Destiny of Embers

The same woman returned shortly after, peeking into the tent with a cautious expression. "You have been summoned by the Khaleesi," she said softly, her gaze flicking to his.

The man, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable, regarded her for a moment before giving a curt nod. Rising to his full height, he towered over her, his presence imposing. She blinked in surprise, clearly unprepared for his sheer stature—he must have been at least six feet tall.

"This way," she said, her voice steady despite her awe.

He followed her silently, his steps measured and purposeful. As they emerged from the tent, the sounds and sights of the Dothraki camp assaulted his senses. Men and women mingled in a chaotic display of raw desire and unrestrained revelry. Fires crackled in the dimming light, and the smell of roasting meat mixed with the musk of sweat and horses.

He glanced around, his expression impassive but his mind churning. Barbaric, he thought, taking in the crude displays of dominance and indulgence. What is this place?

As they neared a larger tent, the hub of activity around them began to fade, the atmosphere shifting to something more focused and serious. The woman gestured for him to enter.

Inside, the scene was starkly different. A grand dining arrangement dominated the space, with two figures seated prominently. On one side was a man—large, muscular, and fierce, with long hair tied back into a ponytail and a thick beard bound into braids. His upper body was bare, displaying battle scars that spoke of countless victories. He exuded the aura of a seasoned warrior, his eyes piercing and commanding.

On the other side sat a woman, striking in her presence. Her silver hair framed her face like a crown, and her violet eyes studied him with an intensity that felt almost otherworldly. She was young, but there was a regal air about her—a quiet strength that belied her years.

The man, Khal Drogo, spoke first, his deep, commanding voice rolling out in the Dothraki tongue:

"Uri nde kandi ufata ubucuruzi bwawe."

Itachi frowned slightly, not understanding the language. Before he could respond, the silver-haired woman interjected, her tone calm and measured. "He is asking your name and your purpose here."

Itachi's gaze moved between the two, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, yet carried an edge of defiance. "First, you tell me—who are you people?"

The air in the tent grew tense, his words hanging like a challenge. The Dothraki around him bristled, their hands moving toward weapons. One of the warriors, his face twisted with anger, lunged forward, but Drogo stopped him with a single, sharp command. The warrior froze mid-step, retreating reluctantly under his Khal's glare.

Daenerys leaned forward slightly, her expression cautious but curious. "You are in the land of the Dothraki," she explained. "This is Vaes Dothrak, the only city in the Dothraki Sea."

Itachi's eyes narrowed slightly, the unfamiliarity of her words gnawing at him. Vaes Dothrak? I've never heard of such a place, he thought, his mind racing to piece together his situation.

He inclined his head slightly. "Continue."

Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, but Drogo held up a hand, stopping her. Instead, another man stepped forward—one clad in armor, with a longsword strapped to his side. Itachi's sharp gaze caught on the sword's hilt, its craftsmanship unlike any weapon he had seen before.

The man, Ser Jorah Mormont, spoke in the Common Tongue. "You are in Vaes Dothrak," he said, his voice steady. "It lies in the shadow of the Mother of Mountains, at the far northeastern edge of the Dothraki Sea. This is the sacred city of the Dothraki, where no blood may be spilled."

Itachi's eyes lingered on the man's sword, his thoughts quietly assessing. A unique blade, he noted. Clearly well-made. But this man… he doesn't strike me as Dothraki. He's different.

Jorah noticed Itachi's gaze and offered a faint smile. "You needn't worry," he said, his tone calm but firm. "I have no intention of drawing it."

Itachi's dark eyes met Jorah's, holding his gaze for a moment before shifting back to the others in the tent. This place… he thought, his mind working furiously. These people are unlike any I've encountered. And yet… there's something strange. I sense no chakra from them—not a single trace.

He exhaled softly, his face betraying none of his turmoil. For now, he would gather information and bide his time. But deep down, a single, unrelenting question echoed in his mind.

Where am I—and why am I here?

Daenerys observed the stranger carefully, her violet eyes narrowing with curiosity. His calm demeanor puzzled her. Most men would be shaken—confused, perhaps even afraid—in a situation like this, she thought. Yet he shows nothing. No fear, no stress, not even a flicker of unease.

Her mind replayed the earlier moment when one of Drogo's men had nearly attacked him. The stranger hadn't so much as flinched. Instead, he stood there as if the act hadn't even registered as a threat. It intrigued her.

Leaning slightly toward Drogo, she whispered something in his ear, her voice too low for anyone else to hear. Drogo glanced at her, then shifted his gaze to the man, studying him with a measured intensity. After a moment, he nodded.

Drogo issued a command in the guttural tones of the Dothraki language. "Tumenye kuri we."

Jorah stepped forward, interpreting for the stranger. "The man before you is Khal Drogo," Jorah said, his tone formal. "He is the chieftain of this khalasar, known as 'The Great Khal.' And the woman beside him," Jorah continued, gesturing toward Daenerys, "is Daenerys Targaryen, the Khaleesi—a title given to the wife of a Khal in Dothraki culture."

The stranger's dark eyes flicked between the two of them, his expression unchanging. So, she is his wife, he mused silently. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging the introductions.

"And now," Jorah added, his voice firm, "your introduction."

The man hesitated briefly, his mind calculating. These people… they know nothing of Konoha, the Five Great Nations, or anything resembling my world, he thought. This can only mean one of two things: I'm either in some kind of afterlife… or in a completely different world altogether.

