Recovery was an agonizingly slow affair.
For the first few days after waking, Viserys found himself drifting between sleep and wakefulness, his body refusing every command his mind gave it. Every meal left him exhausted. Every attempt to stand ended with trembling legs and a pounding ache behind his eyes. There were mornings when he awoke convinced he had regained enough strength to leave his bed, only to find that lifting his own weight was enough to leave him breathless.
Marei (the girl he had come to know of) never scolded him.
She merely watched with folded arms until he inevitably collapsed back onto the woven mats, before quietly handing him another bowl of broth as though she had expected no different.
"The body remembers every hunger it has suffered," she told him one afternoon while crushing herbs with a smooth stone. "It does not forgive as easily as the mind."
Viserys looked down at the bowl in his hands.
Thin broth. Goat's milk. Fresh bread.
He had never been so grateful for food so plain.
During the years spent wandering the Dothraki Sea with Daenerys, he had dreamed endlessly of feasts fit for kings. Roasted swan glazed with honey, lemon cakes from the Reach, roasted aurochs served upon silver platters, Arbor wines older than himself.
Now...
Warm broth and coarse bread were enough.
Perhaps starvation had made a king less demanding.
Or perhaps he had never truly appreciated food until there had been none.
The tent assigned to him stood near the center of Alzhain.
Unlike the rough hide tents of the Dothraki, these were constructed from tightly woven wool stretched across polished wooden frames. The wool had been dyed in soft creams and pale browns, colors that blended almost perfectly with the surrounding hills. Even from inside, sunlight seeped gently through the fabric, bathing everything in warm gold rather than harsh brightness.
The air smelled of drying herbs, fresh milk, and clean wool.
Outside, he often heard the distant bleating of sheep carried by the wind.
It was strangely comforting.
Nearly two weeks after his arrival, Marei finally decided he could walk beyond the healer's tent without supervision.
"You may go wherever your legs permit," she said while hanging bundles of lavender to dry.
Viserys smiled faintly.
"So long as I do not collapse?"
She gave him an amused look.
"If you collapse, I shall simply drag you back."
"You say that as though I weigh no more than a sack of grain."
She glanced him up and down.
"You are getting there."
Viserys sighed.
The morning air carried a cool breeze as Viserys stepped beyond the cluster of healer's tents.
For the first time since arriving, he truly saw Alzhain.
Calling it a village hardly seemed enough.
It spread across a gentle valley surrounded on three sides by low hills covered in pale green grass. Hundreds of woolen tents stood alongside sturdy stone cottages whose walls had been built generations before. Narrow dirt paths connected homes to communal ovens, workshops, wells, gardens, and sheep pens large enough to house thousands of animals.
At the center of everything stood the oldest structure in the settlement.
A temple.
Its pale stone walls had weathered centuries of wind and rain without losing their quiet dignity. Unlike the towering septs Viserys had once glimpsed across the Narrow Sea, there were no stained glass windows or gilded statues. The building possessed neither grandeur nor wealth.
Instead, it radiated peace.
Its entrance remained open from dawn until dusk. Men and women entered carrying baskets of bread, fresh milk, bundles of herbs, or newborn lambs, offering quiet prayers before leaving just as silently.
"This is why we call Alzhain holy," Marei explained as she noticed him staring.
"Our oldest stories say the Great Shepherd first gathered our people upon these hills after leading them away from war. Pilgrims still come to pray here."
Viserys nodded slowly.
"So this is more than a village."
"It is home."
As his strength gradually returned, Viserys found himself wandering farther each day.
No one questioned him.
No one followed him.
No guards watched his movements.
He was free to walk wherever curiosity carried him.
The villagers greeted him politely, though many regarded him with understandable curiosity. His silver hair and lilac eyes attracted attention wherever he went. Children whispered among themselves before gathering enough courage to approach him.
One little girl could not have been older than six.
She walked directly up to him while clutching a wooden toy sheep beneath one arm.
"Mister?"
Viserys looked down.
"...Yes?"
"Why is your hair shiny?"
He blinked.
"I... was born with it."
She reached upward.
"Can I touch it?"
He hesitated.
Nobody had ever asked.
After a moment he crouched carefully, allowing the child to brush curious fingers through the silver strands.
"It feels like sheep wool."
Viserys frowned.
"I am uncertain whether to feel complimented."
The little girl nodded happily before running away.
Her mother hurried after her, apologizing profusely.
Viserys merely waved.
"It is quite alright."
He remained crouched for several moments after they had gone.
He could not remember the last time someone had approached him without fear... or expectation.
Life in Alzhain followed rhythms unlike anything he had ever known.
The rising sun signaled work.
Not because someone ordered it.
Simply because there was work to be done.
Shepherds led their flocks into the hills while farmers tended fields of barley and vegetables nestled between patches of grazing land. Women spun wool into thread beneath shaded porches while others baked bread inside communal ovens built from smooth river stone.
Even the elderly found ways to contribute.
Some carved wooden toys.
Others taught children their letters beneath the shade of ancient olive trees.
No one appeared idle.
Yet no one appeared hurried either.
There was purpose in every task.
Peace in every movement.
What unsettled Viserys most was not the work.
It was the generosity.
One afternoon, he watched a young shepherd lose his footing while carrying two heavy buckets of fresh milk.
The buckets spilled across the dirt.
Milk seeped into the earth.
Viserys instinctively expected shouting.
Punishment.
