99 AC / 54 HA (Hadrian's Ascension)
Daemon Targaryen
Caraxes. My bond, my confidant, my solace, my dragon. Only with him did I feel myself true and pure. Anywhere else, I was Prince Daemon, son of Baelon the Brave, a Dragonlord of Old Valyria, the Blood of the Dragon. Titles I admittedly enjoyed, but they were also chains. They bound me to the Seven Kingdoms, to oaths of fealty to my grandsire, to my sire, and one day, to my elder brother. Yet there was one oath I hated viscerally, unquestioningly, more than any other: my marriage to that Bronze Bitch.
I chuckled as the gale continued to batter my face, Caraxes holding true to his course. I was no coward running away, but neither was I a caged bird. I am a dragon. Too long have I wasted away in the squalor known as Runestone. No more. Marriage to her was a curse thrust upon me by my father and grandsire, one I had grandstanded for over a year. I had even lowered myself to the act of coupling with that bitch, to no avail. Her womb is simply not worthy of the Blood of the Dragon. I have done my duty; it is no fault of mine that she was lesser for it. Now I am shackled to a barren woman more sheep than lady, and I refuse to rot in those squalid mountains while my legacy awaits me beyond them.
"Wrmmm," Caraxes trilled, a deep vibration in his chest as the hazy outline of land began to take form below us.
Essos.
If the alternative was pacing the dreary halls of Runestone, it was far better to leave the kingdoms behind and search for fortunes beyond my grandsire's reach. And there is no place better than the continent once lorded over by my ancestors.
I had heard whispers that the Empire was waging war against Qohor, an invasion of such scale that the traders claimed it mirrored the Spice Wars of old. A mummer's farce, if I ever saw one. The audacity of this kingdom to call itself an empire when it was barely larger than the Reach. If this is what counts for an empire, then what should be made of the Seven Kingdoms, brought to heel by Aegon the Dragon?
Rome.
I would like to see this audacious kingdom, for I refused to elevate it with a grander title. The mere sight of Caraxes will have them soiling their breeches. I will remind them what true might is when a Dragonlord stalks their walls.
Even so, my father and grandsire seemed to hold this kingdom in high regard. The trade they brought—spices, fine-cut cloth, and jewellery—was lucrative enough, but it was their steel that made them a friend worth keeping in the eyes of the Free Cities and the Iron Throne. I was no fool to disregard those benefits. What I disliked were the tales spun by bards and traders of how mighty and bold this Rome was.
Their Imperator, as he was called, is likely my grandsire's age, perhaps older. Yet he is deified by his people as the Son of God. Their God. This "One" religion professes profusely how utterly divine the Imperator is, and how he will deliver his people unto eternity. The fanaticism irks me. It was especially grating when they insisted my grandfather allow a church to be built in King's Landing. The request was debated and ultimately rejected; I had cheered greatly when I saw the High Septon's face scrunch up in abject disgust at the mere mention of it.
If nothing else, the warrior who had escorted their priest was worthy of respect. The way he moved in the yard while the priest discussed matters with the King was absolutely riveting. As was my spar with him. Some of the stances he taught me that day I still incorporate into my own sword style. A Paladin, he was called. Most fascinating indeed.
"Wrmmmm," Caraxes let out another guttural sound as he began to descend. He was growing tired from the long flight across the Narrow Sea. The sun was dipping low, bleeding orange across the horizon, leaving me just enough time to set up camp and hunt for our food.
The landing site looked to be atop a grassy hill, likely somewhere in the region surrounding Norvos. We were still a fair distance from the conflict zones. I reckoned we would reach the siege lines by flight on the morrow. It was better to rest now than be found wanting in enemy territory later.
"Sȳzorys, Caraxes. Sōvēs, zokdaghon. Nyke sōvī rȳ ñuhor," I commanded, telling him to fly and hunt for his own meal while I secured mine. I placed a hand on his warm, scaled snout in momentary farewell. As I stepped back, the mighty Blood Wyrm flared his great red wings and took to the sky, a crimson shadow against the twilight.
Taking up my bow and unbuckling Dark Sister, I ventured into the tall grass in search of a pheasant or a hare.
…
I was now quite a few leagues from my original landing point, and the forest had grown dense. There was still no sight of game. I was pushing through a thicket when the sharp, undeniable ring of steel clashing against steel shattered the quiet of the woods.
Instinct took over. Drawing Dark Sister from her scabbard, I slipped through the trees, moving silently toward the sound of slaughter.
I parted the dense foliage, the damp smell of rotting leaves instantly giving way to a sharper, heavier stench: copper, sweat, and voided bowels.
The clearing ahead was a butcher's yard. Trampled grass slick with gore played host to a vicious, uneven melee. Over a dozen bodies already littered the earth, their blood pooling in the muddy grooves left by frantic boots.
I took a silent measure of the living. Twenty men—a ragtag assortment of filth clad in boiled leather, rusted mail, and furs—were pressing a relentless assault against a disciplined knot of nine. The smaller group was heavily armoured in polished steel and dark leather, their pauldrons bearing a distinct sigil: a crude, bleeding star. Was there such a sellsword group in Essos?
My eyes locked onto the leader of the Bleeding Stars. He fought with a fluid, lethal grace, wielding a pair of curved Essosi blades. But it was his head that held my attention. He wore no helm, and his hair was a striking, impossible shade of silver-gold, save for a single, vivid streak of blood-red running back from the hairline.
Valyrian blood? Here, in these squalid woods? I stepped out from the treeline, letting the underbrush snap behind me. I made no effort to hide my approach.
A grizzled veteran among the Bleeding Stars, his face mapped with old scars and fresh blood, caught my movement. He parried a heavy axe blow, shoved his attacker back, and threw a desperate glance my way.
"Get back, boy!" the veteran barked in coarse Valyrian, spitting a glob of red onto the grass. "Leave, lest you be dragged into our graves!"
I felt a cold smile stretch across my face. I rested the tip of Dark Sister casually against the earth, leaning slightly on the pommel.
"Even at less than half your age, I could cut through the lot of you like butter," I called back, my voice cutting easily through the din of clashing iron. "Don't ever call me boy, wildman."
My Valyrian rolled off my tongue, sharp and high. It drew the attention of the ragged horde. Three of the wild sellswords pivoted toward me. They shouted something in a guttural, bastardized dialect of Norvoshi that sounded like dogs barking over bone. They pointed their notched swords and crude spears at my fine clothes and the Valyrian steel in my hands, their eyes bright with the promise of plunder.
I did not flinch. I did not move. I only let the smile reach my eyes.
When they realized I wasn't going to run, the three men charged, bellowing war cries that stank of cheap wine and desperation.
"Death it is, then," I murmured.