"Again?"
Daenerys caught her breath and asked immediately.
His little sister was growing up day by day, but deep down she was still that same mischievous, competitive girl.
That was mostly because he had done everything he could to shield her from the ugliest, darkest, and bloodiest parts of this life.
"Think about your advantages," Eleonora reminded her. "Keep them in mind, and don't hesitate when you use them."
"Of course." Viserys took up his stance. "This time you attack first. Remember what Eleonora said—you can do it."
Viserys had never intended to turn Daenerys into a warrior like Eleonora.
Eleonora seemed born for the sword. Every movement she made was effortless and graceful.
Daenerys had to work much harder. She would never become a second "Sword Saintess," and he had never expected her to.
He taught her to fight only so she could keep her young body strong and healthy.
Even though their situation felt relatively stable for now, she was still a Targaryen exile in a foreign land—and the rightful princess of another. That combination was extremely dangerous.
It was exactly why they had been forced to flee Braavos years ago.
After Ser Willem Darry died, the servants had tried to throw the Targaryen siblings out. It only stopped when Viserys killed their leader.
"Brother, I won't go easy on you," the girl said with a smile, switching her wooden sword to her right hand.
"Never tell your enemy what you're about to do," Eleonora repeated for the thousandth—or ten-thousandth—time. "Let him think you're just a weak little girl holding a sword for the first time. Scream if you have to. That fear can give you a real edge. Sometimes it's enough to kill a true warrior."
"Exactly," Viserys said.
Impulsive as always, Daenerys simply nodded like she was shooing away an annoying fly.
She launched her first thrust straight at his face.
Against a drunk, arrogant fool or an assassin who didn't expect resistance, that strike might have been decisive. But Viserys deflected it easily and immediately went on the offensive.
He wanted to end this quickly. The sun was already high. Jorah should be arriving with the Volantene envoys soon.
His attacks grew sharper. Daenerys quickly realized she was losing.
But this princess never begged for mercy from a victor. In a flash, she scooped up a handful of sand with her free left hand and flung it straight at Viserys's face, a triumphant grin already spreading across her lips.
Not bad. She had been paying attention to Eleonora's lessons.
Viserys dodged the dirty trick without effort, knocked the practice sword from her hand, and sent her sprawling into the dust of the training field.
Another round. Another victory for him.
Then, unable to resist, he gave her a few light whacks on the backside with the flat of his blade—one, two, three—as if making sure the lesson stuck.
"That… that's not how a knight fights!" Daenerys laughed, fully aware of how ridiculous her position was.
"We're not playing at knighthood here," Viserys laughed with her. "We fight to win. Any means necessary. You were the one who taught me that first."
"Exactly how it should be," Eleonora agreed. "Win first, then pay the singers a few coppers to make it sound pretty. Throwing sand was a good idea, but you celebrated too early. Laugh after you've killed your enemy."
Viserys stood first and helped his sister up.
Daenerys brushed the dirt off herself and gripped her steel sword again.
"One more time!"
"Daenerys, enough. The Volantenes will be here soon. We need to greet them properly."
"Please, just one more before they arrive! I'm begging you…"
That familiar pleading tone brought back memories from Daemon Blackfyre's childhood.
How many times had he heard that voice? How many times had he given in?
To a large extent, it was because of this girl that Daemon Blackfyre had not only accepted his mysterious rebirth, but had truly begun to live this strange new life.
Everyone he once knew—friends and enemies alike—was long dead. His sons, his grandsons, all gone.
The house he had founded ended in failure, conspiracy, lost wars, and death, its final chapter written on the Stepstones.
The Blackfyre cause was dead, reduced to a hollow footnote in the margins of history books written by the victors.
When a man's entire history and legacy had turned to dust, did he still have any right to walk among the living?
Wouldn't it be easier to fall on a dagger and end the gods' cruel joke?
It was his young sister who had kept him here. Who made him stay, no matter what.
He had grown genuinely attached to this little girl who needed help and protection. She would sneak into his room, curl up beside him, hold him tight, and beg for stories.
He couldn't refuse her. Couldn't send her away. So he told her stories.
He told her about the wonders of Westeros—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the hills of the Westerlands, the black stone walls of Dragonstone.
He spoke of Old Valyria's glory, that civilization built on blood and fire, and destroyed by blood and fire.
He told her of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, of wise King Jaehaerys, of the brave brothers of the Night's Watch.
He spoke of two Daemons—the Cruel Prince Maegor and the ambitions of the Blackfyre Pretender.
Night after night, Daemon realized how precious this girl had become to him.
He loved seeing her smile. Loved hearing her laugh.
After Darry died, he understood clearly: without him, this child wouldn't survive. Her best fate would be a Lysene brothel. Her worst, a corpse rotting in a ditch.
He couldn't abandon her to danger, and he refused to take the coward's way out. Too many ghosts waited for him on the other side—the fallen of Redgrass Field and countless other battles. Their deaths could not be meaningless.
Since the gods had sent Daemon back to this world, he would seize this second chance. For his children and friends, for his comrades and brothers-in-arms, and for this new sister he had come to love as his own.
He had accepted another man's name without shame and called himself "Viserys Targaryen."
During their years wandering the Free Cities, Daenerys had grown up fast—far faster than her age suggested.
When her brother began his dangerous life as a sellsword, she had no choice but to follow him from camp to camp.
He and Eleonora protected her fiercely—shielding her from men who wanted to harm young girls, from disease, from the endless violence.
Now she trained with the sword, studied history, languages, and courtly manners. Not long ago she had even embroidered a personal banner for him.
If everything went well, one day she would become his queen.
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