Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Game of Thrones or Red Dead Redemption 2, and both works belong to their respective creators. All original characters and concepts are my own and do not represent the actual work of either previously mentioned titles.

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That's the way it is

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ARTHUR

Winds whisked westward across the countryside and carried over vast fields of barley and above the reeds of cattails over by a calm lake. Overhead, a pinch of fresh peach colored the skies and was splashed with wisps of gold and strawberry and the faint glistering light of stars that danced beyond the hills like a procession of fireflies; appearing one by one in the northeastern horizon. And as daylight slowly faded with the last of the gleaming rays cascading over the great plains of what was the American Dream, all the ring-necked pheasants, buff-bellied pipits, royal hawks and horned larks whistled their final birdsongs for that evening.

Gazing out across the idyllic farmland, the heat of the setting sun caressing his cheeks, he was suddenly overwhelmed with an acute nostalgia.

He was resting on a shabby wood fence off the side of a beaten path with his boots placed firmly on the lower crossbar. The road led to a pastoral ranch that sat in the center of a field once used for farming flocks of sheep. Far-off in the distance, between periwinkle mountains with snow-capped peaks crowned in gold, the mouth to an umbrous valley began and laid bare it's virgin hills.

The ranch was cozy and abandoned in times gone by with a single chimney and a porch wide enough for two men and a long night with women's company. Soft gray smoke rose as billows from the stack, the windows left open with pencil-thin sheets of paper - besmeared in grease - covering the apertures, and the boisterous laughter of his foster father and the more tamed chortling of his older friend could be heard across the field, bringing about a queer sense of mawkishness to the longrider Arthur Morgan.

He fiddled with the brim of his father's gambler hat, the dark leather soft against his cut and rough fingers, and brought him relief upon knowing it was there.

"I'm sick of sitting here," the adolescent at his side groused. He was a young Scot-boy nearing the age of adulthood, with uncut and unwashed crow-black hair and a sullen frown stuck on his sweat and grime covered face. They had found the stray in some backwoods homestead in Illinois, about to be strung up for stealing from the owners when their band of dreamers arrived to liberate the juvenile prince of yore, whom they came to know as the orphaned son of a calico queen.

Arthur disregarded the boy's grumblings as he kept his eyes set on the vast fields and rackety ranch out in the distance, a tobacco blanket held firmly between his lips; taking his leisure and basking in the evening's fading warmth was his only desire and he had no intention of letting an ill-mannered orphan spoil it. Ofttimes he found himself staring out into the country, savoring the refreshingly clean air of the Midwest and the smell of morning dew, and listening to crickets in pastures and the guttural croaking of spiny toads in a gentle brook, all while watching the sun crawl across the wide blue yonder.

Yet, with all the splendor there before him, little John couldn't resist being a hard case and vocalizing his frustrations. "Can we go back yet, Arthur?" he asked him.

Arthur removed the cigarette from between his lips at one and the same time as he released the thick smoke held in his lungs. "Just...give them their fun, will you? Before you head back and ruin it with all your moaning," he said, rather jaded at having to watch over John Marston while Hosea, Dutch, and Susan got to drink prairie dew and play cards.

From the edge of his vision he could see the orphan drop his head, his hair clinging to the skin of his brow. Arthur couldn't blame the kid, he had spent the day, from when the birds first took flight to the sun's creeping descent, learning his letters and how to read from Dutch, and the complexities of proper etiquette from Hosea. All the while Susan had Arthur put to work around the ranch: collecting pails of water from the calm lake, chopping billets for kindling, and carrying feed to the horses.

The afternoon's events seemed to blend together as Arthur thought about the day. Bringing the smoke back to his lips he took an overlong draw on the tobacco filled blanket, relishing in the serenity and the feeling of his taut muscles relaxing from the nicotine's pleasurable effects, before expelling it from his lungs again.

Returning his attention to the orphan once more, Arthur spared no effort in making small talk to pass the time. "How're you comin' along with your reading, John? You ain't given' old Dutch and Hosea too much trouble, are you?"

"I'm doing the best I can, but reading is hard, Arthur," John admitted. "Dutch says that if I can read the whole of Wonderland, or a Charles Dickens, or Arthur Doyle, from front to back, I can come out robbing and killing with you all!"

"You? Robbin' and killing!" Arthur guffawed, choking for a moment on the smoke. "Stop, you're makin' me laugh!"

"I killed a man!" The orphan argued with a half-truth.

"I killed many men. More than you can count," Arthur declared. "Out there they don't stand waiting for you to turn iron on them, they got guns of their own. And if you ain't quick, you're dead." He spoke in candor about the lawless west where men only recognized the pioneer's trinity: the Bible, the bottle, and the six-iron at their hip. "Anyhow, you need to know to shoot one before even thinking of ridin' with us."

"Dutch says he'll show me how."

"Yeh...I am sure that he will try," Arthur recognized. "Well after you learned to read, and eat like you weren't raised by a pack of wild animals."

Marston went quiet for a time, fostering Arthur's curiosity to tilt his head and look at the boy. His face was veiled by that unwashed, coal-black hair and by the shadows of the impending twilight; eyes and any discernible expressions were unrecognizable to the longrider the more he tried to focus his gaze on the orphan's face. His vision grew unfocused the longer he looked as if he had peered through a nebulous wall made of fog. Arthur thought to tackle the question if he had at some point drank any firewater that day or, for all he knew, some of Hosea's bumblebee whiskey - he was starting to feel a sting.

"Who taught you to shoot, Arthur?" John asked suddenly, knocking Arthur out of his stupor.

