Everything looked simple. Everything looked easy.
But someone was already waiting for them on the street.
Three cloaked figures burst from a dark alley without a word and hurled themselves at the escort.
Ser Olivar on the right was a heartbeat too slow. A short blade punched into his ribs.
The big knight used his last strength to drag his killer down with him. They rolled together into the dust.
Ser Tristifer and Ser Kivan reacted faster.
Steel rang. A silent, lethal, utterly practical fight exploded in the narrow street.
No elegant forms, no fancy footwork—just life or death.
Daenerys's mind went blank. She snatched out her own dagger.
Then the truth hit her like a hammer.
Someone wanted to seize her. Someone wanted to kill her.
Viserys was not here.
The one man who could protect her, who had always protected her, was not here.
One of her loyal guards was already down.
What was she supposed to do?
Fight.
Dragon blood did not cower like a sheep.
She dragged herself back to the present with sheer stubborn will.
One glance told her the situation was grim.
Tristifer had just finished one attacker, but a second was tying up the other two knights, giving the third killer room to breathe.
In moments they would be surrounded.
The Targaryen princess knew exactly what she had to do.
She dropped low, darted in, and drove her dagger into the big man's thigh with a sharp cry.
The blade sank through cloth and flesh.
It was the spot Eleonora had taught her—the one that hurt most and crippled fastest.
The assassin grunted in pain.
Tristifer saw the opening instantly. Kivan held the man tight while the lead knight rammed his sword through the killer's chest.
The last assassin stumbled. Kivan flipped him onto his back and drove steel through his throat.
First wave over.
But joy was premature.
From the deep shadows of the alley came fresh sounds of fighting—groans, curses, steel on steel.
The two surviving knights gripped their bloody blades and braced.
Yet the noise in the alley suddenly died.
Only the distant brawl from the square drifted on the wind, faint and ridiculous as ever.
Daenerys had just survived her first real battle.
She was alive.
And she had lost a loyal guard.
"Ser Olivar!" she cried, voice cracking with helplessness and guilt.
If she had stayed inside like a good girl, none of this would have happened.
"Gods… Mother… no!"
"We cannot help him now, Your Grace," Tristifer said, sword still out. "But remember—he died doing his duty for someone worth serving."
"If you don't move faster, he won't be the only one."
A voice like rolling thunder came from the alley mouth—speaking perfect Common of the Andals.
The voice quickly took shape. A massive figure stepped out of the darkness.
Daenerys forgot to breathe. She could not look away.
In all her years of exile she had seen every kind of man—Summer Islanders dark as tree trunks, Dothraki bronze as old coins, Dornishmen proud of their olive skin, Tyroshi with their painted faces, Lyseni boasting of pure Valyrian blood—but never anything like this.
The man was huge as a giant, skin blacker than midnight, blacker than coal.
Only the scarlet flame sigil on his robe and the blood-red hem told her who he was.
She had seen many red priests over the years, but none like this—none so strange, none so terrifying.
And none who carried three bloody corpses in one hand as easily as a bundle of firewood.
The night-black figure tossed the bodies at Tristifer's feet and drew a short crimson dagger.
"Do you believe me now, knight of the Sunset Lands? Do you believe I am a friend to the little princess?"
"Who are you?" Kivan stepped forward, sword leveled.
"Stand down, Kivan," Tristifer ordered. "He is… a priest."
"Men call me that," the giant rumbled. "I call myself only a slave of the true god."
"Moqorro came to me this morning," Tristifer explained, still not sheathing his blade. "He said he saw in the flames that Your Grace would be attacked… at the moment when 'the great are mocked, the elephant charges the tiger, and the last kiss of sunset touches the earth.'"
"The god showed me the truth, so I warned your guards," Moqorro said, glancing at the corpses. "You heeded the warning, but not thoroughly enough."
Daenerys had heard red priests boast of such visions before.
Common folk in the Free Cities believed in the flames and flocked to the altars day and night.
But her brother and her tutor Elia had always treated it as foreign superstition.
Viserys did not believe gods meddled in mortal affairs. After the miracle of her brother's survival, Elia had turned her heart fully to the Seven.
Besides, Daenerys had heard too many curses and laments born of false prophecies.
Yet here—
The farce on the stage: the great being mocked.
The riot in the square: elephant and tiger tearing at each other.
The sun was setting, its red light spilling across the bodies.
Tristifer would never invent such a prophecy.
And the priest had saved her.
"I, Daenerys Targaryen, thank the servant of R'hllor for his warning," the girl said, using the courteous phrases Elia had taught her. "But I do not understand—why would the god reveal my fate to you?"
"Understandable, little princess, but that is the god's business," Moqorro answered. "His slaves read only the great book; we are not granted all knowledge. Today the god did not wish you to die, so I came to warn your guards of the danger. R'hllor has other plans for you, princess."
"All sorcery and devilry…" Kivan spat. "Tell me, priest, how did you know exactly where the princess would be?"
"The servants of the true god have long watched the fate of the last rulers of the Sunset Kingdoms."
"So you're just another rat in the gutter—a spy?"
"Our gaze is to help and guide, not to kill and shame."
"Our prince has never received a scrap of help from any of you!"
"I should have stayed inside!" Daenerys burst out, not realizing she had cut off the brewing argument. "None of this would have happened!"
Moqorro slowly shook his massive, terrifying head.
"Even if you had stayed inside, they would have come to the house. The flames gave no other answer."
"Does your flame know who these men were?" Tristifer asked calmly. "Their gear is too good, their faces not local. They were no common bandits."
