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Viserys Hill, White Castle courtyard.
Roland Lake stood at Viserys's side, reporting on the guests waiting outside the White City.
Viserys watched as a charred bull carcass lay smoking on the stone flagstones. Dragons preferred their meat cooked.
Sunblaze tore into the roasted meat, occasionally spewing bursts of flame. When the dragon lifted his head, his eyes glowed like molten lava.
He was growing stronger every day, like a bright, fierce flame, becoming more ferocious with time—just as King Viserys's prestige continued to rise.
In this era, no miracle was greater than taming a dragon and escaping the ruins of Valyria alive.
Even the Red Viper felt a bit dizzy from the waves of sulfur-scented heat rolling off the beast. This was a true apex predator, a creature of slaughter.
Fire represented humanity's most primal fear, an untouchable beast.
Mortal bravery, the strength of armored knights—it all seemed like a joke in front of a dragon.
"The Windblown have arrived, Your Grace. The commander is leading them personally," said Count Roland Lake, silver threading through his hair.
"The Tattered Prince himself," the Red Viper mused. "Does he intend to join our cause?"
"I heard mercenaries only love gold. They die for gold, not charity," Agos remarked.
"I've dealt with him before. Other chips might not satisfy him, but Pentos is the one prize he craves," the Red Viper commented.
The Tattered Prince was originally from one of the forty noble families of Pentos. Traditionally, the Prince of Pentos was chosen from these families to serve as a high-ranking, figurehead magistrate.
But according to Pentoshi tradition, if the harvest failed or a war was lost, the Prince was sacrificed—beheaded to appease the gods.
In 262 AC, after the previous Prince was beheaded by the magisters, the twenty-three-year-old noble was elected as the new Prince of Pentos.
Rather than accept the "honor" and inevitable execution, he fled to the Disputed Lands and became a sellsword, never returning to his homeland. He became the Tattered Prince.
"Should we really work with him? He's considered a traitor to Pentos," Count Donnel warned.
"Meeting him won't hurt," the Red Viper shrugged. "It's been twenty or thirty years. The Magisters of Pentos consider the old traitor powerless, a joke."
"Since he's here, I might as well meet this slippery old fox," Viserys decided. "But he doesn't need to see too much. We'll meet him outside the White City."
Two thousand men wasn't a huge number, but it wasn't insignificant either. Viserys was admittedly curious about the old prince.
"I'll watch the dragon," Rhaenys said, holding Daenerys's hand.
Though they couldn't ride the dragon, Sunblaze seemed to sense they were kin to his rider and treated them gently.
"As you command, Your Grace!"
Viserys led the way. Nearly a hundred knights, fierce as dragons and tigers, mounted their warhorses in the stables.
They raised the banner of the black dragon on red and rode out from the White Castle, thundering down to the town of Viserysfort.
The gates opened, the drawbridge lowered, and the knights appeared before the Tattered Prince and his entourage.
The Tattered Prince was surprised. He had expected Viserys to put on airs, making them wait for pomp and circumstance before escorting them to the castle.
Instead, Viserys acted like a vanguard commander, leading his men out to meet the Windblown directly.
"Which one is the Conqueror of the Narrow Sea, the Builder of Cities, the Scion of the True Dragon, King Viserys?" the Tattered Prince asked softly, feigning ignorance.
He had already recognized Viserys. The young king was too dazzling to miss, and the symbols of the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords were unmistakable.
The Tattered Prince saw a striking young man with silver hair and violet eyes.
The young knight was tall and agile, like a newly forged blade.
His silver-white hair was trimmed short, and his pale violet eyes held an omnipotent boldness and courage.
Viserys wore a simple silver silk tunic under a studded leather vest—practical gear for hunting, sparring, or dragonriding—rather than the heavy robes of a typical monarch.
But the crown on his head—a Valyrian steel circlet set with amethysts—reminded everyone of his royal status. It was the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, paired with the legendary sword Blackfyre.
Viserys's sword belt held a Valyrian steel dagger and True Dragon, the ancient heirloom now gleaming with renewed glory.
The Tattered Prince felt a pang of envy. Had he been this brilliant at sixteen?
No, at sixteen, he had only been chasing women and pleasure in Pentos.
"I am he," Viserys answered calmly. "And you are the commander of the Windblown? The Tattered Prince."
