The square's flagstones baked under the afternoon sun. A crude player stomped onto the stage covered in soot, naked except for a filthy rag barely covering his groin—an unmistakable parody of a filthy Dothraki screaming warrior.
He threw back his head and bellowed, voice hoarse and grating, the sound echoing across the square.
"I'm going to ride Valysar!"
"Just like I ride every little mare in my herd! Every woman here belongs on my war-spear!"
The watching commoners exploded into thunderous laughter. The threat sounded absurd coming from the clown.
The "Dothraki" felt the crowd's love and started pulling faces, winking, making obscene gestures, each one filthier than the last, whipping the laughter higher.
The vulgar words and ridiculous poses turned the whole threat into a joke.
In the middle of the noise, theater boys ran out and dragged a rickety little wooden hut prop onto the stage, planting it in the center.
"Look! Valysar!" the kos-actor licked his lips, leering. "This place used to be yours… in a moment it's going to be mine!"
The second actor stepped out from behind the curtain.
He wore a cheap silver wig and a battered breastplate scrawled with a red dragon in charcoal. In one hand he held a wooden sword. In the other… a comically oversized carrot dangled between his legs.
Daenerys's heart clenched. The ugly premonition had come true.
"Viserys Targaryen the Third!" the "prince" actor thumped his chest and bellowed. "Killer, robber, and king of beggars! Lord of seven whorehouses! Protector of Valysar!" He trampled every ancient Targaryen title with glee. "You filthy kos, you'll never beat me on the battlefield!"
What is this? How dare they…
Anger flashed across Daenerys's face.
"Your face is whiter than every whore I've ever fucked," the kos-actor shot back, voice dripping filth. "Once you swallow this, you'll be the most obedient little slave."
"You cannot defeat the dragon across the sea! The soaring dragon! The descending dragon!"
The other actor wasn't interested in listening.
The two clowns grappled in exaggerated, sloppy moves, the crowd's delighted roars growing louder.
When the silver-haired actor threw the dark-skinned one to the ground, ripped away his last scrap of cloth, and began thrusting the carrot in obscene pantomime, the square erupted in hysterical shrieks and laughter.
On the bench Daenerys's violet eyes looked ready to burn the stage to ash.
Rage boiled in her chest, hot enough to poison the entire Rhoyne.
She had seen street plays in the Free Cities, vulgar mummers in the Disputed Lands, crude jests around the Dragon Claw campfires.
Smallfolk wanted simple, dirty entertainment. They had no patience for ancient Valyrian tragedies or subtle court intrigue. Players and troupe masters knew their audience and never wasted high art on butchers, peddlers, and servants.
She understood all of that.
But every joke had a line. Some things could not be crossed.
These players could clown and these idlers could laugh and keep their homes and lives only because Viserys Targaryen the Third and the Dragon Claw stood between them and the Dothraki.
Without her brother's company holding back the khalasar, every person here would already be a slave on the grass sea.
The woman beside her would be scrubbing clothes in a savage tent. The red-faced butcher down the row would be rotting on the plain. Their children would never have the chance to stand here and laugh.
Ingratitude did not get any plainer.
Reason told her it was pointless to rage at commoners for their coarseness, but the hurt and fury burned like wildfire and refused to die.
Ten-Day Town had not yet felt the full weight of war—only scattered scars. More soldiers on the streets. Women weeping in houses. Priests rushing between temples with frantic rites.
The town sat on rich land, untouched by fire, its granaries still full. That was the only reason the market festival could still happen in wartime.
Almost the entire city had poured into the square, hungry for an hour of joy and news.
Daenerys had asked to come herself.
The safe, hidden house Viserys found for her was secure, but it was also stifling. She could not stay trapped behind four walls forever.
She had never demanded to go out alone. Walking under the guard of loyal knights was the only freedom allowed.
The local lord had smiled like a cat and sworn the streets were safe for his honored guest, but Daenerys trusted only the men her brother had chosen.
The first few walks had passed without incident, so today they had come all the way to the market.
She had hoped for a moment of lightness.
She had been wrong.
Perhaps she should have listened to her tutor Elia and stayed inside with her books.
The next volume was the reign of Aegon the Fifth—rebellious vassals, defiant sons, a tale of love, loyalty, betrayal, courage, and deceit. Far more worthy of her time than this farce.
But she had not stayed inside. She had not faced the pages. She had not earned praise or scolding for her lessons.
She and her guards occupied the front benches. Thousands of commoners pressed around them—men, women, children—all wearing their best clothes, showing off to neighbors.
Daenerys was the only exception. She wore a heavy fur cloak, hood pulled low to hide silver hair and violet eyes.
Her knightly escort kept their swords hidden beneath their own cloaks—ready to draw, but not alarming the townsfolk.
There were no slaves here. Square guards made sure only those deemed worthy enjoyed the free entertainment.
A black-haired refugee family had just been roughly driven away by those same guards.
The sun dipped lower. The heat lost its cruel edge and the air became breathable again. Shoppers poured toward the stage.
The whole festival was sponsored by Lord Aelir of Ten-Day Town.
His term was ending. He was desperate to win re-election and needed the smallfolk's votes. So he spared no expense: free bread and salt in his name, cheap wine, orders for farmers to sell grain cheap, and finally heavy coin for players, magicians, and acrobats to flatter tomorrow's voters.
For Daenerys the flattery felt like torture.
Still, every farce ends.
