The wind howled across the spear-studded wasteland, tattered red-and-black dragon banners flapping like dying birds.
Daemon Blackfyre knew his time on this earth had run out.
The hate, the rage—gone.
All that remained was a raw, tearing helplessness that ripped his heart to pieces.
No man alive could match him with a blade.
He had been the youngest knight in history, dazzling the tourneys at twelve.
Aegon the Fourth had named him son and placed the Conqueror's own sword—Blackfyre—in his hand.
Yet here he was, about to meet the Stranger.
A cold, unnatural weakness flooded his limbs. The numbness lifted; he felt the crushing weight of his armor and let his helmeted head drop.
Then the battle sounds began to die.
Shouts, groans, ringing steel, screaming horses, war-horns—everything faded.
His body crumpled to the ground without a sound.
...
Daemon Blackfyre woke on the battlefield.
No armor.
Blackfyre gone.
He lay amid piled corpses.
Strange foreign plate covered them—nothing like Westeros.
Their cold hands still clutched weirdly curved weapons.
Their faces weren't even Dornish.
He reached for a scythe-like sword lying across a body.
It crumbled to dust between his fingers.
A spear jutting from another corpse did the same the moment he touched it.
Then a savage wind slammed across the field…
Rot. Blood. Burned flesh. Decay.
All the sweet incense the Stranger loved.
From the Iron Islands to the edge of the known world, men offered it up to him.
Hunger joined the exhaustion and pain, fogging his mind.
His stomach twisted in cramps.
The wind kept rising, dragging more stench across his face—promises of pleasure, rest, maybe even forgetting.
But food was a long way off, and the roaring in his gut grew louder.
What he saw next was nothing like any feast he had ever known.
No rules. No shame.
Here, only desire mattered—and the strength to take what you wanted.
Right beside him, two huge, hard-muscled men were arguing over a silver-haired slave girl with tear-filled eyes.
In Westeros, a murder at a feast would stop everything cold.
Here, nobody even blinked.
The onlookers just shouted for the terrified girl to bring them fresh horns of wine.
No doubt about it.
This was a Dothraki camp—the horse-lords who made all of Essos tremble.
Only their customs allowed this kind of "entertainment."
Only they counted killing your own as courage.
The low grass, the merciless sun, the alien armor on the dead—everything confirmed it.
One question remained.
How the hell had he reached the other side of the world?
Could Bloodraven truly wield a spell powerful enough to fling a man to the ends of the earth?
Then Daemon noticed the man sitting atop a small hill of skulls.
Tall. Black eyes. Hair so long it dragged on the ground.
Half-naked, right hand gripping a blood-smeared scythe.
At the foot of that grisly "throne," cages held fat men and beautiful women, all naked as the day they were born.
Every fat one looked like a prince.
Every beauty was worth a kingdom.
But the khal wanted more.
His people showered him with gifts—lovely slave girls, golden trinkets, mysterious relics from fallen tribes, magnificent stallions.
And every man who bowed had a braid noticeably shorter than their khal's.
Just like the books said.
Defeated Dothraki cut their hair in shame.
Only the strongest kept it this terrifyingly long.
The young champion Daemon had seen earlier offered a gleaming gold bracelet.
The khal gave a short nod.
From the giver's smile, that counted as deep gratitude among the horse-lords.
Daemon never saw the rest of the savage ritual.
A wave of blinding pain swallowed his mind.
Corpses, riders, bonfires, slaves, sun, and khal all blurred together.
Maybe a minute passed.
Maybe years.
The king fought the agony with everything he had.
When he opened his eyes again, he expected another nightmare—ice dragons, snow plains, blood-soaked fields.
Instead he saw plain wooden planks overhead.
A simple ship's cabin.
And the pain was gone.
He felt his own body again.
His fingers obeyed.
Daemon instinctively grabbed the blanket.
It stayed solid.
The cabin door burst open.
A plump woman in furs rushed in, staring at him like he was a miracle.
"Your Grace, you're awake—thank the Seven!" the stranger said.
"We feared you might…"
"Who… are you?" Daemon asked.
His voice came out weak, thin, nothing like his own.
Where was the deep battle roar that once called men to die for him?
Why did he sound like a child?
"Illyna," she answered, nodding.
"Wet-nurse to your sister Daenerys. I've been helping Ser Willem Darry. Do you remember me?"
Who?
Daenerys?
She was already grown—Daeron had married her off to that Dornish pedophile!
What in the seven hells was happening?
"Oh, please don't get up, Your Grace!" The woman gently pushed him back, flustered.
"You're still weak after the fever. Lie still, I beg you. The road ahead is long, and that bastard captain isn't hurrying to get us to Braavos."
"A mirror?" Daemon needed to see.
Needed to understand.
"Yes, but first let me fetch Ser Willem. He ordered me to bring him the moment you woke."
While she was gone, Daemon threw back the blanket and looked down.
If he couldn't see his face yet, at least he could see the rest.
This small, frail body could never belong to a grown knight, a warrior.
How could these tiny hands ever lift Blackfyre?
Where were the thick muscles that once bore the weight of plate?
No one spoke to him.
The horse-lord, the dying woman, the Others—they had all stayed silent, never even glancing his way.
This… wasn't a dream?
"My king, you've come back to us."
An older man's voice rang out, solemn as if announcing a monarch entering the throne room.
"What joy this brings every loyal heart—few as we are now… but you are with us once more."
Daemon's first thought was to ask what loyalty this servant of the "usurper" Daeron even knew.
But he had seen too much, endured too much.
He kept his tongue still.
"Ser Willem," he said carefully, "tell me… was I ill?"
"You've burned with fever for five days, Your Grace. The captain thought you'd leave us. Illyna said if you lasted past noon today, you'd live—and here you are! May the gods let this be an omen. We need one badly."
"Is our… situation truly that dire?" Daemon kept his words vague, testing.
"You… yes, Your Grace." Willem's face darkened.
"We must seek refuge in Braavos. The usurper's army holds King's Landing. His brother's fleet has reached Dragonstone. No one in Westeros will shelter us anymore…"
Outside the cabin, Illyna's voice suddenly rang out, loud and triumphant.
"Our king—Viserys, the Third of His Name—is awake! Praise the old gods and the new!"
Daemon Blackfyre—now wearing the name Viserys the Third—looked at the knight with sharp, questioning eyes, waiting for more.
He still had a thousand questions.
And if the woman hadn't lied, he would have time to find every answer.
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