The longrider brought a hand up to knead his eyelids, rubbing away any dirt or wetness that could have worked its way into his eyes. "I learned the way everyone learns - killin' folk. Yet, it was my daddy that put a gun in my hand and showed me to shoot." Arthur fiddled with the brim of his hat once again. "He was a worthless father and a tenth-rate outlaw that never could leave things be - the no good bastard. And, well...things didn't end well for him. When he passed, I left. I shot some and I stole some. I killed greenhorns and big guns all while robbing folk well off and them who weren't. Time after that is when I met Dutch, and I've been ridin' with him since."

Resting between his lips, the cigarette was close to it's dog end, and so he breathed in the last breath, holding the smoke in his lungs while dropping the fag onto the dry, beaten path. He watched the last streaks of daylight die away over the horizon as the dark seized the sky and the twinkling stars decorated the firmament. They were clear and brilliant, their shimmering forms almost moving unnaturally across the dusk sky as if they were being pulled by strings invisible to the human eye.

The longrider turned fully to look at little John, and found the young boy to be looking at the stars, same as him. The night was too dark for him to see his face.

"Arthur," a woman's voice suddenly called out to him from afar. He didn't recognize it to be Miss Grimshaw, and found it bizarre as it seemingly came from the stars in the sky. It had called unto him a second time in a dull monotonous tone, and Arthur was slowly convinced that he had some hell of a brick in his hat to start hearing voices where there were none.

"Arthur!" A third time he was called, this voice was closer and more anxious than the previous two. It repeated multiple times, howling at him from all around the pasture. He eyed the boy to see if he was the one playing tricks on him, but found that John hadn't turned his gaze away from the skies.

"ARTHUR!" It shrieked, this time he recognizing the hoarse voice that belonged to his surrogate father, Dutch.

Looking back towards the ranch, Arthur was appalled to find their frontier home consumed by intense flames, red as blood and that towered above him and those once mighty, crowned mountains. Colossal clouds puffed out from the chimney and were swarming with hundreds of ravenous crows exploding out from within, their wings of keen obsidian cutting through the thick walls of soot. The dry timber walls and roof were lit ablaze and were left to be turned into cracklings; the open windows were irradient as the grease covered sheets of paper caught light and burned away.

From the fires he heard another voice calling him, beckoning him towards the ranch with an allure that Arthur couldn't pass over.

He ordered John not to move, already unaware that he was missing from his spot next to him. Arthur sprang off the fence and raced down the beaten path towards the aflamed ranch. Hollering for Susan and Hosea he quickened his pace, his boots smacking against sod and dry grass with every step bringing him closer to the raging flames. His shoulders heaved as his breathing became heavy and the heat from the fire became palpable.

"Dutch...Dutch!" he called out for him at the top of his lungs.

He reached the spacious porch and clambered up the stairs, bounded towards the door, kicking up soot and embers as he did. Without hesitation, Arthur reached for the doorknob and attempted to pull open the door, but something on the other side prevented it from moving.

"Hey, Dutch, Hosea! You in there!" Arthur received no response and so set about throwing his shoulder into the burning door. It didn't budge. "Open goddammit!"

He rammed his shoulder into the door again and was once more met with no results; a third time he propelled himself forward into the barrier, this time feeling the hinges give way in the smoldering frame. Steeling his nerves, Arthur gave a final push and broke through the door, it's iron hinges exploding out of the wall and the door's face splintering under his weight. Smoke as dense and black as coal surged out through the open door, the burnt remains of wood and furnishing slammed into him with a powerful blast and surrounded Arthur in an oblique cloud of soot.

"Dutch!" Arthur continued to call. "Hosea! Miss Grimshaw! Say something! Dammit, I can't-" He stooped down as he abruptly began hacking and struggling for breath as he stumbled further into the ranch.

The blaze was blistering and continued to spread, growing high enough to disappear above the dark shroud and bring the ranch down around him. A heavy sweat rolled down his brow and soaked through his shirt and his boots, and his lungs burned black and crisp while he drowned in a sea of fire and ash.

Arthur listened to the flames hiss with red tongues and the sharp cracking of wood as the night sky became visible through the collapsing roof - nary a soul could be heard within the inferno. His ears rang with the resounding beat of his heart and his eyes lost focus as the fire swirled around him in wreaths of crimson-gold flowers.

"Damn...where are you, Dut-argh!" Intense pain erupted from his side as a knife with a blade forged in the fire pierced through his skin, searing the flesh beneath. He tottered on his feet, taking cautionary steps forward while grasping the handle of the blade and tearing it out. The blade, stained red with his blood, reflected the dancing flames and was affixed to a bisected antler taken from a stag.

Letting the knife fall from his grasp, he tumbled to the ground and began hacking once again, unperturbed to be laying in mud and cinders instead of on the cracked, burning floors of the ranch. Arthur trembled violently with tears stinging the edges of his eyes while he coughed up blood blacker than the night.

"You should have run," a voice said somewhere close by as Arthur expelled the last of the vile black-blood from his lungs.

Composing himself, he frantically hunted for the source of the voice. His eyes darted from one spot in the dark haze to another, not staying on a specific area for to long. Rising above the smoke, Arthur glimpsed the silhouettes of massive buildings concealed by shadows with towers spiraling into the sky. "You should have run," it repeated.

"Where are you...you rat!" Arthur snarled as blood trailed down his chin and dripped to the muddy ground.

"You should have run," the voice continued, echoing from his left and his right, from behind him and mere feet before him. "You should have run! You should have run! You should have-"

RUN, a voice coming from somewhere deep in his subconscious yelled to him. It was a primal instinct that had activated within him, demanding that he flee for safety.

Refusing to back down against this threat, he unsteadily got to his feet. "Come out, you goddamn coward!" Arthur barked, prepared for who or whatever emerged from beyond the veil of soot and smoke. "C'mon, show yourself!"

