The man at the center could only be the captain.
He stood a head taller than most of those around him, pale skin touched with an olive cast, features sharp as a chiseled idol. Silver-gold hair brushed his ears, framing eyes of clear turquoise beneath matching brows and lashes.
He was dressed in a fitted beige coat flaring into split coattails, a loose-laced blue linen shirt, grey trousers, dark boots. Leather bracers. Gloves. Nothing ostentatious.
He glanced her way once. Then to the two pirates who had brought her. A hand lifted, wait.
Daenerys held still, watching as the surviving crew of the defeated pirate ship knelt before him. Pleading voices rose in turn. A chair was fetched from the captured ship, set down like a throne. The captain sat, listening.
Ten men begged for their lives. One voice snagged her attention, the man who had cornered her in her cell now bent low, offering his service.
The captain nodded. Even smiled.
When the last man fell silent, he raised his hand. The voices died.
He drew breath to speak and Daenerys heard her own voice cut the air.
"You can't!"
The word rang too loud, shocking her as much as them.
The captain's brows lifted. "Hmm." He motioned her forward.
"And who are you?" His tone was calm. Curious.
"She's some Lyseni girl we caught!" one of the kneeling men said.
The captain's boot caught him in the chest, hard enough to throw him backwards.
"I wasn't asking you." His voice had changed, the calm washed away and replaced with harshness.
The shift made her think of Viserys in his rages.
"I apologize," he said to her, though the edge remained. "You were telling us your name." Around them, the kneeling men kept their eyes down.
"I am… Daenerys Targaryen."
The name drew a ripple.
"Targaryen?" murmured a blonde haired man with a goatee at the captain's side.
"Weren't they the ruined kings of Westeros?" said another.
The man who had manhandled earlier her took an instinctive step back, a movement the captain did not miss.
Lowered his head briefly, listening to the murmurs.
He stepped closer, took her chin in his gloved hand. Studied her face.
"Daenerys Targaryen. That's quite a name. Gums here almost bowed to you." His glance at the man held quiet amusement. "But I've heard many a highborn lady or dockside whore claim to be the lost princess. Last I knew, you were with your brother. The—" his smile sharpened "—what was it? Beggar prince?"
"He hated that name," she said softly. Her eyes burned but no tears came.
"Did he? And where is the beggar prince now?"
"He's dead."
His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Is that so?" The calm returned.
"We found a silk-robed noble dead in his cell," the man who had cuffed her offered.
The captain didn't look away from her. "Any proof beyond a corpse?"
"No. We sold the last of our family's treasures to fund our travels."
"And how am I to confirm your claim?"
"We were invited to stay with a Magister of Pentos. He will vouch for me." She answered, hoping they would ransom her to the Magister. Mayhaps he would take pity on her and pay for her safe release.
"What Magister?"
"Illyrio Mopatis."
The captain kept his eyes on Daenerys, but his voice carried to the kneeling men.
"What colors flew on the ship you took?"
"The cheesemonger's," her tormentor said at once. His voice cracked on the last word.
The captain's mouth curved into a faint smile. Then in one single motion, he drew his sword and took the head of the nearest kneeling man. The head struck the deck with a hollow thud and rolled. Blood steamed against the cool air.
In an instant the deck erupted. Steel rang. Axes rose and heads fell, the smell of blood swelled until the sea breeze could not carry it away.
When it was done, the captain stood among the corpses. His shadow fell long across the "I have no use for you then," he said, his voice calm again.
Daenerys stood rooted, breath shallow, unsure of what just happened.