The naked Dothraki actor staggered off to roaring laughter. A new player took the stage.
He was grotesquely fat, waddling in ragged furs and a tiger-head hood. In his right hand he clutched a bulging coin purse that clinked with every step.
Any princess of the Sunset Kingdoms could read the symbol. The Volantene crowd, raised on the endless struggle between elephant and tiger parties, understood instantly.
"I… I am most grateful," the "Triarch" actor slurred. "Grateful that you saved Valysar from the kos. Now, with my purse, I can claim this city. It will not fall to filthy nomads. It is mine—mine alone!"
With surprising agility for his bulk, the fat actor smashed the little wooden hut prop to pieces.
The crowd watched, rapt.
"Oh, breaking it doesn't matter," the tiger-party actor thrust his hand into the purse, clinking louder. "I have plenty of room to stuff more! Enough to grow a third belly! A tiger's appetite is never satisfied!"
Behind Daenerys came the first hiss of disapproval.
The mocking performance had finally crossed the line for some.
The Viserys-actor strutted forward again, chest puffed out, posture comically pompous.
"When will the horn sound for me to fight the great kos? My sword thirsts for blood! My soul lives only for victory!"
Free City players always showed Westerosi men in one of three ways: groveling whores, greedy thieves, or posturing knights.
The local audience expected nothing else.
"No, boy," the patron-actor drawled. "Victory is bad. War is good."
"Victory is glory," the armored actor argued.
"Men who live only for glory don't live long," the Triarch lectured. "What you should chase is profit. Profit lies in keeping the war going forever."
"A warrior is born to fight!" the silver-haired actor protested, voice already weakening.
"A man of profit lives for coin," the fat actor sneered. "As long as the great kos lives, we keep getting paid. They pay us to fight, not to win! Let him live a little longer and I can stuff my belly with gold while you polish that rusty breastplate until it shines!"
"That… actually makes sense!"
Boos and curses exploded across the square.
Daenerys heard the butcher's familiar roar. Then every voice was swallowed by an angry chorus.
"Elephant-shit!"
The woman beside her screamed, voice shockingly coarse.
"Get off the stage!"
"Enough of this filth!"
"Did you lick Lord Aelir's arse? How much did he pay you!"
"How much is a city's protector worth in gold these days!"
Mixed among the fury came other shouts.
"Truth hurts!"
"Go fight yourselves if you're so brave!"
"Why isn't he marching to relieve Volantis! Coward dragging his feet!"
"Ha! Keep going!"
"This is the best show all day!"
Ser Tristifer leaned close, voice low and urgent.
The knight Viserys had personally chosen to guard her looked tense all evening, face tight, movements sharp with the readiness of a man who had just set down a heavy burden.
"Your Grace, we must leave at once. The square is about to erupt. You cannot stay here."
Daenerys had no argument left.
War had turned the people of Ten-Day Town into dry kindling. One spark and the whole place would burn.
Volantene politics were as bloody and vicious as any Free City's.
The Dothraki invasion had not erased old hatreds; it had simply given them new wounds and new excuses.
This small town might not be as grand as the capital, but its undercurrents ran just as deep.
A single exiled princess and a handful of guards could not be caught in the coming riot.
The brawl's ending was already written.
The performance had been too vicious, the metaphors too naked. Add neighborhood grudges, old factional feuds, and all that remained was raw, primitive impulse.
In the end they probably just wanted an excuse to fight.
Thank the gods she had three armored, sword-bearing knights with her.
Even the most frenzied commoner would think twice when he saw steel and iron.
"Make way!"
Ser Tristifer's voice rang out, low but commanding.
He wisely did not announce who they protected—the sister of the man the whole city had just mocked.
No need to serve the fat lamb to the hungry dragon.
Guilt twisted in Daenerys's chest.
This knight had left Westeros to serve the rightful Targaryen king.
Now, because of her whim, he stood in this humiliating mess.
She swore silently to apologize to the Riverlander knight properly, then spend the next two days locked inside studying The History of the Dragon Kings.
She would memorize the parts about Aegon the Unworthy and her grandfather… well, maybe one day would be enough. Two days really did seem long…
They left the square without incident.
Iron armor, naked steel, and the calm, decisive stride of trained warriors were enough to make everyone understand these were not people to trifle with.
Some in the crowd recognized Daenerys Targaryen—the sellsword prince's sister, the honored guest the lord had personally received.
That weight was heavy enough to sober even the hottest heads. They turned their anger elsewhere—toward neighbors they already hated.
She had guessed correctly.
The moment they cleared the square, the roar behind them detonated.
"Fight!"
"For sun and river!"
"Elephants, with me!"
"Drive these freeloaders out!"
"Tigers, up! Stuff their trunks back up their arses!"
"Beat them to death!"
In the chaos a few shouts made Ser Tristifer's face go pale.
"Your Grace… we must get home immediately."
For the first time Daenerys heard real fear in the knight's voice.
The man who was usually bold—sometimes even reckless—what could frighten him now?
"We are going home," she forced herself to sound steady, copying her brother's calm. "What's happened?"
"Once we reach safety I will tell you everything. For the gods' sake, we must hurry."
The knight's urgency matched her own desire.
Stone walls, iron gates, a closed house—those were the only safety now.
Once blood was spilled in the square riot, the crowd that tasted it would not stop.
Luckily the walk was short. The lord's residence he had given them stood near the central square. They would reach it before the sun fully set.