Perhaps even a beating.
Instead...
Three nearby women quietly fetched fresh buckets.
An older shepherd placed a reassuring hand upon the boy's shoulder before helping him gather the empty pails.
No blame.
No anger.
Only understanding.
"They wasted half their morning's work," Viserys muttered.
Marei, who had been gathering herbs nearby, looked over.
"So they did."
"And no one is angry?"
"Why should they be?"
"He made a mistake."
"He is also twelve."
Viserys frowned.
"In King's Landing someone would likely have struck him."
Marei's expression saddened.
"Then I am glad we are not in King's Landing."
Meals were another mystery.
Every evening, long wooden tables were carried into the open square before the temple. Families arrived carrying baskets, pots, loaves of bread, wheels of cheese, roasted vegetables, and pitchers of goat's milk.
No one claimed ownership over the food.
Everything was placed together.
Everyone ate together.
Viserys tried more than once to refuse.
"I have contributed nothing."
An elderly baker simply tore another piece of bread and placed it in his hand.
"You are recovering."
"I should still earn my meal."
"You will."
"When?"
"When you are able."
There was no further discussion.
Several days later, Viserys insisted on helping.
Despite Marei's warnings, he spent an entire afternoon repairing a collapsed sheep pen alongside several shepherds.
By sunset his hands were blistered raw.
His shoulders burned.
Every muscle protested.
He had accomplished very little.
Still...
When dinner came, the same elderly baker smiled.
"Today," he said warmly, "you earned two bowls."
Viserys laughed.
A genuine laugh.
The sound surprised even himself.
As the days turned into weeks, one figure continually drew his attention.
Near the outer grazing fields stood an old man unlike anyone else in Alzhain.
He wore weathered leather instead of wool.
Across his back rested a battered round shield whose surface bore deep scars left by forgotten battles. A long ash spear remained within arm's reach whether he sat, stood, or walked. His beard had turned almost completely white, while an old scar ran from the corner of his brow to the edge of his jaw. One ear had long since disappeared beneath an old wound.
Everything about him spoke of violence.
Yet he spent his mornings repairing fences.
His afternoons mending shepherds' tools.
His evenings watching sheep graze beneath the setting sun.
"His name is Hazar."
Marei noticed where Viserys was looking.
"He fought?"
"He still does."
"I have yet to see him carry that spear."
"You will."
Something about her answer lingered in Viserys' thoughts.
He found Hazar the following morning seated atop a low stone wall overlooking the valley.
The old man watched the flocks with patient eyes while slowly sharpening the iron tip of his spear.
"You stare often," Hazar said without turning.
"I was wondering whether old age has made your eyesight sharper."
"It has."
Viserys smiled.
"I came to ask you something."
"I suspected as much."
He climbed onto the wall beside him.
For a while neither spoke.
The wind carried the distant sound of bells hanging from sheep's necks.
Finally Viserys broke the silence.
"You are not like the others."
"No."
"You carry weapons."
"I do."
"They respect you."
"They do."
"They avoid you."
The old man finally looked toward him.
"They do."
"Why?"
Hazar rested the whetstone across his knee.
"Because they pray no child of theirs grows into another man like me."
Viserys frowned.
"You protect them."
"I do."
"Then why?"
Hazar's weathered face softened.
"They follow the Great Shepherd."
"So?"
"The Great Shepherd teaches mercy."
"So does every septon."
"The Great Shepherd teaches forgiveness."
"So do septons."
"He teaches that every life carries equal worth."
Viserys looked toward the village.
Children chased lambs through the grass.
Women laughed while hanging freshly washed wool.
An old couple walked slowly toward the temple hand in hand.
"And what if men come to take all of that away?"
"They have."
Hazar remained silent.
"I saw villages burned."
Silence.
"I saw my people chained together."
Silence.
"I saw children carried away."
The old man's grip tightened around the shaft of his spear.
Viserys looked at him sharply.
"I buried some of them."
The answer struck harder than anger ever could.
"Then why are there not hundreds of men like you?"
The question came louder than he intended.
"I have seen what the Dothraki do. They return every few years. They raid. They kill. They enslave. Why does every village not raise warriors?"
Hazar looked across the valley for so long that Viserys wondered if he intended to answer at all.
"When I was your age," the old man finally said, "there were many."
Viserys listened.
"Every village had men who trained with spear and shield."
"What happened?"
"They died."
"In battle?"
"Some."
"The rest?"
"They grew old."
Viserys waited.
"Our people prayed for peace."
"They received it."
"For a time."
He nodded toward the children playing below.
"Those children have never seen a raid."
Viserys slowly understood.
"Their fathers stopped teaching them."
"They wished for their sons to become shepherds instead of killers."
"But the Dothraki still exist."
"They do."
"And when they come?"
Hazar smiled sadly.
"Then an old fool like me picks up his spear again."
The wind swept gently across the hills.
Below them, laughter continued to echo throughout Alzhain.
No walls surrounded the holy village.
No watchtowers guarded its borders.
No soldiers marched its roads.
Only one aging warrior sat overlooking the valley with a scarred shield beside him.
Viserys stared at the old man for a long while before speaking.
"If you are not this place's warrior, then what are you?"
Hazar chuckled quietly.
He rested both hands upon the spear and looked toward the endless eastern plains where the Dothraki Sea met the horizon.
"I am only the old sheepdog."
"The flock prays they shall never need my bark."
"But I keep watch all the same."