What sounded like leaden footfalls beating against the muddy ground boomed behind him, only to vanish as quickly as it had came. Hurriedly turning on his heels, Arthur searched for the source of his foreboding thoughts. From his left the booming reappeared, this time closer and more distinct; the sound of boots slapping against mud and the distinguishingly rough reverberations of a man panting.

It was a bipedal creature that took the form of a man and that lurked somewhere within the tangible abyss surrounding Arthur, and the longer he looked the more he was aware that it was observing him with four, slitted eyes.

Quikly again, the booming faded away into the night and Arthur was left with only the thundering pulse of his heart ringing in his ears. He studied where the noise had been moments ago, finding nothing but the disquieting solace of the fire's faint light within the smoke, wistful embers trying to stay alive but ultimately failing and drifting towards the earth as coarse flakes of ash.

Without warning, Arthur was toppled off his feet by a dark, wraithlike figure. His back collided hard with the ground as the uncanny predator climbed on top of him. It possessed the form of a man with unfathomable features; upon its shoulders, squealing with bloated tongues, rested the two abhorrent heads of swine. They glared down at him maliciously with the eyes of snakes, and held within gaunt hands was a knife aimed to take his life, the blade radiating a gruesome crimson after being plucked from the fires. Arthur brought his hands up and stopped the blade in it's descent, but struggled against the strength of the nightmarish creature.

"I've waited a long time to kill you," one of the swine heads spoke, it's voice dripping with venom, while the other dumbly hissed the word, "brother."

Arthur pushed back against the creature's staggering might as the point of the glowing blade inched closer towards his chest. He glanced passed the pig heads and to the sky, noticing the stars move across the endless expanse of nothingness and taking shape in the visage of a lifeless mask. In his distrait, the creature put more strength into its attack.

He watched as the burning knife plunged into his chest, powerless to stop that thing from killing him that night. Arthur laid there in a pool of mud and his own abhorrent blood with a knife made of fire buried in his chest, and the remnants of a burnt dream left to rot beneath the dispassionate gaze of stars and stone giants.

Arthur's eyes abruptly opened to the sight of an ill-lit, smooth stone ceiling and the startled expression of a young woman. He had awakened in a heavy sweat, the fine sheets that covered him were similarly drenched and clinging to his arms and legs, and the bed in which he laid had accumulated a sufficient volume of dampness to make his stay an uncomfortable one. Small movements caused the irksome sheets to tangle around his limbs and constrict him to the wool bed, making it difficult for him to rise.

As he attempted to sit up, a pair of cool hands were gently placed upon his back and arm, keeping him steady and guiding him as he rose into a comfortable position. The hands belonged to a young woman with black hair and tawny skin that glistened like amber in the brazier's firelight; her eyes, almond-shaped and dark brown, were full of concern. She spoke in short utterances with a harsh dialect, the rough and unintelligible words lurching off her tongue.

Arthur tried to speak but found that his voice didn't come, instead a scratchy cough brought him to lower his head. His mouth and throat were drying, and he could feel grains of sand grinding against his teeth. He tried to wet his lips, but was unsuccessful.

While he was distracted the woman had moved from his side to fetch a pitcher from a table close to the bed. She brought it to him while motioning for him to work his way to the edge of the bed. "Iddelat," the woman spoke in the same unintelligible tongue. "Halelat athhajar ato eth iddelat eveth…drink."

Arthur watched her for a moment, and she looked back at him with an expectant gaze. She gestured with the pitcher in hand once more while repeating what she said in a tongue he understood.

Arthur took hold of the pitcher and brought it before him. Oddly enough it was made of bronze and not of copper or pewter, or even of porcelain that the out-and-outer sported in plenty, and still showed dents and wear and was cool to touch. He waved the container from side to side and listened to the contents swash around before bringing it up to his lips and swilling the water down his throat. Some escaped from the pitcher's brim and trickled down his beard and onto his heaving chest.

"Thank you," he breathed out after taking his fill, not having realized how parched he'd been. Arthur returned the pitcher to the woman and watched as she placed it back on the table beside the bed. "Where am I?"

"Vaes Sen Gref," she answered in the foregin language while reaching for a dinky rag set on the bed sheets near them. The woman lifted another vessel from the floor, this one was a basin with a wide mouth that displayed the reflective depths of the water inside. She settled down beside him and placed the basin on her lap while soaking the rag in the water as she did.

"Where? I'm sorry, I ain't heard of a place called Vi...Visen - what was it?" He wasn't fully awake yet and was sure that he had butchered the name, but was relieved that his throat was no longer insufferably dry. She reaffirmed the name for him in the common language of the Land of Liberty - english. Yet still, after hearing the name in his accustomed tongue, but with a crude and exotic accent, the haze that was obscuring his thoughts remained and hampered any chance of him thinking clearly. "Yeh, ain't ever heard of it. That somewhere in Mexico?"

Qarth, the city named by the woman, was unfamiliar to him. He' never been nor heard of the municipality, and so questioned its location and standing within the country. Can't be Mexico, he thought while looking from one dimly lit wall to another before staring out the open terrace across the vast room where the faintest smell of salt was carried in by a breeze.

He was still alive and for all he knew he was somewhere outside of Annesburg, in the State of New Hanover, rescued from the blackened remains of his camp at Beaver Hollow and taken into the custody of the amber-skinned woman. The intrusive stench of saltwater placed him somewhere close to the Lannahechee River and around the bottomlands, and the soft glow of candles in the distance only gave credence to the young woman's answer of him being in a large city, and mayhaps what the lass had called Qarth was, in all likelihood, a foreign epithet for Saint Denis.

By good fortune he didn't appear to be in the custody of the law. Having spent his fair share of nights in crowbar hotels he had become familiar with the thick iron bars and stone walls of the cells. In many he was given a cot, but was not unaccustomed with the numbing floors - if the lawmen were kind, and himself blessed by some luck, he would be gifted a clean cell. Never had he been gifted a large room with lavish decor and an open terrace. He especially never had a young woman tend to him while in captivity, although she seemed to be withdrawn and reluctant to speak with him.

