The city had been dead for so long that Daenerys sometimes forgot it had ever been alive.
Vaes Tolorro had once possessed walls, streets, wells, markets. Men and women had lived here once. Children had played beneath the sun. Merchants had shouted their prices and horses had kicked dust into the air. There must have been songs, quarrels, marriages, births.
Now there were only bones.
The ruins stretched beneath the white sky, broken stone bleached by years of heat. Doorways opened onto empty rooms. Walls leaned against one another as though too tired to fall. Wind moved through the streets carrying dust and the faint, dry smell of old death.
Yet life had begun to creep back into the bones.
Water had been found.
The gardens were growing.
A few green shoots. Some stubborn plants coaxed from the earth by people who had already learned how easily the Waste could kill them. Green was green, and Daenerys found herself staring at it whenever she could.
A small girl knelt beside one of the garden beds, pressing damp earth around a plant with both hands. Her hair was tangled from the wind. Her face was thin.
Daenerys watched her for a while.
Till the girl looked up and their eyes met, the child looked away and returned to her work, and Daenerys smiled despite herself. These were the things worth saving.
"Your Grace."
Jorah Mormont's voice came from behind her.
Daenerys turned.
The knight approached slowly, his boots grinding over stone. His face was red from the heat, his beard untrimmed, his clothes stained with dust. He looked as though the Waste had taken a piece of him.
"Ser Jorah."
He stopped beside her and looked toward the gardens.
"They will need more water if we are to stay."
"We will stay." Jorah glanced at her. Daenerys did not look at him. She knew what he wanted to say. They could not stay forever.
The Red Waste had already taken too much from them. Drogo was dead. Their khalasar had been reduced to a fraction of what it had been. The horses were weak and their food was dwindling.
But the dead city had water, if only that.
"We have survived this long," she said. "We will survive longer."
Jorah's expression softened. "I hope you are right." Daenerys looked again toward the little garden.
"I must be."
A shout came from somewhere beyond the ruins. Daenerys turned.
Several riders were coming toward them. At first she thought they had found another spring. Then she saw the way they rode.
They were not riding as they normally did. The horses were moving unevenly, their riders glancing back over their shoulders as though they expected something to follow them.
Something had frightened them.
The garden workers stopped.
Children were pulled close by their mothers.
Jorah's hand moved toward his sword. "What is it?" Daenerys asked. No one answered. The riders came closer. And she saw what they had brought.
A man.
No horse beneath him. He walked between the riders, stumbling with every few steps, his body covered in dust. He was naked.
Daenerys stared.
For a heartbeat no one moved. The riders themselves seemed uncertain of what they had brought back. One kept his horse several paces away from the stranger, while another watched the enormous shape behind him as though expecting it to move.
Then the thing behind him moved. It was White and Enormous. He had Wings!
They dragged through the dust behind the stranger, wider than a man's outstretched arms. Feathers were blackened with dirt, some torn, some stained red.
A murmur passed through the Dothraki. Daenerys heard fear in it. The stranger lifted his head.
His face was gaunt. His lips were cracked. There was blood dried along one shoulder and across his side.
He looked beautiful but half dead. Yet he kept walking.
The riders brought him nearer. Daenerys could not look away from the wings. They were not like a bird's. They were too large and seemed powerful.
Too human in the way they seemed attached to the body, rising from his back as naturally as his arms
"What is he?" Jorah whispered. Daenerys did not answer. She did not know. The stranger stumbled.
One of the riders caught his arm.
The man jerked away on instinct. The horse beside him reared. For one terrible moment, everyone moved at once.
Hands went to weapons. The stranger froze. His chest rose and fell as he looked at everyone. Longer at the riders close to him.
Daenerys saw the fear in his eyes. Not the fear of a beast,of a man surrounded among enemies.
"Enough," she said.
