The guard didn't argue. He looked at Cade with a flicker of something like superstitious dread before signaling the others. They threaded through the labyrinth of the camp, a sprawling city of horse-hide and wood. Everywhere Cade looked, there was the Dothraki—thousands of them, a restless, screaming tide of bronze skin and oiled steel.
To an outsider, this was the most terrifying army on earth. To Cade, it was a field of unplowed earth. All they needed was the right seed. All they need is my blood.
They shoved him through the final press of bodies. The noise of the camp fell away, replaced by the scent of jasmine and the salt spray of the Narrow Sea. This was a walled garden, silent and opulent, a world away from the dust.
And there they were.
A mountain of a man sat on a high-backed chair, his black braid so long it coiled in his lap, thick with bells that gave a discordant chime as he shifted. Beside him stood a pale, spindly creature in purple silks—Viserys Targaryen. He looked like a blade made of glass: sharp, but fragile enough to shatter if you breathed on him too hard.
Then there was the girl.
Daenerys looked impossibly small in the center of the madness. Her silver hair was a halo in the sun, but her violet eyes were wide with a exhaustion that went deeper than bone. She looked less like a princess and more like a ghost.
Illyrio Mopatis, a man who seemed to be made entirely of sweat and expensive fabric, faltered mid-sentence as Cade was dragged in.
"Who is this?" Viserys snapped. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword—a performer's gesture. "Another beggar come to grovel for the dragon?"
Cade didn't look at the guards. He didn't even look at the Khal. He fixed his eyes on the two men who thought they were the smartest people in the garden.
"I've been listening," Cade said. He spoke the Common Tongue, his voice cutting through the humid air like a cold wind. "The deal. The girl for a crown. It's a bad trade."
Viserys sneered, his lip curling. "And why should I care for the opinion of a stray dog found in the dirt?"
Cade's laugh was short and jagged. He gestured toward the horizon. "You think he's crossing that? The Poison Water? Your army won't sail it, and their horses won't drink it. You've sold your sister for a promise that will rot in the sun."
"The Khal has sworn—" Illyrio began, his voice oily.
"He doesn't even have a word for 'throne' in his language," Cade cut him off. He felt the ripple of unease through the guards. Daenerys looked up, her gaze locking onto his. "You're waiting for an army that isn't coming, Viserys. You're just a boy in silk playing at being a king."
Viserys went crimson, his face twisting. "I am the Blood of the Dragon!"
"You're a beggar," Cade countered. He opened his palm, letting the faint, thrumming glow of the scar catch the light. "If you want a throne, you don't need a Khal. You need something that doesn't care about water."
Drogo stood.
The bells in his hair hissed as he stepped down from his chair, his hand closing around the hilt of his arakh. He didn't know the words, but he knew the tone of a challenge. The air in the garden thickened.
Cade felt the weight of the man's presence. Instead of flinching, he reached out with his mind—not a suggestion, but a blunt force.
Sit.
The command hit Drogo like a physical blow. The Khal staggered, his eyes narrowing in a flash of pure, animal confusion. He didn't fall, but he stopped. The bloodriders shifted, hands flying to their weapons as a murmur of fear went through them.
Cade didn't wait for him to recover. He turned to Daenerys.
"They've sold you a lie," he said, stepping closer. Up close, she looked even younger. "Everyone here talks about you like you're a horse to be traded. Your brother wants his chair. Illyrio wants his gold. Drogo wants a prize. Has anyone asked you what you want?"
"I... I have to," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I am a Targaryen."
"You want to go home?" Cade leaned in. "I can take you. I can put you on that chair myself. But I don't serve names, and I don't serve kings." He held out his hand, the scar pulsing with a dull, rhythmic heat. "I'm asking you. Not them. Do you want to be a Khaleesi in a tent, or someone who can never be sold again?"
Viserys lunged. "She wants what I tell her—!"
Cade didn't even turn. He flicked his hand, and an invisible wall of pressure slammed into Viserys, hurling him backward. He crashed into a table of fruit and wine, collapsing in a heap of shattered porcelain and stained silk.
Steel hissed from scabbards. Drogo roared, the sound primal and murderous.
Cade never broke eye contact with the girl. "Choose," he said. "Reach out—or don't."
Daenerys looked at her brother sobbing in the dirt. She looked at the towering Khal. Then, with a breath that seemed to shake her entire frame, she reached for Cade's hand.
Drogo lunged, his arakh a silver blur aimed straight for Cade's throat.
Cade acted on pure instinct. He shoved Daenerys behind him and, in one violent motion, tore into his own palm with his teeth.
CRACK-BOOM.