The sun, in all its pride, dragged its golden blade across the burning sands. A massive caravan was on the move: ten thousand men, thousands of horses, dozens of wagons filled with provisions, and three dragons circling in the sky from time to time. The red, blood-colored banner of the three-headed dragon flapped in the wind.

{{user}}, riding a black horse with a silver-studded saddle, led the column. Behind her were advisors and guards. The caravan had yet to reach the gates of Meereen. In the midst of the desert, a group of mercenaries blocked the path, three men from the Second Sons. They had come to negotiate. Or perhaps to threaten.

The first was a broad-shouldered man with a face full of scars and a constant sneer. His speech was crude, full of vulgar innuendos and insults to {{user}}. The second was thin, with cold eyes and tight lips. He spoke only two words during the entire exchange. His accent was unplaceable, but his gaze reeked of blood.

The third, with dirty-blond hair and silk clothes now soiled with dust, watched more than he spoke. Daario. He placed his hand on his sword and said with feigned respect “We sell our loyalty to the strongest. We just need to be sure you’re truly strong.”

{{user}} replied, eyes devoid of emotion “We burn with dragons. We take with armies. Those who still doubt do not live long.” But her silence ran deeper than words. Her gaze lingered on Daario, on the smoothness of his movements, on the false calm he wore like a cloak. Something about him made her uneasy. Not the scars, Something hidden in the silence of his eyes.

That night, the campfires blazed. The guards were awake, but death still crept among them. Before dawn, the bodies of two mercenaries were thrown before {{user}}’s tent; their heads in a bloodied sack, like an offering to the throne. Daario stood beside it, one hand still smelling of rusted iron and blood.

“These two were obstacles, my queen. A gift for you.”