Arthur was at sea on whether it had been her intention to answer him due to an obligation, or if it was a moment of hesitation and a fortuitous sense of compassion. She remained silent during her ministrations, choosing only to focus on the water-laden basin and the cascading droplets of Adam's ale as she wrung the sopping fabric, giving him no mind.

The woman guided the soaking rag across his arm to clean away sweat and grime while discarding insignificant beads of water along his skin that gleamed like liquid gold caught in the irradient flames of a goldsmith's furnace, and that flowed like ichor - that which exuded from the pious and godly, and the fool's gold that presumably ran through the veins of the wealthy and sanctimonious. Arthur's breath hitched as the woman moved to start cleansing the rest of his upper body. His skin was raw and red, considerably so, feeling as if he had been left to cook in a fire for a day and a night.

There was an awkward weight at the center of his chest that had been irritating him since he awoke out of his dream of being hedged in by a wall of fire and thrust into a sea of sweat. The room was as hot as a whorehouse on nickel night, with the open terrace and the lass bathing him being his only refuge from the insufferable heat. Although he had spent many nights the same - waking when the nighthawk took heed, soaked to the bone and airing his paunch; all due to consumption guaranteeing him a peaceful rest once he was buzzard food.

Arthur lowered his eyes to his chest to find the source of his awkward discomfort. At the center of his chest, beneath his collarbone, was a scrap of cloth that covered his skin down to his abdomen. He moved his hand up to peel away the fabric but was impeded by the woman gently taking hold of his forearm and guiding it back to his side. "Be still," she instructed him as she placed the rag back into the basin. Arthur watched her, the young lass' face bearing no emotion as she worked.

She reached for the cloth on his chest and peeled it back, revealing a thin layer of a xanthous ointment besmeared on his skin and that stubbornly clung to the retreating fabric. With the covering gone (along with his discomfort) and fresh air hitting the salve, his nameless attendant resumed with cleansing his chest.

There was a lingering pain as the woman removed the ointment from his chest, a phantom heat that burned like cool iron freshly placed in a fire. Arthur decided to move his focus away from pain and distract himself by striking up conversation. "I don't think I ever got your name, ma'am."

"This one is Irri," she said, and nothing more.

"Irri. That's a fine name, like the Great Lake." Irri carried on with her work, showing no sign that she had even heard him. Arthur cleared his throat and spotted the lass stealing a glance up at him. She was listening to him, but was choosing what she said and what questions she answered. "What happened to me?" he pried.

"Ifak lafaya…" the woman uttered as she wiped away the last of the salve. She traced the raw skin with the tips of her fingers, following an arc from below his neck to his upper abdomen just beneath his left pectoral. "Be proud. A stray touched by the moon must be proud to carry the fire bestowed by our Khaleesi."

He didn't have the chance to ask her anything further as the door to the room opened. Entering the room was a man and a woman, both of the same skin tone as Irri. The man, Arthur noticed, was larger than him with a beard covering his face and his dark hair in a short plait that reached down to his back. When his sight landed on Arthur he became guarded, but didn't show any sign of moving from the door, keeping his eyes solely on him.

The woman was taller than Irri but still fell short of the man stood behind her. She had almond-shaped, coffee-brown eyes and curly, braided-black hair that was entwined into two short plaits that swayed freely and hid her ears, and a thicker plait that rested over her shoulder. She was well-endowed, with heavy breasts and a wide waist and compared to Irri, she was bigger boned.

"Ifak latha! Irri, ela azha Khaleesi nesi!" The woman spoke quickly as she looked at Arthur, clearly surprised to see him awake. "Ela, ela!"

Irri placed the basin onto the table before she stood from the bed, worked her way passed the two standing at the door and disappeared out into the corridor, all without sparing him a glance. Poor lass, Arthur thought as he watched her leave. It might have been the communication barrier between the two that had made it difficult for her to feel comfortable around him, although she seemed to grasp English rather well. Or it could have been as simple as she wanted to leave the room for the graces of the hall. Being that she may have been the one that cared for him during the later hours of half-light, Irri would have to be delighted to be free of her duty.

"Ayola mra gachesh leshitof," the woman said to the man who then grabbed the frame of the door and closed it behind him, exiting into the corridor with only a brief look back to him, leaving Arthur alone in the bedchamber with another woman to care for him. She turned to him, having lost the face of surprise, and hurried over to his bedside.

It was now that Arthur noticed the clothes held in her arms, folded into a white and golden roll. She unfurled the garments in her arms and draped them across his bed, stepping back when she was done. "Would you like help?" she asked after seeing he hadn't moved.

"Help? No, no I can handle that," Arthur breathed while looking at the clothes left for him. He pivoted in bed, fighting back a groan as his side flared with discomfort, and struggled to get onto his feet. Uneasily, he stood, and presented to the woman his personal parts. The breeze brushed past his now exposed nether regions, his unmentionables nowhere to be found. The woman stared fixedly at him with her gentle, dark-eyes dancing down his form before rising once more to rest on the cloths wrapped tightly around his gut.

Arthur paced himself while he kept a hand on the bed, trying to prevent himself from collapsing to the floor and yielding to the numbness in his chest and side that branched out, and tangled itself throughout his body and around his limbs like heavy roots. He looked at the clothes laid out before him - the shirt, or dress as it may be, was long and looked to be made out of a cloud-white material, with gold-accented patterns along the hems. Set beside it was a sash the hue of robin eggs, with gold-streaks of similar interlacing patterns running diagonally along the fabric, and the fringe decorated with white and gold tassels.

