99 AC / 54 HA (Hadrian's Ascension)
Daemon Targaryen
It had been over a day since I landed in the rocky hills overlooking the Darkwash.
A most tedious undertaking this had become. Scouting for enemies in a war is paramount to victory, but the actual, grinding ordeal of it had never truly hit me until I undertook the task myself. It is profoundly vexing to watch my enemies march under the open sunlight, perfectly arrayed, and not be permitted to set them ablaze with Caraxes.
I sat upon a ridge, awaiting the arrival of my sellsword compatriots. It had been three days since my departure from their camp, and considering the distance and the speed of an infantry march, they should be within my sight within the hour. From here, we would depart together for the Qohorik battlefield. I did not have a horse to make the trek down to the river plain, so I had planned for Caraxes to ferry me downstream to meet them.
He had rumbled deep in his chest when I commanded him to hide within the deep caverns of these hills and not make himself known. It is not in a dragon's nature to seek the shadows. They are fire made flesh thus they wish to always be illuminating. The promise of his favoured cuisine—a roasted aurochs—did quell some of his anger, yet it had taken the better part of the day to achieve his begrudging compliance.
I continued to gaze over the blue horizon, awaiting the sight of the people who had inexplicably become my companions.
In the quiet of my musings, I realized that this was the first time I had ever been beyond the Narrow Sea without the suffocating oversight of an elder. I was finally free to do as I pleased, and I had chosen a worthy cause: war.
I am the second son of a second son, possessing nothing to my name apart from the Valyrian steel sword I carry on my hip. My father may be the Heir to the Iron Throne now, yet I will not inherit his vast power. That privilege belongs to Viserys. My brother shall be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, while my claim to fame shall be, at most, 'Prince of House Targaryen, brother to the King.'
That reality had not been daunting to me in my younger years. It would be accurate to say that, within the coddled comfort of the Red Keep, I had never truly cared for legacy or raw ambition.
But when I was cast out, married off to the Bronze Bitch, and commanded to serve out my days in the dreary Vale, I realized my true worth. I was a piece on the board for my father and grandsire—a dragon-riding, knightly piece, perhaps, but a piece and nothing more. I had no choice. I had no agency. Even so, I tried to make something of the arrangement. But fate was just as cruel as it had been in the past. Even a child was not accorded to me.
The festering resentment drove me to behavior unbecoming of a Prince, but it was behavior that afforded me some minor measure of control.
Now, out here, I am still all those things: a second son, a dragonrider, a knight. Yet, standing before me is the opportunity of a lifetime. I could make something of my own here. I could become a man who leaves more to his progeny than just a name—for even Dark Sister would be taken away when my time came. Here, I have a chance. A chance for a better outcome, for legacy. For love. For fatherhood.
A genuine smile touched my lips as a picture formed in my mind alongside those words, coinciding with a rising cloud of dust on the horizon.
They had finally come.
The standard of the Falling Star snapped in the wind as the five-thousand-strong sellsword company began to spill into the grasslands surrounding the Darkwash. I turned my back to the plains and made for Caraxes' cave. It was time.
…
After dismounting a safe distance from the vanguard and commanding Caraxes to return to the shadows of his temporary hideout, I made my way on foot toward the marching column.
The sellswords parted immediately to let me through. An armored infantryman jogged forward, holding the reins of a riderless horse.
"Prince Daemon!" an enthused cheer erupted from beneath the infantryman's iron half-helm. "A horse for you, m'lord," he said, handing me the leather reins.
I gazed at him for a moment, surprised by his candid familiarity.
The boy pulled off his helm. "It is I, Oro, m'lord," he said, his voice dropping to a tamer, more respectful pitch.
"Ah, Oro. Yes, yes," I said, remembering the bruised face of the whelp I had nearly bled out in the sparring ring. "I see you have taken your service to me to heart, even though I have not formally permitted you to pledge it."
"It—it is only a matter of time, m'lord. I shall prove myself worthy on the field," he said, puffing out his chest and putting on his bravest face.
I chuckled as I swung myself into the saddle. "I look forward to it, then. Where is Ana?"
He beamed. "Thank you, m'lord. The Commander is at the rearguard, protecting the supply convoys. You will see her standard; the cloth is dyed blue instead of the standard white."
I nodded, spurring the horse into a trot and weaving my way toward the backlines.
For a sellsword company, these men were remarkably disciplined. There were a few rowdy outliers, but overall, the column moved uniformly and without delay. Most of the rank-and-file wore light armor—some lacking even basic chainmail—which was understandable considering they were a relatively new company with no grand claim to fame or deep coffers. Yet, scattered throughout the ranks were hardened veterans, likely commanders of their own contingents, wearing heavy plate. I wondered how their martial prowess compared to Ana's. She was, in every comprehension of the word, a beast on the battlefield. Relentless, pushing forward through sheer physicality even after taking a Valyrian steel injury. It was admirable. And highly enviable.
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AN:
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