( ACT I; sleeping dragon. )
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chapter 13: the thirteen.

DAENERYS' bloodriders have yet to return and the shortage of water and food grew no better. Still, they wandered, trekking on until they found a new patch of shade for relief or any amount of vegetation that they all forced themselves to consume. Vaegon had never thought he'd find himself eating grass to ease away the ever present rolling of his growling belly, nor did he think he'd be forced to bury himself in sand during the heat of the sun to find some sort of relief from the heat. Ever since they'd reluctantly entered the waste, they'd been forced to do many things one might find unsanitary or strange.

His hair had grown an exceptional amount since the last time he'd taken the time to shear it away and his ragged Dothraki clothes were dirtier than ever and anything less than pleasant smelling. Amid his current conditions, he'd lost count of the number of days they'd been in the waste— or perhaps it had already been a moon or two? He wasn't sure but he knew it had been long enough for his days to blur together and his sense of reality and sanity to slowly break away. The only thing that drove him forward was his determination to save Daenerys and their dragons.

The retinue walked at the height of day, when the sun was highest and the heat blistered down upon their skin. They'd lost another Dothraki the night before, an old man who had all but been consumed by exhaustion and had slipped away in his sleep just as many others had before him. He'd pushed harder than many others, but he didn't try hard enough. They'd allowed time in the morning for the Dothraki to properly bury the man before they'd continued in the direction they were currently heading.

Vaegon wasn't praying for the Dothraki to perish, but he soon began to realize that the scarce amount rations they'd been forced to prolong began to disappear far less quickly the more of the people they were forced to leave behind. It was a tragedy to lose them, but also a blessing in disguise.

His mind wandered to and fro as they walked, dwelling on anything and everything he could possibly think of so that his hunger and thirst wouldn't drive him mad. One of his hands shielded the sun from his eyes while his other gripped Daenerys' hand. Near them, Ser Jorah walked, he looking no better than they did.

"I don't want to give up," Daenerys muttered. It was the first time that any of them had spoken in a while. Most of them had chosen to suffer in silence. "But we must face we will never leave this place."

"Don't say such things," Vaegon softly scolded her. "We'll get out of here. There are still two of your bloodriders left. They'll return soon."

"Perhaps they will return," she muttered. "But by then, I'm sure it'll be too late."

Her pessimism wasn't helping his own, so he turned his direction toward the knight. "Ser Jorah, what do you think? Are we close to find a city?"

He shrugged, a weak frown on his lips. The waste had taken a toll on the older man, the damage apparent in his sunburned skin and weary look. "I wish I knew, Your Grace. We've traveled east, I know that, but I cannot tell you how far. The only thing I know is that we're headed in the right direction. We have the sun to thank for that."

Vaegon rolled his eyes. "Well, at least the damn thing has had some use besides withering is away one by one."

"Do you see that?" Daenerys suddenly draws their attention ahead, toward a figure in the distance. It appears to be a horse and rider.

"It looks like Kovarro," Jorah states with his eyes squinted.

It was Kovarro indeed, riding toward them at a quick pace. Vaegon noticed that the horse he rode was not the one he left on. This one looked fresh, with strange looking reins and a saddle that were most definitely not Dothraki. As Kovarro neared them, he pulled the horse to a stop as those left of the retinue came quickly to receive the news. He begins rattling off to Daenerys and Jorah with an excited expression on his face. It brings hope to Vaegon.

"He says there's a city nearby," Jorah informs Vaegon while Daenerys continues to talk to the bloodrider. "Qarth. They are willing to receive you both, the 'Begetters of Dragons' they are calling you."

"Begetters of Dragons," Vaegon echoed with the slightest smirk appearing on his lips. "I like that."

"But I caution you, Your Grace," Jorah warned. "The desert outside of Qarth's gates is known as the Garden of Bones and rightfully so. Those who are turned away perish from thirst and exposure."

Vaegon knows the chances they must take, but he knows their chances if they don't accept. "We'll be cautious," he assures the knight. "But if we don't accept, we will perish."

