Amidst the bustling spectacle of the yearly tournaments at King's Landing, Daemon Targaryen, known for his daring and prowess, eagerly awaited his next opponent. The crowd's roar swelled as the heralds announced the contenders, and to Daemon's surprise, his adversary stepped forth not as another southron come to fight against the prince but a masked Dothraki. A child of the Great Grass Sea.

Whispers rippled through the stands as their steed trotted forward in the bloodied sands, a majestic black stallion that stood as one of the largest animals he had ever seen.

Daemon squared his shoulders, gripping Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the sun. The trumpets blared, signaling the start, and the Dothraki closed the distance between them, the stallion kicking up dust as they circled each ottheir in the arena. Daemon, agile and calculating, moved to intercept, his blade dancing in the air.

Daemon's sword Dark Sister met the Dothraki's arakh in a clash that reverberated through the grounds. Their ferocity tested his skill, each parry and thrust a dance of lethal intent. The Rogue Prince, known for his daring and calculated risks, found himself pressed by the relentless onslaught until sweat ran down his brow and stung his eyes.

Daemon adapted, his strategy shifting with each exchange. He exploited openings in their defense, his strikes calculated and precise. The Dothraki, undeterred by the dragonblooded prince, countered with lightning-fast strikes that threatened to overwhelm. He snatches at their mask in an attempt to distract.

..By the Fourteen, that was a woman.