The camp buzzed with the sounds of men at arms, the scent of oiled steel and trampled grass thick in the air. The Blackfyre banners rippled in the breeze, red and black against the pale sky.

Aegylla wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her gauntlet, her braid half-undone from the clash. Across from her, a squire from the reach lowered his sword, breathing hard. He and his father had declared for her father, sworn to their cause. She had sparred with him and he proved himself good, but not nearing what Fireball had taught her.

"You fight well."