Pentos, 106AC.
The Crimson wings of Caraxes thundered against the salt-laden air as the Blood Wyrm descended toward the makeshift landing arena carved from the sandy expanse beside Daemon's manse. The great beast's roar split the afternoon stillness, a sound that sent merchants scurrying in the distant bazaars and made even the boldest Pentoshi magisters pause in their machinations. Sand and sea spray rose in violent clouds as the dragon's talons bit deep into the earth, his serpentine neck coiling as he settled with the fluid grace of a creature born to rule the skies. The heat radiating from Caraxes's scales made the air shimmer like a mirage, and Daemon could taste the sulfur and smoke on his tongue as he unstrapped himself from the riding harness.
The manse that served as his temporary stronghold faced the Narrow Sea, its walls of pale stone already weathered by the constant assault of salt winds. It was a practical dwelling rather than a palace—spacious enough for his growing company of exiles and sellswords, with grounds sufficient for training and dragon-keeping, yet modest enough not to draw unwanted attention from the more established powers of Pentos. The Forty Families might tolerate a Targaryen prince in their midst, but only so long as he remembered his place as a guest rather than a conqueror.
Two young dragonkeepers—lads barely past their sixteenth nameday who had chosen exile over abandoning their calling—rushed forward with chains and meat. They had served faithfully at Dragonstone before following Daemon into his wilderness years, and their presence was a comfort in this foreign land. The elder of the two, a Crownlander named Qyburn, approached Caraxes's great head with the fearless confidence that only came from years of handling such creatures. "Easy now" he murmured in the High Valyrian, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of one who understood dragons.
Daemon swung down from Caraxes's back with practiced ease, his boots hitting the packed earth with a solid thump. The familiar ache in his thighs and lower back reminded him of the long flight from the ruins of Chroyane, where he had spent the morning surveying the cursed city's crumbling towers and reflecting on the fates of princes who overreached. Yet there was no poetry in such morbid contemplation—not when opportunity beckoned and enemies multiplied like summer flies.
His men waited in formation near their mounts, a score of knights and men-at-arms whose loyalty had followed him across the narrow sea. At their head stood Ser Luthor Largent, a bear of a man whose scarred hands told the story of a dozen campaigns in the Disputed Lands. Luthor's face was weathered leather beneath iron-gray hair, and his pale blue eyes held the cold calculation of a born killer. He was the First captain of the City Watch of Kingslanding - prominent over other captains of the City Watch. He was one of the very first men who packed their bags to join daemon as soon as word of daemon's exile spread through.
"My prince," Luthor rumbled as he approached, his voice carrying the rough accent of the Stormlands. "Magister Nevio has sent word requesting your immediate attendance. He claims it concerns the additional men you requested of him." The knight's expression suggested he held little love for Pentoshi magisters and their elaborate courtesies, but Daemon had long since learned to appreciate such bluntness in his subordinates.
Daemon nodded curtly and moved toward his destrier, a magnificent black warhorse . The beast was worth a High-Lord's ransom, and its proud bearing reminded all who saw it that its rider was no common exile. As he swung into the saddle with fluid grace, Daemon felt the familiar thrill of command settle over him like well-worn armor. "How fare the men in their training, Ser Luthor? I trust they have not grown soft in our comfortable exile."
"Training and drills proceed as expected, my prince," Luthor replied as they began to ride along the beach, their horses' hooves throwing up sprays of wet sand. "With sufficient food and proper shelter, the lads are regaining their health and vigor. But I confess, eight hundred men seem insufficient for establishing a proper free company. We'll need more steel before we can call ourselves anything more than a large band of sellswords."
The observation was sound, and Daemon found himself nodding in agreement as they cantered along the shoreline. The waves crashed against black rocks with hypnotic regularity, and seabirds wheeled overhead in endless spirals. "You speak truth, Ser Luthor. Numbers alone do not make soldiers, but a company needs sufficient strength to undertake meaningful contracts. I mean to see us reinforced with able-bodied men as soon as may be arranged. We shall integrate recruits with our experienced Gold Cloaks in each rank and file, ensuring that green boys learn from veterans rather than dying like sheep in their first engagement."
