The sun was setting over the walls of Sunspear when Daenerys stepped into the training yard. Her hair was tied back, and she wore light clothing that hugged her curves while allowing her to move freely. In her hand she still held a letter, its broken seal bearing the emblem of House Drakul.
It was merely an update on events in the capital: spy reports, Vlad's movements, all meant to keep her informed so she could negotiate with Doran accordingly.
She tucked the letter beneath her leather belt and walked to the center of the yard, where her bloodriders were already waiting.
Talan was stretching his neck, and Kharon held a practice sword, paying little attention to the small crowd that had begun to gather, servants, squires, and a few Dornish soldiers, all watching in silence. Their training sessions had become something of a spectacle, though Daenerys barely spared them a glance.
She picked up a practice sword, tested its weight with a quick twirl of her wrist, and stepped in front of Talan.
No one gave the signal; the training simply began.
Talan moved first, his downward strike swift, but Daenerys did not meet it with force. Instead, she slipped aside with just a twist of her hips, letting his blade cut only air. Kharon came from the left, trying to block her escape, but she dropped low, rolled between them, and rose behind them in one fluid motion, sword raised high.
Steel clashed, and the sound filled the air with every strike. Talan swung in wide arcs, relying on reach; Kharon pressed with sharp thrusts, trying to corner her. But Daenerys danced between them like a flowing current, impossible to catch, each turn and dodge executed with clean precision.
A servant dropped a bucket of water when she bent backward to avoid a slash by mere inches, her hair brushing the ground before she pushed off from that position, spinning to strike Talan's knee with her heel. He only staggered slightly, but it was enough to open a gap. Daenerys turned again, deflecting Kharon's attack with two quick moves, using her blade to redirect his strike before launching a counter straight at his shoulder, which he barely managed to block.
It wasn't truly a fight, it was a game. One that made all three of them smile. As vampires, physical effort was a distant memory; they had to restrain themselves constantly. This was one of the rare moments where they could let loose, even if only a little.
Daenerys kept moving swiftly, dodging with rolls, slipping like a snake between their strikes. She did not use her vampiric strength. She did not fly, did not vanish into shadows.
When she finally struck back, she was quick, hitting Talan on the thigh, then on the wrist, disarming him in one motion. Kharon leapt in at once, relying on the strength of his torso, but she shifted with her shoulder, turning to strike at his side. Kharon caught the blow just in time, countering with a downward slash that would have struck her head. But Daenerys dropped low, rolled beneath his swing, and rose again with her sword pointed at his throat.
Kharon smiled, proud. There was no shame in being bested by his Khaleesi.
They tried again. First one at a time. Then both together. With each attempt, Daenerys answered with agility, never brute force.
The murmurs around the yard grew, some servants hardly blinking at the sheer display of skill.
Two young women in leather armor, better equipped than the rest, watched from the shade of the yard. One, with dark hair braided, held a spear as she wiped sweat from her brow with a damp cloth. The other, shorter-haired, leaned against the wall, spinning a dagger between her fingers.
—Look how she moves —the braided one remarked with a grin— I already like her. Remind me again why we can't approach her?
—Because being a bastard is not the best for diplomacy —the other replied, rolling her eyes as if they'd had this conversation countless times.
—Do you think she's as good in bed as she is with a sword? —she added, staring shamelessly at Daenerys's backside.
The other girl sighed, exasperated, and chose to ignore her sister.
From another corner of the yard, a deeper voice rose, kind but tinged with arrogance:
—A beautiful show. But I doubt dancing like that will serve you in a real battle.
It was a tall man with a neatly trimmed dark beard: Ser Arron Qorgyle. A minor relative of his house, known for his loyalty to Arianne.
He stepped forward at an easy pace. He did not truly seek trouble with Daenerys, but causing some in her name would surely make the Princess of Dorne smile and, with luck, might even earn him her bed. Or so he thought.
Daenerys did not answer at once. She only looked at him calmly. The man was average in every way, from his physique to his expression. He inspired nothing in her.
—Would you like to try it? —she asked, pointing toward the rack of practice swords— I am sure my lord could give me a proper lesson in the art of combat —she added with a polite smile that never reached her eyes.
Ser Arron smiled, convinced he had achieved his aim.
—Gladly. And if you enjoy my instruction… perhaps you might accept private lessons later —he said, in a tone embarrassingly obvious.
There was muffled laughter from the youths behind him. Daenerys gave no reaction, only stepped to the center of the circle, raised her practice sword, and waited.
Ser Arron strode forward with confidence, taking up his weapon with theatrical gestures. Then he attacked quickly, seeking to unbalance her or even cause harm, but he never touched her.
After the first thrust, every blow missed by an inch. Daenerys did not strike back; she only evaded, just as she had with her bloodriders, though now without the slightest effort.
The tension on Ser Arron's face grew with every passing second. He tried thrusts, feints, tricks. None worked.
Finally, after a clumsy attempt at a direct charge, he made a poorly calculated thrust. Daenerys spun, struck his wrist, disarmed him, and with a final turn knocked him to the ground, her blade's tip at his throat.
The man lay sprawled, battered, his lip bleeding, humiliated.
—It seems clear that if you are as skilled with the sword as with everything else… I would find your private lessons rather disappointing —she said, her voice calm, a smile of triumph on her lips.
Ser Arron clenched his teeth as laughter swelled around him, but he did not dare reply.
Daenerys was already walking away. For her, the day's business was finished.
That was when a guard approached with measured steps.
—Your Grace. Princess Myrcella has arrived. She awaits you.
Daenerys nodded, and Missandei offered her a towel to wipe the dust and dirt away.
After preparing herself, changing into a white silk gown and gathering her hair into an elegant ponytail, she left her chambers to meet Princess Myrcella.