He just remained standing there, looking at the fine garments in puzzlement. Arthur reached for the white shirt but stiffened when pain exploded through his side. He turned his head back to the lass, whose eyes swiftly rose to meet his, and gave her an agitated but kind smile.

"I'm going to need your help," he acknowledged.

The woman briskly moved to his side and grabbed the shirt from the bed. She rolled-up the long white hems and raised it before Arthur. He slowly lifted an arm, attempting to not make any jarring movements, and ran it through the first sleeve. The second sleeve required not as much effort on his part as the woman assisted in pulling it over him along with the neck, and let it fall and cover him to his knees.

The shirt was made of a thin-silk and clung to his damp skin. It rested mostly on his shoulders, the expensive material cool against the wound on his chest.

Next came the shash, as the woman furled it around his midsection. She was mindful not to cause him any discomfort when tightening it. When she was done she tucked the loose end of the robin egg sash into the furled fabric and let it hang at his thigh.

Arthur attempted to express his gratitude but was interrupted when her arm snaked around his. "We must go," she said, urging him towards the door while supporting him so he wouldn't fall to the ground.

"All right, hold up." Arthur stopped her from pulling him forward. "I ain't goin' anywhere until you tell me where you're tryin' to take me."

"Khaleesi wished to meet when you awoke," she explained while turning to look up at him. He stood a head taller than her and needed to tilt his head down to look her in the eyes when standing shoulder to shoulder. "We must not keep the Khaleesi waiting any longer."

"That other woman, Irri, mentioned a Khaleesi. Who exactly do you want me to meet with?" Arthur recalled Irri saying that he had been given a fire by some Khaleesi. Considering she spoke mostly in that harsh tongue, he wasn't sure if what she had said in English was simply a mistranslation.

"She is our Khaleesi. Your savior."

Arthur remained stoic upon receiving her answer while he considered this Khaleesi's reasons for pulling him from Beaver Hollow. He was a wanted man in multiple states with a bounty of five-thousand pinned to his head, and for as long as he could recall, had his every movement hampered by the likes of bounty hunters looking to collect the reward on his head.

The times he left camp to hunt the bounties of two-bit criminals he would go out of his way to bring them back alive, with most groveling at his feet and playing the devil's part by proposing self-fulfilling deals they pulled from their ass that offered him nothing. He didn't capture them alive and restrain them like they were nothing but animals, because they were, and he didn't listen to them spew out horseshit in such a way it'd make the Reverend turn blue because he found it pleasing. No, he kept them alive because like animals they were worth more that way.

His expression turned grim as he considered the event in which he was led to this Khaleesi and was met with the barrel of a gun, and the cold embrace of chains.

When the young woman started to lead him to, and out the door. He suppressed his anxious feelings but they returned in full when he thought about his armless predicament. If he was met by the force of the law, he had no way of defending himself.

Out in the hall, Arthur had been expecting to see the man from earlier waiting, but was surprised to find nary another soul accompanying him in the passage. "This way," the woman said, guiding him down the long, stone hall. Arthur didn't need to turn around to know that the man followed them from behind, he could feel the watchful gaze on his back.

They walked slowly for his sake, the woman having to adjust her hold on him whenever one of his legs would threaten to buckle under him. She led him through the massive building, larger than any he had seen in Saint Denis. The walls were draped with light colored silk that fluttered with the breath of air coming from the open walkways. He noticed as they progressed through the halls that they became decorated with black and red silk as opposed to the peach and ivory that adorned the passages by his room. The floors had also transitioned from a reddish stone to polished marble, cold against his bare feet.

To cure his unease, Arthur began speaking with the woman. He learned her name to be Jhiqui and that she too had been saved by the individual she referred to as Khaleesi, the same person who was causing his head to swim in distress. Hiding behind a forced smile, Arthur responded to her politely, "She sounds like a kindly lady. Did this Khaleesi save him too?"

"We are all of the Khaleesi's khalasar. Aggo is of her blood and ko to his Khaleesi," Jhiqui told him.

"They're brother and sister?" he asked to which she repeated, of her blood. Jhiqui didn't seem to know that his question was left unanswered. Arthur moved on, "What does that make you then?"

"I belong to my Khaleesi. I'm to serve her in all her desires."

Arthur didn't know what to think. "So you're a...like what? The lady's maid? A courtesan? Or," he hesitated, "a slave?"

Jhiqui answered him with a mellowed smile. "If it's what she wishes for me," she said. "The Khaleesi is kind to slaves, and welcomes them into her embrace. It is known."

Arthur glowered at her response. Slavery never sat right with him, and the sick people of Leymone that tried to reinstate it, or even continued to sell men and women, made his ire boil. It finally spilled over when he and Lenny assailed Shady Belle, and he had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting more members of the Lemoyne Raiders. They were the rotten remains of the Confederacy that dreampt of reinstalling the slave trade in America, and he relished in every breath he took away from them - each shot from his rifle would ring like church bells as he filled the vermin with .50 calibers of searing metal.

To the Raiders, blacks were seen as less than human. They were possessions to them - not people. Tools to be used and when they've outlived their use they would be discarded and replaced.

Life was about being free, and in America life was about going anywhere and doing anything. Men couldn't live freely with their limbs restrained by iron.

Their exchange ended as they approached their destination. Another room, guarded by two more of who Arthur assumed to be the Khaleesi's men armed with what at first appeared to be sickles. They did not appear to take kindly to his approach.

Jhiqui greeted the two in their harsh tongue. They shared looks between him and his escorts, one seemingly was wary of him while the other curled his lip and growled out a response. He had been leering at Jhiqui and what he said was grating to his ears. The frown that came to her face further confirmed his assumption.

Before he could say something in defense of the lass, his second escort stepped between them and looked down on the two guards. "Govak qifo! Eyelat yer ma vineser nemo atthar," Aggo growled as the two guards stood their ground.