He straightened slightly, his gaze steady as he looked at them. "My name is Itachi Uchiha," he said finally, his voice calm yet authoritative. "That's all you need to know."

Daenerys tilted her head, her curiosity deepening. Itachi Uchiha, she repeated in her mind. An unusual name. Could he have been sent by King's Landing? A spy, perhaps?

Her gaze flicked to Jorah, who was clearly pondering the same possibility. She decided to test the waters.

"How about you join us for dinner?" Daenerys offered, her tone polite but tinged with a subtle undertone of scrutiny.

Itachi met her gaze, his face unreadable. "For dinner?" he repeated, as if weighing her invitation. After a moment, he nodded. "Okay."

He turned as if to leave, but Jorah's voice stopped him. "Where are you going?"

Itachi paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "To dinner. Isn't that what you said?"

Jorah sighed, shaking his head slightly. "The dinner will be held here," he clarified.

Itachi gave a simple nod and stepped to the side, positioning himself near the edge of the tent. He stood still, a silent observer, his presence commanding attention even in his quietude.

Daenerys watched him closely, noting the way he moved—graceful, deliberate, almost predatory. Who is this man, truly? she wondered. And what does his presence mean for us?

Meanwhile, Itachi remained composed, his sharp mind analyzing every detail of his surroundings. This world… these people… he thought. I need to learn more before I can act. For now, I'll play their game.

The feast was a lively, chaotic affair. A massive pot sat in the center, with meat roasting over open flames. Itachi observed as the Dothraki tore into their food with abandon, drinking and laughing boisterously. He glanced at his own plate—a slab of barely cooked meat that had simply been seared over the fire. No spices, no preparation—just fire and flesh, he thought. Primitive. But it's sustenance nonetheless. He took a bite, his face betraying nothing, though internally he noted, I've eaten worse during missions.

As the feast wore on, the tent's atmosphere shifted. The revelry was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a man with silver-white hair, his gait unsteady, his face flushed with anger and drink. Itachi's dark eyes flicked to him, noting the resemblance to Daenerys. A brother, perhaps? His features mirror hers… but his demeanor is vastly different.

Viserys Targaryen stormed into the tent, his words slurred but his anger sharp. He glared at Daenerys and Drogo with a mixture of entitlement and frustration, his voice cutting through the noise. "You've had your fun, Khal," he spat. "Now give me what I'm owed! I sold her to you—I gave you my sister! Where is my crown? My throne?"

Itachi observed the scene with quiet intensity. This man… drunk, emotional, reckless. He's no warrior, yet he dares to provoke in a room full of them? Foolish.

Viserys drew his sword, the blade catching the firelight. Gasps rippled through the tent. Itachi's gaze sharpened as the tension thickened. He noticed how the Dothraki around him stiffened, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. A sacred city, yet he unsheathes steel. Either he's ignorant of their customs, or he doesn't care. Either way, his life hangs by a thread.

Irri stepped forward, translating Viserys's drunken threats to Drogo. The words, laced with venom, promised harm to Daenerys and her unborn child. Itachi's expression remained unreadable, but his thoughts churned. He threatens his own blood… his own kin. Such selfishness. Such weakness.

Drogo's face was impassive as he listened, but his dark eyes burned with restrained fury. When Viserys finished, Drogo leaned forward, speaking calmly in Dothraki. Irri translated, her voice trembling slightly, "He says he will give you a golden crown… one that men will tremble to behold."

Viserys's drunken haze clouded his judgment. A grin spread across his face, his arrogance mistaking Drogo's words as acquiescence. "Finally!" he exclaimed. "You see reason. A king deserves his crown."

Itachi's eyes narrowed slightly. He doesn't realize the danger he's in. Drogo's tone isn't one of submission—it's the calm before the storm.

Drogo gave a small nod, and in an instant, one of his bloodriders, Qotho, seized Viserys. The Dothraki warrior moved with brutal efficiency, breaking Viserys's arm in a sickening snap that echoed through the tent. The sword clattered to the floor, and Viserys cried out in agony, collapsing like a broken doll.

Itachi watched in silence, his face a mask of indifference, though his thoughts betrayed him. The weak are crushed under the weight of their arrogance. He had every chance to walk away… yet he chose destruction.

Drogo approached the fire, removing his belt of heavy golden medallions. He tossed them into the pot, where they quickly melted into a bubbling, molten mass. Viserys, writhing on the floor, began to understand. "No… no, you can't! Please! Daenerys!" he cried, his voice cracking with desperation.

Itachi glanced at Daenerys. She stood still, her face devoid of emotion, yet her eyes betrayed a cold resolve. She won't intervene, Itachi realized. She's already severed her ties to him.

Ser Jorah stepped beside Daenerys, his voice low. "Look away," he urged.

But Daenerys didn't move. "He was no dragon," she said quietly. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."

Drogo lifted the pot and poured the molten gold over Viserys's head. The liquid metal engulfed him, his screams piercing the night. Itachi observed with detached calm, though his mind lingered on the spectacle. To die in such a manner… cruel, yet fitting for one so blind to the consequences of his actions.

As Viserys collapsed, his lifeless body hit the ground with a resounding clang, the golden crown now a mockery of his ambitions. The tent fell silent, the echoes of his cries fading into the night.

Daenerys stepped closer, her voice steady, cold. "He was no true dragon," she declared.

Itachi's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary. This woman… she's stronger than she appears. Ruthless when she needs to be. She will survive in this harsh world.