In the Whore's Nest, any woman prettier than a crone was fair game for the horny bastards who couldn't keep their hands to themselves.
Most didn't fight it. Everyone needed coin. Getting dragged out of this shithole by a man with a full purse was the closest thing to a happy ending most of them would ever see.
Jorah spurred his horse forward and ignored the crude laughter behind him.
"Your company's discipline seems… rather loose?" Jaehaerys's voice carried a nervous edge. The old noble stared at the chaos, clearly terrified he might be trapped in this cesspit forever.
He hadn't even seen the worst of the camp yet. If he had, he'd be pissing himself.
"On the contrary," Jorah answered coldly. "They stop the moment they see an officer. They obey orders. Rodrik will deal with them—he's brutal, but fair. His Grace leaves all the dirty work to him."
The Dragon Claw Company was a mixed bag of every breed of scum and dreamer in Essos.
Some were true knights who had heard whispers of "King Viserys the Third" rising in the east. They crossed the Narrow Sea for honor, for the rightful king. Pay was just a bonus.
Idealists like that were rare. The ones who survived, Viserys Targaryen—Daemon Blackfyre—kept close.
Others were outright bandits, or nobles no better than bandits, fleeing Westerosi justice. On this side of the sea the only trade they knew was violence.
Plenty were just hungry smallfolk from the Free Cities, gambling their worthless lives for one shot at riches.
Street-corner tales from Braavos to Volantis all promised sellswords could get rich. Who wouldn't roll the dice?
Then there were Summer Island adventurers, escaped slaves from Slaver's Bay, Dothraki outlaws dodging blood feuds…
Viserys took them all. Healthy body? You were in. Bring your own gear and real experience? Even better.
Every recruit swore loyalty to the Dragon Claw Prince. Obey him and his officers. Sign the roll, and you became a Claw—walking the narrow road between glory, gold, and a shallow grave.
Spearmen, archers, swordsmen—even green boys like the two fools earlier—were desperate to prove themselves while learning from veterans.
The best, the skilled, the loyal got raised to Black Knight. Elite cavalry. The tip of every charge.
The title meant bigger shares of loot and real respect.
Viserys also promised that when the time came to sail west and reclaim the Iron Throne, every Black Knight would receive lands and titles.
Most of them didn't believe a word of it.
Jorah Mormont certainly didn't.
Being captain—full belly, no Stark in sight—was enough for him. Bear Island and Lyanna were gone forever. No point rubbing salt in old wounds.
Those two idiots had simply mistaken "sellsword" for "free to do whatever the fuck you want."
No matter. Giant Rodrik would teach them the rules—one flogging and a month mucking stables usually did the trick.
"How many men does your prince command?" Menys suddenly asked, his noble nose finally adjusting to the stench. "How many spearmen, archers, swordsmen can—"
"Sorry. Without His Grace's leave, I can't say." Jorah didn't even glance back. "But feel free to look around. You'll get a fair idea of the Claw's size."
He wasn't lying. The company stood at twelve hundred now, half of them mounted, and Viserys planned to recruit a few hundred more locally.
Those numbers were not for Volantene ears. Every trade had its secrets.
If the envoys wanted to count heads, let them.
The party asked no more questions and followed Jorah to the training ground.
It had once been a crumbling temple, so ancient the locals had forgotten which god it honored.
The Claw's leader had no patience for useless things. The forgotten shrine was now an archery range.
If the gods couldn't protect their own house, living men sure as hell didn't need divine help—they needed to train.
Allyn Wood was drilling the archers.
The big former poacher from the Kingswood ran a brutal yard. He had forged plenty of killers.
Right now he was correcting a brown-skinned boy's draw, cursing the lad's entire bloodline while he did it.
The boy didn't beg. He just clenched his teeth and took it.
Smart. Wood only respected toughness and guts. Whining earned extra drills.
The other recruits ignored the shouting. They knew Wood's eyes missed nothing. Next mistake might be theirs.
Better to sweat here than bleed out there.
"You keep your men in constant battle readiness?" Saenara asked as they passed the range.
"A lazy sellsword is a dead sellsword. Nobody bothers telling him until it's too late."
"The Disputed Lands are always at war," Menys offered, quoting some book. "Surely you can find real fights?"
"Not every clash is a grand battle, my lord. Most are scouts, skirmishers, patrols, forage parties—small, ugly scraps." Jorah looked at the fat Volantene. "Real war is the best teacher, but right now there's no war to be had."
"And if war does come," Jaehaerys cut in, "and we offer you the chance—how would your company respond?"
"That's for His Grace to decide." Jorah's tone was careful. The company hadn't had a proper contract in months. Bellies weren't empty yet, but the hunger was coming, and the men were itching for real steel. "I'm not paid to speculate."
"Where can we meet the prince?" Saenara asked directly. "This town is larger than I expected."
"But it smells exactly as I imagined!" Menys added at once.
"Menys, my nephew—shut your mouth. Speak only when permitted." The old man's voice turned to Valyrian steel. "Ser Jorah, is His Grace in his pavilion?"
"His Grace only returns to the pavilion for meals, and not every day." Jorah smiled thinly and turned his horse down another street. "Follow me. You'll see for yourselves."
...
"You're dead, little sister." Viserys tapped Daenerys lightly on the chest with the blunted practice sword. "Third time today. Still half-asleep?"
"That's not fair!" Daenerys laughed, breathless, no real anger in it—just delight. "I was about to lure you into my trap, but—"
"On the battlefield there is no fair, princess," Eleonora Darennis said, striding over with the crisp step of a born captain. "You moved too fast, charged too hard—straight onto His Grace's blade. All he had to do was lift his hand…"
While Eleonora corrected Daenerys's footwork, Viserys Targaryen—Daemon Blackfyre—watched the two most important women in his life.
One was the silver-haired sister who had grown up beside him.
The other was the woman who had joined the Dragon Claw first—warrior, comrade, and lover.
Both carried the old Valyrian blood: violet eyes, silver-gold hair, faces that made the known world stare.
Yet they wore their beauty in completely different ways.
Daenerys Targaryen was not yet in her bloom, but everyone could already see the legendary beauty she would become—perfect queen material, warm, kind, beloved by highborn and smallfolk alike.
Eleonora Darennis, called the Sword Saintess, was Valyrian steel given flesh: elegant and lethal.
Her silver hair was pinned in a warrior's knot. She was strong—rare muscle for a woman—long nose, firm mouth, jaw set like it had never known doubt. A faint scar on her left cheek marked every battle she had survived.
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