They looked from Aggo to him and Jhiqui before they relented and stepped aside. Aggo opened the wooden doors and Jhiqui ushered him inside, but not before Arthur locked eyes with the leering guard, letting him know just what he thought of him.

Arthur found himself stepping into a large, open room illuminated by braziers and candlelight. It was another bedroom with walls draped in silk, and furnishing scattered throughout, and the scent of salt was all but gone and replaced with the subtle savor of lavender and mint. His eyes lingered the longest on the gold decor and ornaments dispersed around the room, impressed with the wealth of the individual.

Arthur's eyes danced from one gold statue to another before they landed on the three figures in the room, one of which he recognized. Irri stood amongst the two imposing individuals; one was a man standing roughly at the same height as him, and the other was a young woman sitting behind a table, her gaze transfixed on him. Arthur regarded them with suspicion, unsure if they could be trusted as his thoughts returned to his earlier concerns dealing with Pinkertons.

The man was donning a dark-brown, leather skirt that reached below his knees held up with a studded belt, and a beige, cotton shirt with a tanned, blue-hide neckerchief. His grey eyes were sharp, capturing every movement he made walking into the room. Arthur held back a smirk when he saw one of the man's hands resting on the pommel of a sword. Almost all his worries about the law and Pinkertons left him; those snakes would sooner spill the blood of an innocent than regress back to the middle ages. Their shared adoration for modernization made them a joke out in the West, that was until more and more industrial tycoons started to move their factories and workers into the frontier, bringing the eye of the law with them.

Even if there wasn't a gun currently present in the room, the sword posed just as great of a threat, especially when he was still unwell from his last fight. He also doubted that the man before him would be fool enough to carry a sword if he didn't know how to use it. That posture and build could frighten even a bear, and Arthur was unwilling to admit that if he were to fight this man now, he would most definitely lose.

Arthur's eyes soon found themselves on the young woman sitting at the table - the Khaleesi. He had to stop himself from staring fixedly upon her, as she was dressed in a revealing, sheer gown that left one of her breasts exposed and hanging freely, and did little to conceal the other, her pink nipple poking against the light-blue fabric. She was enchanting to look at, her milky-white skin was complemented by long, silver hair that glimmered like moonlight. Her eyes were not unlike two gemstones, violet and unworldly, and focused on him with such firmness behind them that he was sure he'd lose his breath.

The woman before him was beautiful, in such a way that it was bewitching.

"I take it that your rest has granted you the strength to stand," the woman spoke in a way that demanded authority, and in accented English similar to those back east, "although not without assistance, I see." Her gaze moved away from him to Jhiqui, who lowered her head in greeting.

Slowly all the pieces came together, and Arthur felt a groan rise in his throat. He felt foolish for thinking that a woman so well off would have the need to turn him over for his bounty. Jhiqui and Irri's words returned to him, and he realized that he was dealing with an Anglomaniac.

It was only a moment after she had spoken, and yet he could feel the pressure building in the room and bearing down upon him.

Jhiqui prodded him with her arm, and soon he understood that she was waiting for him to introduce himself. Wouldn't she already know who he was? Wasn't she the one to rescue him from bleeding to death, or being burned alive at his camp? And he was wanted across multiple states, surely, she knew, which only left the question as to why she saved him.

Another moment and he hesitated as the woman looked at him expectantly. Arthur wondered if he should give them his name or use one of his fakes. If this was a ploy to see if he would easily give up his identity or lie, he was unsure how to proceed. The silence and her stare soon became unbearable, so he decided to risk being honest and cleared the lump in his throat, "Arthur...my name...it's Arthur Morgan."

He watched them. All of them. Trying to spot a hint of recognition on their faces, but was gratefully surprised by their unchanging expressions, hard as stone.

The Khaleesi turned to the man standing at her side, a questioning look now gracing her alluring features. Arthur watched as the man gave her a shake of his head - an unspoken question answered.

"Thank you for meeting with me so late, Arthur Morgan." She lifted a hand in a gesture towards the empty chair across the table from her. "Please, have a seat. It must have been arduous having to walk here so suddenly after just waking."

Arthur was grateful for the offer as he was still feeling numb in his limbs. He had Jhiqui assist him over to the chair before he placed himself in the seat, arms resting on the table. "Really you should be thanking these young ladies here. Without their help, I wouldn't have made it out of the bed."

She seemed to take kindly to his thanks as she looked to Jhiqui and Irri, giving them both a silent command and a nod of appreciation.

He sat there and waited as the two lasses that watched over him left the room without a word. They seemed content having been shown gratitude, Jhiqui giving him a smile when she had left his side, Irri sparing him just a glance.

It wasn't long before silence filled the room once again, and Arthur was left looking into the Khaleesi's violet eyes. "Do you know who I am?" The question was simple and cut straight to the point.

"I only know what I've been told...them two speak fondly of you," Arthur answered with honesty. "They say you're the one who saved my life."

His response seemed to get an odd reaction out of her. She looked confused, glancing up at the man by her side who had been watching him like a hawk. He too appeared surprised by his answer.

"What of my eyes, or the color of my hair?" she asked. "Do their appearance mean anything to you?"

Should they? He wanted to blurt out. Arthur was more curious as to who she was and why she bothered to save him than he was about her looks. Although, somehow he didn't believe her question to be made out of vanity, she genuinely wanted to know for one reason or another.

"I ain't never seen any like you, if that's what your askin'." Figuring that he answered her questions, he saw it reasonable to start asking his own, "With all appreciation, ma'am, I got a question I'd like to ask you."

