BRAAVOS – GUEST PALACE – EARLY MORNING
The black leather coat clung to him.New. Well-fitted. Braavosi work—tailored to his frame.
Caesar stood before the mirror.Not cheap—but imperfect.The glass wavered just slightly, the reflection bending at the edges.As if it, too, couldn't decide who it was showing.
On the table beside him, the white mask waited.Marked in red.A thin, winding shape—a dragon in the eastern style.
He picked it up.
Held it in both hands.
Stared.
Then placed it over his face.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
Unmoving. Expression hidden.Breathing soft behind painted fangs.
He pulled it off.
"...S**ks," he muttered.The weight of it didn't feel right yet.Still—it was the beginning.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
A shadow stepped in.
Knelt.
A woman.Sharp-eyed. Quiet. Dressed in darker garb than most shinobi.
The newly chosen leader among the shadows.
Caesar turned.
Said nothing.
Just motioned for her to rise.
She obeyed.
No words spoken.
Caesar walked past her, cloak rustling.Out the door.
....
GUEST PALACE – COURTYARD – CONTINUOUS
Outside, Tanaka waited.
So did a line of armored Templars.Blades strapped. Faces calm.
Caesar gave no order.
They began to move.
.....
DAENERYS' CHAMBER – MOMENTS LATER
She stood in front of the tall mirror, the attendants behind her already gone.
Black leather.
It fit like it was meant for her.
Trim. Elegant. Dangerous.
Her silver hair curled loosely down her back, her violet eyes catching the morning light.
When the door opened—
She turned.
Caesar entered.He paused. Just for a moment.
He looked at her.
"…Beautiful," he said simply.
That was all.
But it was enough.
She stepped forward, a quiet smile at her lips.
He turned.
"Men are waiting."
She nodded, falling into step beside him.
.....
BRAAVOS – DOCK STREETS – LATER
The streets were alive.
Braavosi guards cleared the path.
Templars moved at both flanks.
Ahead, dragon eggs were carefully carried—nested in padded crates, escorted toward the largest ship at port.
Eight more ships waited beside her, sails unfurled and painted in red and black color.
The crowds of Braavos watched from behind ropes and posts.
Merchants whispered. Street children pointed.
A silver-haired girl in black walked beside a young man.
Seem royal. Unnamed.
Silent.
Daenerys glanced at the crates.
Then at the people.
Then at him.
From time to time, her eyes lingered on his face.
He didn't look back.
But he felt it.
His gaze was locked on a figure in the crowd ahead.
A lone man. Hooded.
Watching.
Still.
Too still.
The man with no name. The shadow behind the last meeting.
The one who never needed to speak to make noise.
But nothing happened.
The line moved.
The dock opened.
And the ship pulled away—beneath the massive stone legs of the Titan of Braavos.
Wind filled the sails.
The sea opened.
Eight more ships followed.
.....
GALLEON – DECK – HOURS LATER
Caesar stood alone on the high deck, cloak swaying in the sea wind.
The narrow sea stretched before them.
Braavos was now only rooftops and statues behind them.
Daenerys stepped beside him.
The wind caught her hair.
She looked ahead, then sideways.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer right away.
His voice came slow. Low.
"…A hunt."
She glanced at him.
He didn't say more.
And neither did she.
---------------------------
RED KEEP – SMALL COUNCIL CHAMBER – KING'S LANDING – DAY
The chairs were already filled.
Renly lounged in his seat, fingers steepled under his chin, looking half amused and half bored.
Littlefinger spun a quill idly between two fingers, the tip hovering just above his inkwell but never dipping in.
Maester Pycelle cleared his throat for no one in particular.
Varys sat quietly, hands folded like a prayer, smile calm, eyes watchful.
Then—
The chamber doors creaked open.
Robert Baratheon strode in with heavy steps, wide grin on his face, chest puffed like he'd just returned from a hunt with a boar's head under his arm.
No one looked surprised.
He dropped into his chair with a grunt and waved his hand.
"Come on, let's get it over with. I'm already sober enough to regret being here."
Pycelle opened his mouth to speak—but Robert raised a hand.
"Heard something interesting this morning. Something funny."
He grinned wider. His mood was all ale and steel.
"One of the dragonspawn. The fool prince."
He slapped a meaty palm on the table, making Littlefinger flinch slightly.
"The beggar king, they called him. The Dothraki chained him up like a dog. Slaves are pissing on him now."
Littlefinger gave a dry chuckle.
"A fitting crown for a king without a throne."
Renly smirked.
"The silver-haired prince turned silver-haired property. Poetic."
Pycelle adjusted his robes.
"That is… good news, Your Grace. If true—"
"True enough," Robert cut in. "And a fine f***ing gift. Saves us gold. No more hired knives anymore."
But one man didn't laugh.
Ned Stark leaned forward slightly.
"What of the girl?"
The table went still.
Varys' voice was soft. Measured.
"Ah. Yes. That… is the part yet unclear."
Robert's grin faded. He leaned in.
"What do you mean 'yet'?"
"Viserys Targaryen is accounted for—however unwillingly," Varys said, tone silk. "But the girl…"
He paused, head tilting ever so slightly.
"There are whispers."
Robert's mood darkened instantly.
"What sort of whispers?"
"Some say she was taken," Varys said. "Others claim she vanished before the Dothraki reached the city. No eyes saw her when her brother was captured."
He folded his hands again.
"But… there are whispers of a silver-haired girl seen in Braavos."
A long silence.
Robert stared.
"Braavos?"
"A rumor, Your Grace," Varys said gently. "Could be a merchant's daughter. Could be nothing. You know how stories drift across the Narrow Sea."
Robert slammed his fist on the table, making everyone flinch again.
"Damn her."
He stared at the carved wood beneath his hand.
"If she's in Braavos…"
Ned sat up straighter.
"She's not Viserys. And if she's there—"
"She's a Targaryen whore, Ned," Robert snapped. "That's threat enough. You don't understand—"
"I understand children," Ned said firmly. "And that's all she is."
Robert scoffed bitterly.
"You sound like Jon Arryn. Always the voice of mercy—until it cuts your own throat."
Littlefinger leaned in, ever helpful.
"If I may, Your Grace… a blade in Braavos would not be cheap. Nor subtle. The Braavosi don't take kindly to foreign knives."
Renly added lightly:
"How is she there at all?"
Varys gave a faint smile.
"That's still a mystery, Lord Renly."
Robert said nothing for a long while. Just stared at the table.
No smile now.
Only weight.
"She's the last one," he muttered. "The last bloody dragon seed."
Then—louder, with fire behind it:
"I want her dead. I don't care how. No more Targaryens."
Ned looked at him sharply.
Something in him cracked.
He spoke coldly, flatly:
"You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."
Robert's head snapped around.
A long silence fell.
He stared at his old friend like a stranger.
"She's a whore's daughter with a whore's fate," Robert said. "I'll not risk her belly birthing another dragon seed."
Ned looked down.
The rage. The grief. The years—it was all still in Robert.
And nothing Ned said would pull it out.
Pycelle cleared his throat, almost whispering:
"I… shall note the cost of potential action. Should Your Grace decide… formally."
Robert didn't answer.
He stood.
Slower now.
Tired.
Less drunk.
"Let me know when someone finds her."
He turned.
Then paused at the threshold.
"Or don't."
And walked out.
[
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