"No matter how deeply I gazed into the light, the flames revealed nothing more. As the master does not tell the slave every secret, the god does not share all His knowledge."
"We don't need his flames," Kivan snapped. "The Usurper's dogs have found us!"
The Seven-worshipper's words snapped Daenerys out of her daze.
She had to decide now.
"Ser Kivan," she turned to the knight, forcing her voice to carry the calm confidence she had learned from her brother, "see to Ser Olivar's body. He served us faithfully; we will not forget him. Ser Tristifer, we are going home."
"The house may still have more of them," the knight warned. "Ten, perhaps more."
"If that were true," Kivan cut in, "they would have waited inside, not risked an open street attack. What if we killed the first three and simply rode away?"
"Exactly why we must go back," Daenerys said, grateful for Kivan's support. "For Elia, for Darry, for our things. Pack quickly. At first light tomorrow we leave… for the next place."
She did not name the next refuge aloud.
Tristifer and Kivan already knew: Ten-Day Town had only ever been the first stop.
Viserys had prepared several wartime hiding places.
At dawn they would sail to one of the many small islands at the mouth of the Rhoyne…
There, Dothraki horses could not follow, and it would be far easier to vanish.
"And… what about him?"
Kivan's sword tip rose toward the red priest.
Daenerys hesitated.
Should they take this… this giant stranger with them?
He had openly admitted his order had been watching them all along.
And until now they had offered no help.
Could such a man be trusted?
What would Viserys say?
What would Elia and Kivan say?
They had to leave quickly. Traveling with someone so striking would destroy any hope of secrecy.
"Moqorro, I thank you for your aid," Daenerys said steadily. "I believe my noble brother will reward you as you deserve."
He will also learn whether your words are true and your heart honest.
"But we must part now. Exiles cannot afford to draw eyes, and our movements must be swift as the wind. Farewell, red priest. I hope the next time we meet I can repay you with something more substantial than words."
It was the best choice.
She could live with it, and her people would feel safer.
As she turned to leave, she heard Moqorro call after her in flawless High Valyrian:
"Kostā ziry mērī, Dāria Perzysānogār."
"We will meet again, Princess of Flame and Blood."
…
The last light of sunset painted the Volantene allied camp in deep orange. Campfires dotted the tents like stars. Smoke curled low, thick with the smells of sellsword sweat, roasting meat, and the sharp tang of slaves.
Beyond the Black Wall the Rhoyne murmured like distant drums. On the eve of the decisive battle the entire camp breathed tight, eager tension.
Viserys Targaryen the Third, commander of the Dragon Claw and rightful dragon king of the Seven Kingdoms, sat inside his pavilion cleaning his sword.
Half a lifetime of exile had carried him across the Free Cities. He had gathered the remnants, forged the Dragon Claw, raised the red dragon banner on the strength of true Targaryen blood, and bound sellswords to him with iron will. Now he served under Triarch Varyon Dortalos of the tiger party, gathering strength to sail west, overthrow the Usurper, and plant the red dragon once more above the Red Keep.
At dusk the tent flap opened. Two Unsullied stood like statues on either side. A Lysene slave girl entered with graceful steps.
She was slender, dressed in near-transparent white silk that clung to every curve, her skin glowing cold white in the lamplight. She was Varyon Dortalos's personal envoy, come to deliver her master's invitation.
"Prince Targaryen, Lord Varyon Dortalos, glorious Protector of Volantis, requests the honor of dining with the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
The girl's voice was soft, yet carried the stiff courtesy of a Free City noble.
The invitation could not have come at a better time. Hunger had been gnawing at Viserys for hours.
He nodded to his servant girl Eleonora to eat without him, then rose and straightened his clothes.
He changed into a fitted tunic embroidered with the crimson three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. His fingers brushed the pure-gold rings stripped from dead enemies—cold, ridged trophies of war.
At his left hip he buckled the longsword that had ridden with him for years. The scabbard was carved with dragon claws. This blade had tasted traitors and khals alike; it was his most faithful companion in exile.
When he was ready, Viserys followed the girl out into the gathering dusk of the camp.
Varyon's personal guards led the way along a route Viserys already knew by heart, straight to the Triarch's central pavilion.
All around them the camp roared with life. Sellswords argued and gambled around fires. Volantene soldiers sang crude marching songs. Servants and slaves hurried past carrying supplies, whips cracking, curses flying, weapons clashing.
Viserys had grown used to the chaos. In a strange way it felt almost comforting. This was his battlefield, the foundation on which he would rise again.
Under his command the Triarch's allied army was orderly, well fed, well armed, and burning to crush the last of Drogo's forces.
This army was the first true stepping stone on his road back to Westeros.
The surprise came the moment Viserys stepped alone into Varyon's tent.
He had expected the Unsullied to stand like silent statues outside, guarding the Triarch. He had expected the Lysene girl to enter and serve at table—her beauty and figure surpassed even his own concubine Doreah; she should have poured wine and adorned the feast like any proper noble dinner.
Instead the flap fell shut behind him, the girl did not follow, and the huge pavilion contained only two men: himself and Varyon Dortalos.
Old Valyrian custom was strictly kept in Volantis. Noble feasts required reclining couches, slow conversation, slaves standing in ranks. Every dish, every word followed ancient ritual.
Old-blood lords dined with at least two courses and drank with elaborate ceremony. It was a mark of status, a rule never broken.
Yet this tent shattered every tradition.
There were no couches, no lines of slaves. Only two plain wooden chairs, a low table, one bottle of red wine, and one perfectly roasted duck.
Nothing more.