She seemed to understand, and waited for his question with an impassive mask. From her side, the man lowered his hand to the hilt of the sword, and Arthur began to worry that he had overstepped. If he was going to have to fight, he'd rather try his odds with the terrace than the edge of a blade. "She is not a madam. You will mind that tongue and answer-"

Any impending conflict was ceased when the young woman raised her hand, the man swiftly halting his rebuke. "It's alright, Ser Jorah. I am sure Arthur Morgan meant no disrespect with his remark." He was sure of it as well, and nonetheless thankful that the man - Jorah, as he had been called - did not see fit to end his life. The young woman continued, "I understand that you may be curious about the circumstances in which you've arrived within my care. You may speak your inquiry."

"Where exactly am I?" Arthur had already asked the same question to Irri, but her answer only presented him with more questions.

"Where do you think you are?" she countered, her violet eyes studying him.

His temper began to rise and his brow tightened. Was she playing a game with him? Because he did not find it amusing. "We're in Saint Denis, or somewhere along the Lannahechee from what I can tell."

Her expression softened when he gave her his notion, and Arthur started to get a sinking feeling from the change in her character. Was he actually somewhere in the Heartlands, or, God forbid, Rhodes? He couldn't be far from where the gang's camp was, and even being in Saint Denis was a big stretch, but he only figured it due to the lights of the city and the smell of salt.

She didn't say anything as she stood from her seat, causing his doubt to grow. Arthur watched her as she exited the bedroom and out onto the terrace where the pleasant smell of lavender and mint emanated.

"I'm sorry to say that you're not where you think you are, Arthur Morgan." She sounded honest enough, he voice soft as she spoke but never losing its authority. "You're in the city of Qarth on the Jade Gates. Aggo, my ko, found you during his search in the Red Wastes and brought you-"

"That can't be right," Arthur interrupted, "I was at Beaver Hollow, last I remember. If that's what you meant by Red Wastes - it was set ablaze - but I am sure that I should be dead. I'm grateful to you for saving my life, truly, but I need to know where you've taken me, who you are, and what you want from me?" He may have put too much venom into his questions, but he was tired of them chasing the Devil around the stump.

The young woman turned back to him, her cold mask returning to her features accompanied with a sharp look - her violet eyes commanding. Her voice didn't betray her feelings, but the sharpness of her words gave away her vexations, "Know that you have my sympathy, Arthur Morgan, but understand that if your thanks were sincere, you would not speak over me again.

"As I was saying, you were brought before me in your condition, and I was advised to have you put down. Instead I choose to save your life. I went against the interests of my people, to insure that a man I didn't know would live. Why it is you survived is for you to decide, but know that your life was a gift from me."

Arthur didn't speak, the Khaleesi having taken complete control of the conversation away from him. His silence was enough for her to continue, "This is my most trusted advisor and confidant, Jorah Mormont." She gestured towards the armed man before considering her next words. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of My Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Mother of Dragons."

She returned to the table, but remained standing so she could look down upon his baffled expression. Arthur wasn't sure what to think at the moment, his head was flooded with titles and names that meant nothing to him, and by some bizarre notion, he suspected that she was aware of that too.

"I won't pretend to understand your confusion, but be senseful when I say that I am unknowing of the lands in which you speak, and as to why you were found in the lifeless deserts," she told him, her eyes never leaving his. "What I want from you Arthur Morgan are the answers to my inquiries. You as well have much more to ask, I'm sure. We will continue with our discussion another time, for now, I ask that you return to your room and rest. Ser Jorah will show you the way."

Jorah moved to his side and waited for him to stand, which he managed after recovering from the revelation. The man was kind enough to at least help him steady himself on his feet, the time he spent sitting down allowing some of his strength to return. Arthur left the room without speaking another word, his mind floating in and out as he thought about what it all meant. He didn't know what it all meant - Qarth, Red Wastes, Targaryen, the Seven Kingdoms, none of it made a lick of sense.

He walked the halls with Jorah Mormont, neither of the two so much as saying a word. It was a shorter trip back, once he got his bearings, but the rooms and halls he passed looked the same and he was sure that if he tried to find his way alone he would have gotten lost.

"Make sure to rest," Jorah told him when they approached his room. "You may have recovered enough to walk, but your wounds still need time to heal."

"Yeh...I will, thank you," he said as he watched the man walk back the way they came.

Arthur entered his room with as much enthusiasm as when he had left it. The braziers were still burning and it looked as if kindling had been added while he was away.

He moved across the room and out onto his open terrace. The lights from the city Qarth pierced through the night and the stars overhead shined brightly. Arthur had spent many nights staring at the sky, tracing constellations or watching as stars fell across the heavens. He could tell that these weren't the ones he knew, and as he searched for the polestar he only found more unfamiliar faces.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked but didn't expect an answer - he already knew. He was in Qarth, in the care of a woman who held the beauty and mysteries of the moon. In the dark he could still see her violet, gemstone eyes watching him.

Qarth, the stars, Daenerys, the Seven Kingdoms, Arthur expected it all to fade away, and he'd wake to find himself bleeding out in the burning camp, all of it being nothing more than a fever dream.

The pain in his side flared again, and Arthur had to place a hand over the cloth bandages. It felt real, nothing like a dream, and it reminded him that he needed to lie down and rest. Retreating back to his room, he gratefully gazed at one of the luxuries he found whenever leaving camp, a comfortable bed.

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That's the way it is

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I apologize for how long this chapter took to come out, it went under a lot of restarts and edits, but here it is. Next chapter might be shorter, I'm not sure, but just a heads up. I'm also probably going to go back to the previous chapters and make them better, just another heads up.

Sweet Commander Katakuri's Review Corner:

alexisg200 - I'm happy that you liked the chapter, and I learned a long time ago that if I put a story on a schedule it ends up (for the most part) poorly written and more often than not just terrible. I'll be taking my time with all of my stories.

King Quinn Of Tucky - A main component of black gunpowder is sulfur, and from my knowledge there is not a mention of something close to sulfur in GRRM's works. This was my first hurdle in conquering Arthur's ammunition problem, but I have a plan that does not involve quantity but focuses on quality. Be excited for Meereen and the arc after that.