The riders settled them and the stranger stared at her. Daenerys felt something cold move through her despite the heat. There was intelligence in those eyes. And exhaustion. Mostly exhaustion.
"Bring him here."
The men obeyed, rushed to grab his hands, and dragged him to the ground in front of her.
Daenerys studied him.
She wondered what sort of man could have crossed the Waste alone, naked.
She wondered what sort of creature would have such wings.
The stranger's knees buckled.
He fell...
---
The first thing Arthur heard was his mother's voice.
As though she were standing beside him but softened by distance. Then there was water.
Cold water.
It filled his mouth.
His lungs seized.
Arthur jerked upright and inhaled. Water rushed into his throat.
He coughed violently.
His hands tried to grip anything.
He rolled onto his side, choking, coughing until his ribs hurt.
Air.
He needed air.
He dragged it into his lungs and coughed again.
For several seconds he could do nothing except breathe.
Then the thought came.
Dead men do not breathe.
Arthur went still.
His breathing continued.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He stared at the ground beneath him.
Dead men did not breathe.
He knew that. He had watched men die. He had watched lungs stop moving. He had felt his own chest become still.
The last thing he remembered was the road.
The convoy.
Mercer shouting.
Ace behind the vehicle.
Civilians caught in the middle and the sound of gunfire everywhere.
Too much gunfire.
He remembered moving toward them when he should have withdrawn. He remembered the crack of a rifle.
The impact, and the sudden warmth spreading beneath his clothes. He remembered falling.
Then nothing.
Arthur looked down at himself.
There was no blood. No wound.
No bullet hole. His skin was whole. He touched his chest to feel it and again mothing.
His pulse hammered beneath his fingers.
He sat there for a moment, trying to make sense of it.
Then he noticed the sand. The heat.
The sky.
The absence of everything familiar. Where are the vehicles?
He rose slowly.
His body felt wrong. Not weak, It felt different. He looked down again.
He was naked.
Arthur swore under his breath.
"Jesus."
His voice sounded like his.That kinda helped but barely. He turned in a slow circle. Sand stretched in every direction.
Ruins stood in the distance.
No road.
No convoy. No helicopters. No radio, none of his men. No weapons.
And no water.
Arthur's training took over before panic could. Threat assessment, nothing around him. The environment was soil, sand and rocks, red rocks.
Resources none and no shelter.
Good luck finding water with how this place looks, So next Movement.
He checked himself again.
Arms.
Legs.
Hands, neck and haad. Nothing broken, even his ribs, which hurt during the ambush, didn't hurt anymore.
Then something shifted behind him.
Arthur turned. He saw white feathers. Bewildered, he stared. His mind refused to process them as he reached behind himself. His fingers touched something warm. Something alive. He jerked his hand away. Then slowly reached again.
Feathers.
Muscles, bones.
It is a god damn wing!
Calm down.
Breathe.
In and out.
(I'm not a bird), he thought. Arthur's breathing stopped. He turned farther. The things attached to his back moved with him.
They were gigantic, also very white. He grabbed one of the feathers.
Pulled.
And when he did pain shot through his shoulder.
He released it. The wing flexed. Arthur stumbled backward. "No." He looked over his shoulder again.
There were two. Two gigantic wings.
He stood completely still. His mind reached for explanations and found none. He had been shot.
He had died.
Now he was alive. And he had wings.
Arthur closed his eyes.
His mother's voice came back to him. For a moment, the desert disappeared. He could almost hear her telling him to call when he got home.
He swallowed. He must truly be dead now. This must be heaven or something, nothing else can explain it.
He wondered whether the people from his first life were mourning him. His jaw tightened.
He could not stay here.
Whatever this place was, whatever had happened to him, none of it mattered if he died again.
Water mattered. He needed water. He looked toward the distant ruins. Then he started walking.
The wings made it difficult, but thinking about them made his confusion worse.
They dragged behind him, catching against stones and brushing the sand. Arthur tried folding them against his back.
