as he surveyed the stranger's battered form. He turned to Daenerys, his dark eyes narrowing with unspoken questions.

Daenerys met his gaze, her voice soft but steady. "He is no threat, my sun and stars. Let him heal, and we will learn who he is and why he came to us."

Drogo studied her for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod, trusting her judgment.

Inside the tent, several women tended to the man. They wiped the blood and dirt from his face with cloths soaked in cool water, revealing sharp, noble features beneath the grime. They wrapped his burned hand carefully, covering it with soothing poultices and damp cloths.

As they worked, whispers spread among them. His striking appearance—a combination of strength and elegance—captivated them.

"He looks like a god," one of the women murmured, awe in her voice.

Another nodded, her gaze lingering on his face. "The most handsome man I have ever seen."

But the man remained unconscious, unaware of their reverent gazes. Once they had done all they could, the women left the tent, their curiosity tempered by respect.

Outside, Doreah lingered near the fire, her thoughts elsewhere. She had been raised in the pleasure houses of Lys, where curiosity often led to indulgence. Intrigued by the stranger but driven by her own desires, she turned her attention elsewhere and made her way to Viserys's tent.

Inside, Viserys sat brooding, his pale features tense with irritation. Doreah entered quietly, her movements deliberate as she approached him.

He regarded her with a sharp, calculating look before allowing her to pour water into a basin. As she knelt to help him bathe, her hands moved with practiced ease, her touch calculated to please.

Viserys leaned back, his voice cutting through the silence. "Do you know what I am, Doreah?" he asked, his tone heavy with self-importance.

She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "You are a dragon," she replied softly, knowing the answer he wanted to hear.

He smirked, pleased. "I was raised on the stories of my ancestors, of Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes. Their skulls once adorned the throne room at King's Landing."

As he spoke, his voice grew more impassioned, his pride swelling with every word. "The dragons were the mightiest creatures to ever live, and their blood flows in my veins. It is my destiny to sit upon the Iron Throne."

Doreah listened, but when she began to speak of the dragons being gone, of their bones left to decay, his expression darkened.

"Enough," he snapped, his voice sharp as steel. "Do not insult me with talk of their death. The dragons are not gone, just as I am not gone."

She hesitated, but he silenced her with a gesture. "Finish what you came here to do," he ordered coldly.

Doreah complied, her movements subdued, while Viserys stared into the flickering flames of a nearby candle, lost in the grandeur of his imagined destiny.

Later that day, the man stirred. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, and his gaze fixed on the fabric ceiling above him. Confusion flooded his mind as he took in his surroundings.

He sat up abruptly, wincing at the soreness in his body. His eyes darted to his hands, now covered in damp cloths, soothing the burns he had sustained. He stared at them for a moment, the coolness grounding him in an unfamiliar reality.

Am I alive? he wondered, his thoughts racing. How? I died… didn't I? At Sasuke's hands… He paused, his memory murky. No, I was brought back with Edo Tensei. But how am I here now?

He glanced down at himself, noting the absence of his cloak. Turning, he saw it neatly folded nearby, the sight stirring a strange mixture of comfort and unease.

Am I in Konoha? he thought. Or somewhere else entirely?

Just then, the flap of the tent shifted, and a figure entered carrying a bowl of water and fresh cloths. His dark eyes snapped to her, analyzing every detail. The woman's attire was strange—nothing like the clothing of any village he had ever seen.

This is no place I know, he thought, narrowing his gaze.

She hesitated upon seeing him awake, her expression a mix of surprise and wariness.

"Ahh…" he began, his voice low and steady. "Where am I?"

The woman blinked, seemingly caught off guard, and stared at him silently.

"Excuse me," he said again, his tone firm but not unkind. "I asked you a question."

The woman snapped out of her daze, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh! Yes… you are in the Dothraki camp," she said, her voice accented but clear.

He frowned. Dothraki? The name was unfamiliar. He searched his memory but found nothing.

The woman, noticing his puzzled expression, asked, "How are you feeling?"

He regarded her for a moment, her tone suggesting she had been tending to him. "I'm… fine," he replied with a slight nod.

She seemed relieved, offering a polite bow. "I will tell the Khaleesi. She may wish to see you."

Khaleesi? he mused, watching her turn to leave. A leader, perhaps?

The woman exited the tent, leaving him alone once more.

He sighed, his mind a whirlwind of questions with no answers. Leaning back slightly, he allowed himself to take in the space around him. This place… these people… none of it feels real. And yet… He glanced at his hands, the pain a sharp reminder of his mortality. It is.

He sank onto the mat beneath him, his sharp, calculating mind already working to make sense of his situation. For now, he would wait—but he knew that answers would come soon enough. And when they did, he would be ready.