"And so came the time for a dragon to be offered to a wolf."
A tale in which Robb Stark lives, Daenerys Targaryen is desperate to secure allies, and Rhaegar Targaryen's only living daughter serves as the bargaining chip.
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NAELYRA
THE NIGHT OF THE FEAST
Naelyra watched the blade sink into the wood of the desk as she rolled to the side, falling onto her behind as she stared up at the assassin. She managed to scramble backwards on the cobblestone, trying to place herself out of range for an easy attack.
She watched as he wrenched the blade from the desk, maneuvering the blade from hand to hand with ease. She searched the eyes that stared down at her with calm assessment, dark pools of contemplation and void of true drive. She wondered if the man was a mercenary or an old foe, but he did not appear to be the latter.
He was hired, Naelyra thought, he does not fight with passion, but with the need to complete a task.
Her hands reached the wardrobe behind her as she lifted herself up, clutching onto the furnitureas she watched him place a foot forward, lazily twirling the blade between nimble fingers, watching her with amusement.
He thought she was some meek, helpless princess that he would kill quickly, swiftly, and without much fight. Her fists curled at the thought, clenching her jaw tightly as she waited for his first move.
He swung again with surprising force, catching the wardrobe as she ducked down, skimming his side as she darted out of the way. She gathered the skirts of her dress, cursing the long train as it prevented mobility. She quickly assessed what she could do to defend herself without a weapon, seeing the wooden tray that had been left with a porcelain tea cup on it from the night before.
She dove for it quickly as the man advanced, throwing the glass off and causing it to shatter against the stone floor. She held up the tray as he plunged the knife down, watching it implant itself into the board, nearly impaling her in the eye as she stared up at the blade inches away from her face.
She grasped onto the handles tightly, delivering a swift kick to his abdomen as she pulled the tray back, the knife still firmly buried to the hilt. The man stumbled back but did not fall, granting Naelyra enough time to wrench the blade from the tray and equip it into her hand.
She could not read his expression, but he clearly looked disgruntled at the situation. Nevertheless, he pulled another blade from his leg holster, waiting for her movement. The silver haired girl watched his footwork, realizing that it was similar to the quintessential Braavosi fighting style. He did not appear to have mastered the Water Dance -- which was nearly impossible to do without years of training or being raised to fight as such -- but he seemed familiar with it, indicating that he had spent his time there, but was not born and raised within the Free City.
This meant her approach must be different, for he was not a Westesori man, who were often brash and aggressive in their fighting, letting rage drive them instead of calculative attacks. She was grateful to have learned from the Sand Snakes and the Dornish in general as they favored swiftness and agility over brute force.