"Aye, that's wisdom," Luthor agreed. "Nothing turns boys into men faster than following a grizzled sergeant who's seen the elephant and lived to tell of it. But we'll need arms and armor as well—good steel, not the rusted iron that passes for weaponry in half the sellsword companies east of the narrow sea."
Daemon's lips curved in what might be called a smile. "Fear not on that account. Our Pentoshi friends have deep purses and deeper ambitions. They understand that quality steel costs gold, but poor weapons cost lives." The conversation turned to mundane matters of logistics and supply as they approached the manse, yet Daemon's mind was already racing ahead to the larger game. Eight hundred men were indeed insufficient for his ultimate purposes, but they were a beginning—a foundation upon which to build something greater.
The guards at the manse entrance snapped to attention as they approached, their mail gleaming despite the salt air's corrosive touch. These were not mere hired swords but men who had followed Daemon from King's Landing, former Gold Cloaks who had chosen exile over serving under a new commander. Their loyalty was personal rather than professional, bound by shared hardships and the promise of future glory. As Daemon dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting stable boy, he felt their eyes upon him with something approaching reverence.
"My prince," one of the guards murmured as he passed, thumping his mailed fist against his chest in salute. The gesture was simple but meaningful—these men still saw him as their rightful leader, whatever his brother the king might decree.
The interior of the manse was comfortable without being ostentatious, furnished in the Pentoshi style with silk cushions and low tables of polished wood. Daemon made his way to the bathing chamber, where servants had already prepared a tub of heated water scented with oils of lavender and mint. The luxury was not mere indulgence but necessity—a prince must look the part, even in exile, and the salt spray of dragon flight left one looking more like a corsair than a lord.
The breakfast that followed was simple fare—fresh bread, sharp cheese, and fruit from the Pentoshi gardens—but Daemon ate with the methodical precision of a soldier rather than the languid enjoyment of a lord at leisure. Each bite was fuel for the trials ahead, and he found himself calculating supplies and costs even as he chewed. A thousand new recruits would require arms, armor, food, and shelter. The mathematics were daunting, but gold could solve most problems if applied with sufficient liberality.
"Maester Rowley," he called as he rose from the table, his voice carrying easily through the stone corridors. The response came quickly—footsteps echoing from the direction of the manse's modest library, where the exiled maester had made his sanctum among scrolls and ledgers.
Maester Rowley was a contradiction wrapped in gray robes—young enough to be called a prodigy yet old enough in knowledge to shame septons twice his age. The Citadel had cast him out for delving too deeply into subjects that the archmaesters deemed dangerous, but Daemon had found his expertise invaluable. Magic might be a sword without a hilt, but knowledge of it could prove useful in a world where dragons soared once more above the battlefields of men.
"You summoned me, my prince?" Rowley asked, his voice carrying the educated tones of Oldtown despite his relative youth. The maester's chain was shorter than those of his former brothers, lacking several links, but the metal gleamed with regular polishing.
"Indeed. I require you to maintain detailed records of our income, resources, and food stocks. When our new recruits arrive—and they shall arrive soon—I want every man catalogued and assessed. Names, origins, skills, and previous service if any. We shall build a company of professionals, not a rabble of cutthroats." Daemon paused, considering. "Also, research the laws and customs governing mercenary companies in Pentos. I would know what freedoms we enjoy and what restrictions we must observe."
"It shall be done, my prince," Rowley assured him. "I have already begun preliminary assessments of our current strength, and the results are... encouraging. Your Gold Cloaks maintain excellent discipline despite their exile, and their experience will prove invaluable in training new recruits."
Daemon nodded approvingly. "Good. We shall need that experience sooner than you might think." He did not elaborate on the intelligence regarding the approaching Dothraki khalasar—such information was too sensitive to share widely, even among his inner circle. The horselords would come, as they always did when they scented weakness, and Pentos would need every sword it could muster.
The journey to Magister Nevio's manse took them through the heart of Pentos, past markets where merchants hawked goods from across the known world and slave pens where human chattel waited with dull eyes for their fates to be decided. The city was a monument to commerce and pragmatism rather than beauty, its streets laid out in efficient grids rather than the organic sprawl of older settlements. Yet there was a vitality to it that Daemon found invigorating—the energy of a place where fortunes could be made or lost with equal swiftness.