They resisted.
He tried again.
"Ahh nothing" he had thought that alot. Everything is so confusing.
He turned his shoulders. The wings moved.
He froze.
That was the first useful discovery. They responded to him. Arthur spread them and the wings opened.
Their span was enormous.
He stared at the shadows they cast over the sand.
Then he crouched.
His instincts told him the mechanics were wrong. The wings were attached to his back, but there was no training for this. No manual, not even muscle memory.
He pushed off.
For one glorious second, his feet left the ground.
Was he gonna fly? He looked towards the sun.
Then he dropped.
Hard.
Sand exploded around him.
Arthur lay there, stunned. He spat grit from his mouth.
"Okay."
He rolled onto his back.
"That was terrible."
He got up.
Tried again.
Failed again. The third attempt was worse. He stopped. Lets walk, it was better than eating dirt.
Hours passed.
Or perhaps less.
The sun seemed fixed above him.
His mouth became dry. His legs grew heavy. Whoever's body he was in, it seems they had been there for some time. He was tired.
The wings had became a burden.
He stumbled.
Recovered.
Kept moving.
Then he saw movement ahead.
Riders.
Arthur stopped. Men on horseback. Several of them. They were armed and he had no weapon. No clothes. No idea where he was.
The riders saw him.
They and they slowed down. Arthur's entire body tightened. They had numbers and distance. Freaking horses! who still used horses.
Looking at their forms, probably weapons too.
What was the best situation out of this.., escape route?
There was none for him, not here.
One rider shouted something. Arthur didn't understand the words. He raised both hands slowly. This was the universal sign for surrender.
(I hope they accept it)
The riders spread around him. Their weapons came free.
Arthur looked from one face to another. They looked afraid. That surprised him. Then one of them stared at his wings.
Arthur followed his gaze.
The rider muttered something.
Another answered.
Arthur caught no meaning but he did understand one thing.
They were not going to leave him here. They closed the circle.
Arthur took one step backward.
A horse snorted. A weird shaped blade came up. Arthur stopped. He could fight. Probably, they seemed tribal. With his years in combat, he could manage it. But getting an injury right now would be a death sentence.
He was exhausted, dehydrated, naked, and surrounded by armed cavalry. This was not a fight.
It was basically suicide.
So he lowered his hands. One of the riders approached. Arthur let him. The man seized his arm and tightened a rope onto it.
Arthur flinched.
The rider nearly drew his weapon.
Arthur forced himself still.
"Easy there..."
The word meant nothing to the man. Arthur looked toward the distant ruins.
Then back at the riders.
He had no idea where they were taking him. But they may have water.
He hoped as he walked.
---
Daenerys watched the stranger collapse.
For a moment no one moved.
Then she stepped forward.
"Is he dead?"
One of the riders dismounted and checked his neck.
[He still breathes, khaleesi.]
Jorah was already moving, standing infront of me.
"Take him inside."
The rider hesitated.
Jorah's hand settled on his sword.
"You heard her."
The men lifted the stranger. Touching him like he had a sickness. His wings dragged across the ground. Daenerys watched them carry him toward one of the surviving buildings. The feathers left pale lines through the dust.
She felt the most strange she had ever had felt. She had not seen or heard anything like him.
---
Arthur woke to pain in his wrists.
He opened his eyes.
And was confronted with a stone ceiling, a dark room with a few sticks burning. Sticks? Lamp sticks. He forgot what they were called.
Rope wrapped around his limbs.
His instincts surged. He tried to pull himself free. The rope held. Arthur looked down. His wrists were tied to the bed. His ankles too. His wings were pinned awkwardly behind him.
He tested the restraints once again. Then twice. They were strong, not fully fastened.
But not worth wasting strength. Not like he had any. He looked toward the doorway. A man stood there.
An older, bearded man. Watching him. Arthur recognized the posture before he recognized anything else. The strictness to him.