Perseus12 - I feel insulted, Perseus. I've seen your reviews on other stories and you always give a wowsers, but I haven't gotten that yet. I'm just messing with you though, and I'm glad you liked the chapter.

Gasizol - I'm happy that you like the story.

hansolo18 - I'm thrilled whenever I update. It's always a relief to finish a new chapter. I'm happy you liked it!

Albatross079 - Easy there, partner. We have to remember that Daenerys is a Khaleesi, and has been traveling with a horde of warriors that pillage, rape, and destroy everything they come across. Privacy, is not something she would need to worry about when introduced with an unknown variable. Especially when it's in her camp.

Blaszczu2500 - I won't lie, I was practically done with the last chapter when I saw your last review and the follow. I thought updating would be a nice gift for a new follower. Jorah training Arthur is a possibility, but there are already a few possible teachers as well.

Brady420 - I agree that there would be no point in having a gunslinger without any way to use his firearms, but there is an age old lesson to be learned here known as conservation. Story wise, Arthur claims to never have been good with a bow, but my boy is a prodigy. Arthur will get a bow, and I already connected him with the means to get it.

Angry lil' elf - Don't have to worry, ALSO THIS GOES FOR EVERY READER, if you ever wonder how my writing is coming for any story I write, just check my profile where I put a rough estimate on the completion for the next chapter, or you can just PM me. I recommend PM-ing me. The honor system in the game is in fact just a game function. Being an outlaw, robbing people, killing people, and just being a criminal to survive is not very honorable and is part of Arthur's upbringing, but I guarantee you that Arthur is still the altruistic cowboy we've all come to love. I understand your progress on your story, and can compare it to my lengthy update periods. Life is tough and it's hard to find time to write.

Miko 56 - You crack me up, Miko.

Gman - We all want a shotgun, Gman.

GrapeFanta - Get some sleep, Grape! I promise that this story will still be there when you wake up. I'm happy you like the story!

Valtek - Now that you say that, It'd be funny for someone to be looking down the barrel and accidentally pulling the trigger. The sacred rule, yes. BUT, I planned for this. Arthur helps people a lot, but he is also a killer, a thief, and an outlaw. He also likes to deny that he is a good person, but come on...we all know that he is. You hit the nail on the head with that, Arthur and Jorah are not going to be on the best of terms, but they'll have a mutual dislike for Daario. Yes, he will wield a sword at some point(s) in this story.

SpeakeroftheSpurned - Thank you so much, I'm glad you like the story.

Shade - I simply presented the bait and I caught some shade. I'm happy you like it! I honestly cannot wait for Arthur and Tyrion to meet; I'm sure he would be happy to know that Arthur doesn't discriminate just because someone is only half a person's height. Recreating Arthur's bullets is at current physically impossible in ASOIAF, but don't worry, I have a plan!

TheRealTarkus - I'm happy you like the story, and don't worry it will get longer especially in the next few chapters.

BattleUnit3 - Black gunpowder would be what he needs to make functioning bullets, and also a skilled craftsman to forge the munition. But there is no sulfur (that I know of) in the world of ice and fire. But don't worry, I have a plan! I think I'll mention the amount of ammo he has in one of the next chapters, just because I want to describe it. It's quite a bit though. I'm sure that I don't want Arthur having any longer firearm on him, as this was my decision when making the story. You're right on the money with the idea of using a bow to conserve bullets.

SHIPWRECK-5897 - I'm happy you liked the chapter!

Blaise Welshman - I have absolutely no idea what you were even talking about in the first half of your review. Schofield Revolvers are practically the same? The same to what? Other Schofield Revolvers? Because then I agree with you. I did go with the Sawed-Off, you'd know if you read my notes at the end of the last chapter (which I think you did). Why did I choose that over another type of shotgun? Because it's my story and that's what I decided. I'm also sure that you're referring to it being worse than other weapons in the game, but this isn't a game. The stats for the Sawed-Off can't apply to the story because reading/writing a story and playing a game are fundamentally different. This is like saying Arthur can only swim for a limit of 2 minutes, because any longer and he'd drown out of getting tired.

n5agam - I wouldn't call it 'striking out' for what I have planned. Will Arthur at one point be seperate from Daenerys? Yes, and the way I plan to do that...well it'd be a first because I have not seen anyone else write this in a GOT fanfiction before.

Justus80 - I'm happy you liked the story! I don't think I've answered this outside of a PM yet so I'll tell EVERYBODY. About Arthur's TB, if you recall that the doctor wanted Arthur to go someplace warm and dry. The Red Waste is warm (unbearably so) and dry as well, so while Arthur is in Essos his TB will be less of a problem than it has been, but it still is a problem. Keeping his guns clean won't be a problem and I already have a plan for his ammo.

Sandovalr77 - No.

Guest #1 - I'm glad that you like it but none of that is going to happen.

leetheresearcher - Thank you for following and I hope you like the story.

Guest #2 - I'll finish it.

Frostknight24 - Well here it is.

Felipe - Thank you, I will, and here it is.

Scoolio - Happy that you like it.

SupergodzillaSailorCosmos - Happy you like it and I'm writing as fast as I can. I'd rather take longer to write and deliver great chapters than write shit in a week.

Scoolio...again - Here is is.

Jujukill - Are you implying that this has gotten bad? I'm just kidding, here it is.

IamOminous - I'm glad you liked it. Of course Arthur has an understanding of his own guns. I don't think it should be taxed or controlled. The components are easy to find but sulfur is the component that is in question in this world.

KonoDioDa - Thank you, Dio-sama. With you stand, Za Warudo, and my stand, That's the Way It Is, we'll rule this fan-fiction cite.