The massive walls that protected the city rose like cliffs of worked stone, their battlements bristling with Guards in bright mail who watched from the towers, their eyes scanning the horizon for threats both obvious and subtle. Daemon had studied those fortifications during his first weeks in the city, assessing their strengths and weaknesses with the eye of a man who might someday need to take them. The walls were formidable, but walls had never stopped dragons.
Magister Nevio's manse was a study in restrained opulence, its facade decorated with intricate mosaics that depicted scenes from Valyrian history dragons soaring above burning cities, dragonlords in elaborate robes accepting the submission of conquered peoples. The imagery was not lost on Daemon, who recognized it as both flattery and reminder of his heritage.
The magister's servants greeted them with the elaborate courtesies common to the Free Cities, their silken garments and jeweled fingers speaking to their master's wealth and status. Daemon allowed himself to be escorted through corridors lined with silk tapestries and floors of polished marble, each step echoing with the hollow sound that spoke of vast spaces and careful acoustics. Nevio Narratys awaited him in a chamber that served as both office and audience hall, its walls lined with ledgers and its tables covered with maps of trade routes and political boundaries.
Nevio himself was everything Daemon had expected from their previous meetings—young for a magister but possessed of the quick intelligence and silver tongue that had elevated him from merely wealthy to genuinely influential. His robes were of Myrish silk dyed in shades of purple and gold, and his fingers bore rings that proclaimed both his wealth and his connections. Yet for all his finery, there was steel beneath the silk—the kind of ambition that built empires or died trying.
"Finally!" Nevio exclaimed with apparent joy, rising from behind his table with arms spread wide in welcome. "You have deemed to visit my humble abode, my prince. I confess myself honored by your presence."
Daemon's smile was equally charming and twice as calculated. "If this is humble, my lord, then I am a pauper indeed." The exchange drew a genuine chuckle from the magister, and Daemon settled into the offered chair with the fluid grace of a born aristocrat. Ser Luthor took position behind him, a silent presence that spoke more eloquently than words of the deadly competence that surrounded the exiled prince.
"I trust the manse continues to suit your needs?" Nevio inquired. "If there is even the smallest inconvenience, you have but to speak. I would not have my esteemed guest and ally suffer any discomfort while he honors us with his presence."
"You are kindness itself," Daemon replied smoothly. "The manse serves admirably—the view of the sea is particularly fine, and the grounds provide ample space for my men's training. Even Caraxes seems content with the arrangements, which I confess surprises me. Dragons can be... particular about their accommodations."
They spoke of pleasantries for several minutes, the weather, the quality of Pentoshi wine, the latest gossip from the various Free Cities—but Daemon's patience for such courtesies was limited. Finally, he leaned forward with the air of a man ready for serious discourse. "I received word that you have news regarding our discussed recruitment of additional men?"
Nevio's expression grew more serious, though his smile remained. "Indeed, my prince. I am pleased to report considerable success in that endeavor. Among the thousands who volunteered, I assure you that I have selected approximately one thousand men for your consideration. Strong backs, willing hearts, and most importantly, the capability to be molded into proper soldiers under competent leadership."
The numbers were encouraging, though Daemon kept his expression neutral. A thousand men would more than double his current strength, transforming his exile's escort into something approaching a genuine military force. "And what of the others? Surely eight thousand volunteers would have provided ample material for selection."
"Indeed they would have," Nevio agreed with a rueful shake of his head. "Unfortunately, the realities of politics intrude upon military necessity. Other free companies have recruited a portion of the volunteers. Aside from it you know how the magisters value their eunuch spears for city defense. Others have found their way into the service of rival factions within the conclave. One cannot simply conscript every willing sword without regard for the broader implications."
Daemon nodded understanding, though inwardly he cursed the limitations that politics imposed upon practical necessity. Still, a thousand men properly trained and equipped would serve his purposes well enough—for now. "And arms and armor for these recruits?"