Behind Viserys stood warriors like the Red Viper, Agos, Donnel, Hugo, Garin, Jalaka, and Bloodworm—each looking as fierce as a hawk.
These knights came from all walks of life: Andals, Rhoynar, escaped slaves, and Old Loyalists from Westeros.
Especially giants like Agos and Donnel, standing over seven feet tall, looking like gate guardians.
Agos held the banner of the black dragon, the beast on the flag seeming to spew fire with a glare.
Only Clever Dick looked a bit out of place, his foundation weak, needing more time to bulk up.
The knights, organized in a company of a hundred, exuded an unmatched aura of peak readiness.
The Tattered Prince's mind raced. That this young king had trained his soldiers to such a standard exceeded his expectations.
But such a man would be hard to bargain with.
"As the Commander of the Windblown, I am honored that my name is known to the Dragon King," the Tattered Prince announced in crisp High Valyrian from atop his massive grey warhorse. He was, after all, of noble birth.
The Tattered Prince's horse dragged countless strips of cloth from its rear legs, cut from the surcoats of enemies he had killed. His own cloak was sewn from similar trophies.
Viserys looked at the Windblown's armor. Some wore fine plate, while others wore mismatched scraps.
Typical mercenary gear—helmets, gorgets, gauntlets, and plate patched together from various sources, looking worn and old.
Rich knights from noble houses didn't become sellswords unless they were exiled.
So, aside from the veterans, most mercenaries in the company scraped together their kit from whatever they could find.
"Why has the Prince come to distant Andalos?" Viserys asked. The Tattered Prince was in his sixties, but he sat tall and straight in the saddle, his voice booming across the field.
"I heard there was to be a feast of blood and fire in Andalos, and I couldn't miss it," the Tattered Prince said elegantly.
Behind him, his mercenaries cheered. Their lances flew pale blue silk pennants, and above them all flew the Windblown's standard—blue and white streamers.
The Tattered Prince had brought his core crew: Denzo D'han, the warrior-poet, a scarred veteran.
Caggo, wielding a Valyrian steel arakh, a massive man with a scarred face and a quick temper.
And the ugliest of them all, the Windblown's torturer, "Pretty" Meris.
Meris was nearly six feet tall, with blonde hair and a nose that had been sliced open. She had no ears, and scars ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were cold as ice, her body encased in armor.
"I fear it won't be a feast, but a stench of blood and fire," Viserys told him.
"To keep it short, I think you need someone to act with you," the Tattered Prince said after a moment. "The savages on the Great Grass Sea are mad opponents."
"I certainly need allies. Those who kneel to me understand my generosity."
"I don't need money," the Tattered Prince smiled faintly. "If you achieve victory and intend to march on Westeros, I wish for a different reward."
"What reward?"
"My birthplace. Pentos."
"That is a steep price. I need to defeat Drogo first, then the Usurper. Besides, the Pentoshi have been generous to me..."
"I understand all that, but I can wait..." the Tattered Prince said.
For Pentos. For revenge against the Magisters.
The Tattered Prince had waited too long, and no one else could help him take that city.
Viserys represented hope.
"Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And there's Magister Illyrio. He gave me dragon eggs once; you know how priceless those are..." Viserys looked at the Tattered Prince. Everything was negotiable, but not this easily.
"It is just a trade..." the Tattered Prince continued, seemingly unbothered.
He didn't trust Viserys's benevolence. This prince of blood and fire, this beast in the arena of power, mixed sincerity with falsehood.
"Let's talk practicalities. If you help us, I will naturally gift you much gold and silver," Viserys offered.
The Tattered Prince shook his head regretfully. "Mercenaries only stand with winners. Without the promise of Pentos, we cannot reach an agreement..."
Viserys feigned regret as well. Two thousand men would be helpful, but not enough to hand over Pentos.
"Then forgive our intrusion." The Windblown knights turned their horses, signifying the failure of negotiations.
Viserys watched them go, then turned his own horse.
"We can ride slowly," Viserys said.
"You think they might come back?" The Red Viper laughed. "Very likely. After all, besides you, no one in the Free Cities has ever given the old beggar a glimmer of hope..."
Viserys pulled back on the reins, and after a moment, he heard the clatter of hooves.
The Windblown couldn't hold back; they were chasing after them again.