Soldier.
A guard even, definitely someone trained.
He seemed very Dangerous.
The man stepped inside.
"You are awake."
Arthur said nothing.
The man studied him.
"You nearly died."
Arthur looked at the rope.
"Could've fooled me." The man's eyes narrowed.
"You speak strangely."
Arthur ignored that.
"Where am I?" The man did not answer.
Instead, he asked, "Who are you?"
Arthur hesitated.
There was no safe answer. He could not tell them the truth. He did not know whose body this was.
"Arthur."
The man's expression did not change.
"Arthur what?"
"Just Arthur."
The man stared at him for another moment.
Then he left.
Arthur listened to his footsteps disappear. He looked toward the doorway.
Someone else was coming.
A young woman entered. Arthur's breath caught. He knew her.
Personally, no, not truly. But he knew her face.
Silver-gold hair.
Violet eyes.
The last Targaryen princess.
Daenerys.
Arthur felt the recognition like a blow.
Westeros. (This was westeros)
The thought came before he could stop it. His heart began beating harder.
No.
Impossible.
He had died.
There was no way.
Yet she stood before him.
She was a living, breathing being. Alive. Exactly as he remembered her from the books and the show.
Arthur forced his face to remain blank.
Daenerys approached the bed. Her eyes moved over the ropes first, then his face.
"You said your name was Arthur."
"Yes."
"What do you remember?" Arthur looked at her.
"A road."
She waited.
"Men." His throat tightened. As his eyes moved to his
"Gunfire." Daenerys said nothing. "I was shot." Her eyes shifted briefly toward his chest too traking his.
"I remember falling."
"And then?"
"Nothing."
That was close enough to the truth. Daenerys studied him. Arthur could feel the weight of her attention. He wondered whether she knew how dangerous her name would be to someone like him.
She did not. She could not.
"What are you?" Arthur almost laughed. "I don't know." Her gaze moved to the wings. For a moment there was silence.
Then Daenerys looked at him differently.
She totally did not trust him and definitely did not even think of acceptance. Though it looked like... She had seen something in him that Arthur could not yet understand.
She looked toward the doorway.
"Leave us."
The guards obeyed.
Arthur watched them go.
.....
When the door closed, Daenerys returned her attention to him.
"You need a name."
"I have one."
"Arthur is your name from before."
He frowned. "What do you mean, before? It is still mine now." Daenerys looked at the wings, at him, then her expression changed.
"Aegon." the man called Arthur went very still.
She did not know what that name meant to him but he was still now. He looked away. Daenerys watched him.
She thought of her brother.
Rhaegar.
She had never known him but had been told he was graceful and otherworldly... She had not even been old enough to understand what death meant when he was slain, his life ended along with that of his family.
Yet his name had followed her all her life. His songs.
His crown.
His children.
The family that had been taken from her before she could even understand what she had lost.
Aegon.
The name belonged to a dead boy.
But this man was alive.
Perhaps that was why it felt right. Not because he was Rhaegar's son. He was not. He did not share their blood.
But a name could become something else. A way for strangers to understand a stranger.
It would place him beside her in their minds. Beside her family. Daenerys looked at the man again.
He had crossed the Waste alone. He had nearly died. She looked at the blisters on his feet.
And now he lay bound because no one knew what he was.
"Aegon," she said again.
Arthur looked back at her.
For the first time, something passed between them that they didn't understand.
A recognition that they were hiding things from each other. Daenerys looked at his wings. She wondered what sort of man could have crossed the Waste like that, even she had clothes at least when she crossed.
She wondered what sort of creature he was.
...
Arthur looked toward the window. Beyond it lay a world he knew should not exist.
Daenerys watched him struggle with whatever thoughts he kept hidden.
(Should he change his name.)
....
She did not know his secrets just like he did not know hers.
Yet as she looked at him, she understood one thing. He was alone now. And he was afraid.
Just like she was now.