"Ah, that is where I believe you will be most pleased," Nevio said, his eyes lighting with genuine enthusiasm. "I have commissioned the finest smiths available—craftsmen who learned their trade in the forges of Qohor itself. They have worked to your specifications, creating armor and weapons of the highest quality. No sellsword company in the Disputed Lands will be better equipped."
The promise was welcome news, though Daemon had learned to verify such claims before placing too much trust in them. Quality steel was the difference between veterans and corpses, and he had seen too many promising companies destroyed by poor equipment and poorer planning. "You have my gratitude, Magister. Such arrangements could not have been simple to coordinate."
Nevio waved a jeweled hand dismissively. "The difficulties were minimal, I assure you. Your reputation as a warrior and dragonlord opened doors that might otherwise have remained closed. Men wish to serve under banners that promise glory as well as gold."
Yet even as they spoke of practical matters, Daemon sensed an undercurrent of tension in the magister's manner. Nevio's fingers drummed against the polished wood of his table, and his eyes held the distant look of a man calculating odds and outcomes. Finally, the Pentoshi leaned forward, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone.
"There is another matter we must discuss, my prince. The approaching... unpleasantness... with the Dothraki. Khal Mengo leads no ordinary khalasar—fifty thousand warriors follow his band, and their reputation for savagery precedes them like the stench of carrion. They have already extracted tribute from Myr, and those magisters who refused their demands saw their outlying settlements put to sword and flame."
Daemon's smile turned predatory. "You fear a horde of horse-riding savages? I had thought the magisters of Pentos made of sterner stuff."
"It is not fear but prudence," Nevio replied stiffly. "Fifty thousand is no small number, whatever their individual quality. The conclave has authorized payment of tribute in years past, but our coffers are not bottomless. More importantly..." He paused, glancing toward the scribe in the corner before continuing. "The outcome of this conflict will determine much regarding the next election of prince. My faction enjoys influence now, but Magister Mopatis and others circle like vultures, waiting for any sign of weakness."
The admission revealed the true nature of their alliance, and Daemon found himself appreciating the magister's honesty. Politics and warfare were merely different faces of the same coin, and a man who understood that truth was worth cultivating as an ally. "You wish me to provide a demonstration of strength that will enhance your standing within the conclave."
"Precisely," Nevio confirmed. "A decisive victory against the khalasar would prove that our partnership brings tangible benefits to Pentos. Conversely, any... less favorable outcome... would provide ammunition for my rivals."
Daemon's laughter was genuine and without humor. "Do not concern yourself on that account, my friend. I did not ask for men to deal with horse-riding savages. Caraxes and I shall provide all the demonstration of strength your rivals require."
Confusion flickered across Nevio's features. "I fear you may underestimate Khal Mengo, my prince. He is no ordinary barbarian but a proven war leader who has ravaged cities and defeated armies. Fifty thousand warriors cannot be dismissed lightly, regardless of their lack of discipline."
"War is not purely a matter of numbers," Daemon replied, his voice carrying the quiet confidence of experience. "Equipment, training, leadership, even weather and terrain—all play their parts in determining victory or defeat. Tell me, how many defenders can Pentos field against this approaching threat?"
Nevio considered the question carefully. "Six free companies have been hired, ranging from one to two thousand men each. Perhaps ten thousand mercenaries in total. The citizen levies will provide another seven thousand volunteers from the original eight thousand who answered the call. Seventeen thousand men to stand against fifty thousand."
The odds were daunting by any conventional measure, yet Daemon felt only anticipation rather than concern. "Years ago, my late uncle Prince Aemon faced similar odds during the Myrish bloodbath. Three enemy fleets and ten sellsword companies—twenty thousand men in all—ravaging the coast of Tarth. Do you know what he accomplished in a single week?"
"I confess ignorance of the details," Nevio admitted.
"He burned them all," Daemon said simply. "Every ship, every company, every man who stood against him. Caraxes carried him to victory back then.."
Understanding dawned in the magister's eyes, followed quickly by something that might have been relief. "You mean to repeat the Field of Fire in miniature."
"The Field of Fire, the burning of Harrenhal, the conquest itself - all prove the same truth. Armor and discipline mean nothing against dragonflame, and numbers become irrelevant when half of the army burns in the first charge." Daemon's voice carried absolute conviction. "These Dothraki ride without armor, the better to maintain their vaunted mobility. They will die as easily as any other men when the flames take them."