♜

THE gates of Qarth were a relieving sight once the retinue finally arrived. The walls of the city were tall, seemingly to stretch as far as the eye could see in each direction. The gates themselves would soon open them to everything they needed soon and it made it hard not to run forward and crash their fist against the wooden doors. As Vaegon gazed up to the top in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of a building, the gates cracked open. A group of shielded spearmen emerged, quickly surrounding the small group.

Vaegon bristled at the sudden trap, soon beginning to believe that they may have been better off in the desert if they were going to be butchered upon their arrival to Qarth's gates. He gripped Daenerys' hand tightly as he stepped forward between she and the spearmen.

A group of extravagantly dressed noblemen soon began emerging from the crack in the gates, thirteen of them in total. They all appeared plump, rich, and most of all, arrogant. Vaegon could sense it. One fat one in particular stepped forward, dressed head to toe in robes of crimson and gold with an abundance of rings on each of his fingers. Vaegon reluctantly steps forward to present themselves.

"I am Vaegon—," he begins, his voice hoarse but loud as he speaks up before he is soon cut off.

"Prince Vaegon of House Targaryen, one of the Begetter's of Dragons," the plump man stated with a knowing smirk.

"You know me, my lord?" Vaegon uttered, confused.

"I am no lord, merely a humble merchant with a name far too long to be pronounced," the man chuckles. "We are the Thirteen, those tasked with governing Qarth, the greatest city there ever was and ever will be. Word of your dragons have spread quickly, my prince. May we seem them?"

Vaegon glances back to the remaining horse they had, which carried each of the baskets containing the dragons. One of their dragons screeched, causing the nobles behind Vaegon to stir with excitement. He doesn't want to expose their children to these men, who seem to hungry to confirm that they existed but knows he has no choice. Yet, he much more desire to have a drink of water than show off one of their children at the time and knows that those in their small retinue feel the same way.

"If you will accept us into your gates, provide us with food and drink, my sister and I will gladly show you—,"

"We wish to see them now," the merchant pressed. "Or, we may be led to believe that they do not exist?"

Vaegon's expression hardened. "We wish to be fed, please," Vaegon humbled himself as much as he could. "We have wandered the waist for almost a moon, perhaps longer. We are hungry, thirsty, and weak."

"If you will not show us the dragons, then we shall bid you farewell and good luck," the merchant tells them contemptuously before turning toward the gates with the other nobles before Vaegon had a chances to say another word.

Daenerys aggressively yanked on Vaegon's hand, drawing his attention to see her face painted with a mixture of fear and anger. "You cannot let them leave us here," she uttered. He quickly turns his attention back toward the Thirteen, who are beginning to file back into the gates.

"Thirteen!" Vaegon calles after them. He watches as they suddenly halt. "If we are not allowed into your gates, we will die."

"Which we will be deeply sorrowful for," the same merchant tells them. "But it is not of our concern."

Fear was beginning to consume Vaegon. Would they truly die outside the gates of a city they could have found refuge in, all because he wouldn't show a group of greedy merchants their dragons? He thinks of what a short lived life their children have had. Would he be the reason they all died—?

"When our dragons are grown," Daenerys suddenly called out, surprising Vaegon. "We will bring fire and blood, lay waist to this city, turned it to ash until their is nothing left of your 'great city'"

"I'm afraid you never will," the merchant shrugged indifferently. They turned to retreat once more. Just as Vaegon was about to lose his mind, someone spoke up.

"Stop," a voice called out from the group of nobleman. They halt once again, turning their attention to a tall, dark man in azure robes and the same amount of luxurious jewelry as the others. "I will speak for these weary travelers. They have traveled long, and are the Begetter's of Dragons. I am invoking Sumai." He pulled a knife from a scabbard on his belt before running the blade against his hand. He showed the bloodied wound to his colleagues. Vaegon believes it to be a voucher for them to enter the city as visitors.

The nobles appear shocked at his sudden devotion to vouch for the Targaryens. The one who had been so quick to turn them away sneered angrily as he looked between Vaegon and the tall man. "You'll let Dothraki savages into our gates and into your care," he scoffed. "Be it your bead then."

The Thirteen finally began entering the gates leaving the man who had vouched to them behind. Vaegon feels relief wash over him knowing that they and their dragons were saved from certain death. The tall man looked to Vaegon and Daenerys and gestures toward the entrance. "Welcome to Qarth, my prince."