He had stepped into that chamber as a mercenary with no master. He walked out with a mission that bound him tighter than gold ever could.
As he left the hall, the cold morning air struck his skin, cool and grounding. His mind replayed her command again and again. No survivors. No trail. Clean and perfect.
…
The Empress' Regard
Daario Naharis did not waste time once he left the pyramid of Meereen. Orders were orders, and Daenerys Stormborn had given him one that demanded no hesitation. He gathered ten of the most reliable killers among the Second Sons — men with quick hands, sharp blades, and no questions. They had no loyalty to Illyrio Mopatis; gold bound them, and Daario had enough gold to make their silence certain.
Their target had already left the city at first light. Illyrio's litter rolled slowly south and east, heavy with trunks of silks and wine, guarded by hundred hired blades who had sworn to see him safely across the border of the Eastern Empire and onto the Red Road toward Qohor. Daario's plan was simple: bleed them without ever lifting a sword in open ground.
The borderlands were dry, dotted with scrub and scattered rocks, but small pools of water lay between the hills. Daario knew Illyrio's caravan would stop at one of them before dusk. He rode hard with his chosen ten, circling wide through goat paths and gullies, staying unseen. By the time they reached the pool, the sun was high.
Daario knelt by the water, pulled a vial from his saddlebag, and uncorked it. Black liquid, thick as tar. Poison from Volantis — made to kill slowly but without smell. He poured it into the water, stirring with his blade until the ripples spread across the pool.
"Hide," he ordered.
They scattered into the rocks and brush. Hours passed before the caravan appeared.
First came the dust cloud, then the tired horses. The litter rocked behind them, curtains drawn tight. Sellswords cursed at the heat, sweat darkening their collars. They dismounted quickly, leading the animals to the pool. Some dropped to their knees, drinking straight from the surface. Others filled skins and passed them around.
Daario watched from a ridge. His men waited with him, silent.
The poison worked fast in the heat. Horses collapsed first, legs buckling under them. Men followed, swaying on their feet. Some vomited red, others clawed at their throats. One stumbled into the water, thrashing before going still. Shouts rose, then panic, then screams.
Within an hour half the guards were down. The rest staggered, weak and slow.The survivors were weak, struggling to stand. A few lifted shields, but their arms shook.
The poison had done its work, but not all fell easy. A dozen sellswords still stood, swaying but alive, blades in trembling hands. Their captain, a scar-faced man in boiled leather, spat blood and raised his sword.
"Hold the line!" he roared, though his voice cracked halfway through.
Daario gave a short whistle, and his men charged.
The clash was sharp and ugly. Steel rang against steel. A spear thrust caught one of Daario's men in the shoulder, spinning him from his saddle. He rolled, came up with a dagger, and buried it in the spearman's gut before the man could pull back.
Daario cut through another, parrying a weak strike and driving his curved blade up under the man's ribs. The sellsword shrieked, clawing at his stomach as he fell.
Two mercenaries fought back-to-back, one with an axe, the other with a short sword. They moved clumsy but desperate, hacking at Daario's riders as they circled. An arrow from the rocks punched through the axeman's throat, but the other lunged at Daario's horse, stabbing deep into its flank. The beast reared, screaming. Daario leapt clear, landing hard, and slashed the mercenary's legs out from under him before finishing him with a thrust to the neck. Nearby, one of Daario's men was dragged from his saddle by two mercenaries. They stabbed him twice before another Second Son split one's skull and drove the other off with wild swings. The wounded man gasped in the dust, clutching his side, but lived.
Scar-face still stood, swinging his sword in wide arcs to keep riders back. He cut down one horse clean, blade biting into its chest. The rider tumbled, rolling to his feet only to be caught by Scar-face's boot. The mercenary raised his sword for the killing blow—
Daario was there first. He stepped in low, parried the strike aside, and drove his curved sword straight through the man's belly. Scar-face dropped his weapon, mouth working like a fish as blood spilled out. Daario kicked him off the blade and left him choking in the dirt.
The fight didn't last long after that. Poison and panic drained the sellswords' strength, and one by one they fell. By the time the dust settled, the ground was littered with twitching bodies, the air thick with the smell of blood and horse piss.
Daario wiped his blade clean, breath steady. His men regrouped, three nursing wounds but all still alive. Around them the surviving mercenaries groaned weakly, but Daario gave the order.
"No survivors. Finish it."
Steel flashed again. The groans stopped. The silence after was heavy.
Illyrio himself scrambled from the litter at last, his fine robes dragging in the dirt. He wheezed, eyes wide, sweat pouring down his round face. He clutched a jeweled dagger, but his hands shook too much to hold it steady.
Daario dismounted, wiping his blade on a dead man's cloak. He walked toward Illyrio with slow steps, savoring the fat man's terror.
"You should have stayed in Pentos," Daario said, voice calm. "Merchants who play at thrones always end up buried under them."
Illyrio dropped the dagger, falling onto his knees. "Wait—" he gasped. "I can pay. Whatever she gives you, I can double it. You don't understand—"
Daario grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair and forced him to look up. "I understand perfectly. You thought the Dragon Queen was soft. You thought she wouldn't dare stain her hands with your blood. You were wrong."
Behind him, the last of Illyrio's guards groaned on the ground, gurgling blood. The ten finished them quickly, blades thrust into hearts, leaving no survivor. The litter burned, its silks catching fast in the dry wind.
Illyrio's fat hands scrabbled uselessly at Daario's arm. "Please—"
Daario leaned close, his smile sharp and cold. "The Empress sends her regards."
The curved blade slid across Illyrio's throat in one clean stroke. Blood spilled down his chest, soaking the rich fabric he loved so dearly. He choked once, then collapsed face-first in the dirt.
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of burning wood.
Daario wiped his sword on the dead man's robe. He turned to his men. "Strip everything. Burn the rest. No survivors."
They worked quickly. Rings pulled from fingers, purses cut free, trunks emptied. Anything too heavy to carry was thrown into the fire. Bodies stacked and burned. The poisoned pool turned black with ash. By dusk, nothing of the caravan remained but charred bones and smoke drifting east.
Daario stood on the ridge, horse waiting. He looked back once at the ashes. Then he mounted and spurred forward, his ten following close.
The border was silent. No witness left, no word would spread. Illyrio Mopatis had vanished between the Eastern Empire and the Red Road.
…
Next chapter: The development of Yunkai
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