They spoke for some time longer about logistics and timing, but the essential matter had been settled. The khalasar would come, as such forces always did, and Daemon would meet them with fire and blood. The demonstration would serve multiple purposes—eliminating a threat to his new base of operations, proving his worth to potential allies, and sending a message to anyone who might question the wisdom of allying with him and his dragon.
"Come," Nevio said eventually, rising from his chair. "Let us inspect these recruits I have gathered for your service. I believe you will find them... adequate to your standards."
The training yard behind the manse was a scene of controlled chaos, with sergeants bellowing orders while blocks of men moved through formation drills. The recruits were a mixed lot—former soldiers seeking new employment, adventurous young men drawn by promises of glory, craftsmen fleeing debt or scandal. Yet they carried themselves with the bearing of men familiar with weapons, and their responses to commands suggested at least basic military experience.
Daemon walked among them with the critical eye of a professional soldier, noting calloused hands that spoke of sword work and scars that told of battles survived. These were not the soft city dwellers he had feared but men who understood that war was a trade requiring skill as well as courage. When he commanded a volunteer to demonstrate his swordplay, the man's movements were fluid and confident—not masterful, perhaps, but competent enough to serve with proper training.
"They will suffice," he pronounced after completing his inspection. "Most show signs of previous military service, which will ease the burden of training. With proper equipment and leadership, they should prove adequate to our purposes."
"I am pleased you approve," Nevio replied. "And if you require additional numbers, I may have a solution. Several of my... associates... maintain extensive slave holdings. Strong men purchased for labor who might be freed and employed in military service, should you desire. The legal complications would be minimal, and such men often prove fiercely loyal to those who grant them freedom."
The suggestion had merit, though it also carried risks. Freed slaves might indeed prove loyal, but they might also bring complications. Yet the mathematics of warfare were unforgiving—more men meant more options, and options meant survival. "How many such men could you provide?"
"Two thousand, perhaps more, given sufficient time. My associates would require compensation for their losses, but the sum would be reasonable given the potential benefits." Nevio's tone was carefully neutral, suggesting this was not the first time such arrangements had been discussed among the magisters.
"Arrange it," Daemon decided. "Two thousand men, freed and equipped with the same quality of arms and armor as the other recruits. Speed is essential—I would have them ready for service within the moon's turn."
"It shall be done," Nevio promised. "I shall send word to my associates this very evening. Within a fortnight, you shall have your additional men."
The sun hung low in the western sky by the time their business concluded, painting the marble walls of the manse in shades of gold and crimson. Daemon took his leave with the ritual courtesies demanded by Pentoshi custom, though his mind was already racing ahead to the challenges that awaited. Three thousand men would give him a force worthy of the name not large by the standards of the great companies, but sufficient for most contracts and certainly adequate for dealing with horse-riding barbarians.
The ride back to his own manse was conducted in comfortable silence, with only the sound of hoofbeats and the distant cry of seabirds to break the evening stillness. Ser Luthor rode beside him with the easy confidence of a professional soldier, his presence a reminder that competent subordinates were worth their weight in gold. The other knights followed in loose formation, their eyes scanning the darkening streets for potential threats with the automatic vigilance of men who had learned that relaxation was a luxury few could afford.
The manse welcomed him with the warm glow of torches and the familiar sounds of an established household. Guards saluted as he passed, servants hurried to attend his needs, and the routine of daily life continued with reassuring predictability. Yet beneath the surface calm, Daemon could sense the tension that came with impending change. Soon this comfortable exile would give way to the harsh realities of warfare, and comfort would become a memory rather than an expectation.
His study was a sanctuary of sorts—a chamber where he could think without interruption and plan without oversight. The furniture was simple but well-made, dominated by a large table that served as both desk and tactical planning surface. Maps covered the walls, showing trade routes and political boundaries across the known world, while shelves held books on military history and theoretical strategy. It was the workspace of a professional soldier rather than a dilettante prince, and Daemon took pride in its practical efficiency.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. "Enter," he called, settling into the cushioned chair behind his table.
