Into the Wasteland

The wasteland stretched endlessly before them, a sea of cracked earth and jagged rocks that shimmered under the merciless sun. Torak and Alaena stood at the edge of the khalasar's camp, their belongings packed into a single bundle. The air was heavy with the jeers and mocking laughter of the gathered Dothraki.

"Do not forget to bow to the sun, Torak," called Zhalor, Rhaeshar's newly appointed bloodrider. His voice was high-pitched and laced with malice. Zhalor's face was angular, almost skeletal, and his wild eyes gleamed with unhinged delight. "Perhaps it will grant you the mercy your brother did not."

Torak's jaw tightened, but he refused to react. Zhalor's laughter rang out again, echoing across the camp as the crowd slowly dispersed. Rhaeshar was nowhere to be seen; his absence was deliberate, a final insult that cut deeper than any blade.

Alaena placed a hand on Torak's arm. "Save your strength, my son. We will need it."

Torak nodded and turned away, leading his mother into the desolation that awaited them. The cheers of the khalasar faded behind them, replaced by the mournful howl of the wind.

The first day in the wasteland was brutal. The sun blazed overhead, sapping their strength with each step. By nightfall, they had found shelter beneath a jagged outcropping of rock, but the cold bit into their bones as fiercely as the heat had burned their skin. Torak scouted for water, finding only a meager puddle nestled in a crevice. He gave it all to Alaena, ignoring her protests.

By the third day, Alaena could no longer walk. The barrenness of the land had sapped her strength, and her fair Braavosi complexion had turned an angry red from the unrelenting sun. Torak carried her on his back, his muscles burning with every step. Yet he pressed on, driven by a will stronger than his exhaustion.

It was late in the afternoon when they encountered the exiles. The group emerged from the horizon like specters, their figures blurred by the heatwaves. At first, Torak thought they were mirages, but as they drew closer, he saw their hardened faces and makeshift weapons. These were men and women who had survived the unforgiving wasteland, their bodies lean and their eyes sharp.

At the head of the group was a man who radiated quiet authority. His name was Nakarro, and Torak recognized him from the fragmented memories of his new life. Nakarro had been one of Khal Drakhan's most trusted bloodriders before his banishment. His face was weathered, his beard streaked with gray, and his eyes held the weight of betrayal.

"Torak," Nakarro said, his voice gravelly and measured. "Or should I say, heir of Khal Drakhan?"

Torak set Alaena down gently and rose to his full height, meeting Nakarro's gaze with suspicion. "Do you greet all strangers this warmly, or only those you've sworn to kill?"

Nakarro's lips twitched into a faint smile. "If I wanted you dead, you would be. But we have seen what you have endured. Only a fool would cross the wasteland without purpose."

The other exiles stood in silence, their weapons at the ready. Though they did not attack, their postures made it clear they would strike at the first sign of aggression.

"My purpose is survival," Torak said. "Nothing more."

"Then you will not survive alone," Nakarro replied. He gestured to his people. "We are exiles, as you now are. Cast out by your father's hand. Some would call this justice, but I see only opportunity."

Torak's eyes narrowed. "Opportunity for what?"

"To rebuild," Nakarro said simply. "The khalasar has grown weak under your brother. He is a boy playing at being a man. If you are half the leader your father was, then together we can take back what was lost."

Alaena stirred, her voice weak but clear. "And if he is not?"

Nakarro's gaze shifted to her, and for a moment, something like respect flickered in his eyes. "Then he will die in the wasteland, and we will move on."

Torak considered the offer. He did not trust Nakarro or his people, but he had no illusions about their chances alone. He glanced at Alaena, whose strength was fading fast. The decision was clear, if not easy.

"Lead the way," Torak said finally.

Nakarro nodded, turning to his group. "Come. The camp is not far."

As they followed the exiles, Torak's mind raced. He could feel the weight of his new life pressing down on him, the expectations of those who saw him as more than he was. He had no idea what lay ahead, but one thing was certain: this was only the beginning.