I woke lying against the furnace-heat of Caraxes' scales, the smell of woodsmoke and ash thick in my nostrils. The night's libations caught up with me the moment I stood; my stomach churned dangerously, and a dull, steady ringing echoed in my ears.
Caraxes shifted, letting out a low, vibrating trill as he observed his rider rise. I patted his warm, crimson scales, a silent reassurance that all was well, which he readily accepted. Our bond had grown strong enough over the years for him to know the aftermath of a deep cup; I had suffered many a morning like this in the dreary confines of the Vale. Lots of drinking, yes, but it was the first time in an age where I had truly enjoyed the conversation. I smiled, memories of the night before—and of the company I had kept—swimming pleasantly through my wine-sodden mind.
Sleeping within the protective coil of my dragon had been the safest decision in these unknown lands. I could have taken refuge in one of the empty tents, but Marc's thinly veiled threats had echoed in my mind. I was not entirely at ease with the prospect of having my throat slit in the dark simply for the luxury of a soft bed. By good grace, all my belongings remained untouched.
I made my way toward a wooden bucket of water to wash the sleep from my eyes when I heard the hesitant crunch of boots behind me. I turned to find a young man standing there, his arms and torso heavily wrapped in fresh gauze and linen dressings. The moment I faced him, he dropped to one knee in the dirt.
"I—I thank you, Your Grace... Prince Daemon. For sparing my lowly life and teaching me this lesson. If—if you would have me, I pledge my sword to you, milord," he stammered, stumbling over the honorifics.
"Ah, now I remember. You are the young sellsword who challenged me for my blade." My words seemed to strike him physically; he cringed and bowed his head lower.
"I beg your pardon, milord. I—I was a fool to challenge you," he parroted miserably.
"It matters not. You faced judgment for your boasting, and I see it is a lesson well learned. What was your name again?" I asked, realizing I had never actually bothered to learn it before I started cutting him to ribbons.
"I—I am known as Oro, milord," he replied in Bastard Valyrian. It was a detail I had noted the night before: while Ana and Marc spoke flawless High Valyrian, the rest of the camp communicated in coarse Bastard Valyrian dialects, with only a disjointed smattering of the Common Tongue.
"Well then, Oro. I will not take you into my service, for you are simply not worthy of it," I declared flatly.
He deflated, his shoulders slumping in absolute dejection. Now, to dangle the boon before him.
"But... I may be persuaded to reconsider, provided I find your conduct in the upcoming battles satisfactory."
That immediately shattered his gloom. He looked up, his eyes wide. "Of—of course, milord! I shall do you proud!"
"We shall see. Try to live through it, will you?" I said tersely. "Now then. Lead me to some decent food before we head to the sparring yard. Your first task is to be my guide."
"Certainly, milord! This way," he said enthusiastically, scrambling to his feet and beckoning me toward the firepits, and hopefully, some crisped pork.
The smell of salted pork frying in grease drew me to the long wooden tables near the center of the encampment. Oro scurried beside me like a whipped hound, eager to prove his worth. As I took a seat on the rough-hewn bench, the low morning murmur of the camp died instantly.
Dozens of sellswords paused, holding their bowls of porridge and trenchers of meat, eyeing me with the wary reverence reserved for a loaded scorpion. They hovered at the edges of the seating area, entirely too frightened to sit near a Dragonlord.
I dropped my wooden cup onto the table with a loud clatter. "Sit down and eat," I commanded, irritation prickling the back of my neck. "If I wanted Caraxes to roast you over your porridge, you would already be ash in your boots. Sit."
They slowly, cautiously filed into the seats, giving me a wide berth.
"In fact," I continued, reaching into my pouch and tossing a heavy gold dragon onto the center of the table. "Buy a cask of wine from the quartermaster's stock. My coin."
That single piece of gold shattered the tension entirely. A crude, deafening cheer erupted from the hardened killers. They pounded their fists against the wood, chanting in a unified roar: "Daemon! Dragonlord! Prince!"
I flashed them a wolfish smirk, taking a bite of my crisped pork and washing it down with cold water. Wine dulls the senses, and I had a spar to win.
Once my fast was broken, Oro led me to the edge of the camp where the sparring rings were drawn in the dirt. Ana was already there. She wore only partial armor—steel greaves and a hardened leather cuirass over a linen shirt. Her silver-gold hair was braided tightly against her skull, the stark crimson streak weaving through the pale strands like a vein of fresh blood.
She moved through a series of solo sword stances, wielding one of her curved Essosi blades. I stopped at the edge of the ring, watching her in absolute fascination. Her footwork was meticulous, a perfectly balanced dance of pivots and lunges. It bore a striking resemblance to my own style I had crafted in King's Landing, yet she incorporated a lower center of gravity, adapting the forms perfectly to suit her smaller frame and curved steel.
"Quit your staring, Daemon," she called out without breaking her form, her eyes fixing on me. "If you need to warm your blood, come have a spar with me."