Maester Rowley appeared with a sealed scroll in his hands, his expression suggesting the news was significant. "A raven arrived from Westeros, my prince. From your contacts in the capital."
Daemon accepted the scroll with studied calm, though his pulse quickened with anticipation. News from King's Landing was always precious, whether good or ill, and the timing suggested something of importance had occurred. He broke the wax seal with his thumb and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the closely written lines with growing interest.
The intelligence came from Harwin Strong, one of the few men in the capital whose loyalty Daemon trusted without reservation. The message was brief but devastating in its implications: Prince Aurion had formed what amounted to a private army, backed by the wealth and ships of House Velaryon and by marriage to Corlys's daughter Laena. Worse, the alliance commanded no fewer than five dragons a force that dwarfed anything Viserys could field in response.
Daemon set the scroll aside and walked to the chamber's wine cabinet, his mind already calculating the implications of this development. The finest Arbor gold beckoned from crystal decanters, and he poured himself a generous measure before moving to stand beside the great window that overlooked the Narrow Sea. The wine was excellent—smooth and complex, with hints of fruit and spice that spoke to careful aging—but he barely tasted it as he contemplated his half-brother's predicament.
"You had one job, Viserys," he murmured to the empty room. "One simple task keep the dragons under our family's control. And you have managed to let five of them under the bastard with more ambition than sense."
The waves crashed against the rocky shore below with hypnotic regularity, their foam white against the darkening water. Storm clouds gathered on the eastern horizon, promising rain before dawn and reminding Daemon that nature's fury was nothing compared to the tempests that men could unleash upon each other. His own exile had been justified as necessary for the realm's stability, yet now it seemed that removing Daemon from the game had only cleared the field for more dangerous players.
He took another sip of wine and allowed himself a bitter smile. "Five dragons, the Velaryon fleet, and the allegiance of half the realm's great houses. Well played, half-brother. Well played indeed."
"Perhaps I should have killed you then," he whispered to the gathering darkness. "Perhaps I should have recognized the viper beneath that pretty face and crushed you before you could grow fangs."
Yet there was grudging respect in the admission as well as regret. Aurion had played the game with skill that would have impressed Daemon's grandfather, the Old King who had united the realm through careful marriage alliances and patient diplomacy. Five dragons represented power that even King's Landing could not easily challenge, especially with Caraxes and his rider conveniently exiled beyond the narrow sea. He had learned his lessons well—perhaps too well for his own good or that of the realm.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first drops of rain began to spatter against the window glass. Daemon drained his wine and set the empty goblet aside, his reflection staring back at him from the darkening pane. The face that looked back was still handsome bearing the classical features that marked him as unmistakably Targaryen. Yet there were lines around his eyes now, and threads of silver in his pale hair that spoke to the passage of time and the weight of experience.
"Let us see how you mean to use those dragons, brother," he said to his reflection
The storm broke in earnest then, sheets of rain lashing the manse while thunder shook the very stones. Lightning illuminated the churning sea in stark black and white, revealing waves that rose like moving mountains before crashing down with titanic force. It was nature's own demonstration of power—raw, elemental, and utterly indifferent to the schemes of men.
Daemon watched the tempest with the appreciation of a man who had learned to find beauty in destruction. Tomorrow would bring new challenges and fresh opportunities, but tonight he could simply stand witness to the storm's fury and contemplate the changing fortunes of princes and kings. The game continued, as it always had and always would, and those wise enough to adapt would survive while the rigid broke before forces they could not control.
The wine worked its subtle magic, warming his blood and sharpening his thoughts rather than dulling them. Three thousand men, one dragon, and the promise of future glory—it was a solid foundation to start with. The Dothraki would come as they always did, drawn by the scent of wealth and weakness, and they would learn why dragons ruled the world.
"The realm bleeds while its king plays at peace," Daemon murmured, his breath fogging the glass. "Perhaps it is time for harder men to take harder measures."
The storm raged on, as storms always did, indifferent to the plans of princes and the dreams of kings. But in his manse by the sea, an exiled dragon dreamed of fire and blood, and the thunder seemed to echo with his chaotic heart.