…
Daemon Targaryen
"M'lord, you need to rest. Pacing around like this will only serve to tear your stitches." Oro hovered near the tent flap, his bruised face pinched with worry. "The Commander is strong. Far stronger than most men. She will not fall in battle with ease."
I ground my teeth, turning on my heel to pace the length of the canvas again. My ribs ached with every sharp pivot, but the physical pain was a distant, dull thing compared to the restless fire in my blood.
"My heart grows weary of this slaughter and its toll, Oro. She is stronger than me, I concede that, but this is war. One cannot take comfort in strength alone."
Outside, the deep, mournful wail of the Qohorik horns had been blaring for the better part of an hour. A general retreat. The sheer weight of the red sea had broken them again.
I shoved past the tent flaps, stepping out into the muddy thoroughfare of the encampment. My bandages were fresh, the worst of my slashes bound tight. I walked with a stiff, unnatural gait, but I could move. Another day or two, and I would be able to swing a sword again, albeit without my full, devastating reach.
The streets near the iron-wrought gates were a river of panicked, screaming sheep. Sellswords, the Unsullied, and Qohorik militiamen alike poured through the bottleneck, trampling through. I spotted the battered, blood-spattered silver armor of the Falling Stars amidst the retreating horde.
I marched directly toward the nearest one.
"M'lord, please wait!" Oro shouted, scrambling through the mud to keep up.
I ignored him, grabbing the retreating sellsword by the shoulder of his dented cuirass. "You there. Where is Ana?" I demanded, my voice cutting easily through the din of the routing army.
The man stumbled, blinking up at me through a mask of sweat and drying gore. He swallowed hard before finding his voice. "She… she is securing the rear with the Vice-Commander. It was a slaughterhouse out there. We barely made it out alive."
His words felt like a dagger twisting in my gut. Ana covering the retreat meant she was facing the absolute brunt of the advancing Roman legions. And I stood here behind the safety of high stone walls, utterly powerless to help her. My hand drifted to the pommel of Dark Sister, my fingers curling around the wire grip, knowing full well I lacked the strength to even raise the Valyrian steel properly.
A new set of horns blared from the killing fields—a sharp, disciplined brass note entirely unlike the Qohorik wails. The panicked crush at the gates suddenly eased.
"The Romans!" a breathless scout yelled from the battlements above. "They stopped! They are halting the march!"
I released a heavy, ragged breath, though the knot of dread in my chest did not fully loosen.
"M'lord," Oro said, gently tugging at my sleeve. "If Marc is with her, she will be safe. They will return. We must get you back to the cot. You are in no condition to be exerting yourself like this."
"Very well," I muttered. I kept my eyes fixed on the dark maw of the city gates until we finally turned back toward the temporary sellsword camps.
Once inside the tent, the pacing resumed. My mind refused to settle.
Deep within my chest, a familiar, phantom heat flared. Caraxes was tugging fiercely on the invisible tether that bound us. He was growing highly agitated. The bond I shared with the Blood Wyrm tethering us; in later years, I had discovered that the profound fulfillment of claiming a dragon also forged a conduit for our rawest emotions. I had devoted years to honing that connection, learning to push my feelings through the bond to soothe or command him. It allowed me to care for him, and it allowed him to know I lived, no matter the distance.
When I had collapsed from my injuries in the mud days ago, I had felt Caraxes thrashing against that connection with murderous, fiery fervour. I had desperately forced a wave of relief and calm down the bond, staying his wrath and keeping him hidden in the hills.
Now, he pulled at the tether again, restless and furious. He had no desire to rot in the damp, dark caves above the Darkwash. I could not fault the beast, for neither did I wish to remain in this goat-worshipping muck of a city.
The heavy canvas flaps rustled open, dragging me violently from my thoughts.
Ana stepped inside. Her silver armor was painted in thick, dark swathes of Roman blood. Gore and grime caked her pale face, obscuring all but her eyes and the striking crimson streak in her braided hair.
I closed the distance between us in three long strides, the ache in my ribs completely forgotten. "Are you whole?"
A tired, genuine smile cracked through the grime on her face. "I am. I was not in the thick of the butchery for the most part, only the closing retreat. I just wanted to see you the moment the gates closed behind me."
I reached out, gently grasping her bloodstained, gauntleted hand. "Let us get you out of this armor and washed. Then you can stay here and tell me every detail of the slaughter."
She smiled clasping my hand "I would like that very much"