The sun beat fiercely on Blackfyre's back, but at that moment, it mattered little to him. He dodged the sharp and swift cuts from the opposing arakh at high speed, while he swung Blackfyre in the air to gain a better position.
"Seems like you're in trouble, Your Majesty," Herrath mocked, watching the duel with his arms crossed. The other Dothraki and Rylon, who were also watching, laughed at his comment.
Aemond smiled inwardly, realizing that no one had noticed he was provoking so many attacks just to tire his opponent out. At the right moment, he pivoted to his left and placed the tip of his sword at Rakharo's neck, almost cutting the beard there.
When he made his move, everyone froze, especially the Dothraki who were not used to his style of combat. He had moved so quickly that they cursed the very act of blinking. Rakharo, on his part, eyed Herrath with suspicion for speaking, believing him to be the cause of his defeat, to which the blonde simply shrugged, amused.
Such combat encounters had become frequent as they spent more time together. They served everyone as a training method, though for the mercenaries, it was costly to adjust to the lack of mercy the Dothraki showed even in training. They always moved several dozen, or even hundreds, of meters away from the camp, where no one could disturb them unless it was an emergency.
"Black Dragon," said an Unsullied in High Valyrian as he approached the warriors, "the Mother of Dragons has requested your presence. She said she will wait for you at the end of the path through the birch forest and the sandstone cliff."
"Thank you," he nodded to the soldier, who simply turned and walked back to the camp at a slow pace. "It would be best not to keep the queen waiting."
He lazily picked up the scabbard of Blackfyre from the ground and sheathed the blade. He said goodbye to the others and walked as quickly as he could to his tent. The desert was heavy with heat at that time, and having been training for long periods always took a toll on his platinum legs.
"What are you studying now?" he asked Edavro as he entered his tent and saw him with his face buried in the pages of one of his old books.
"Haldon told me to read about the conquest of Dorne," the boy responded, quickly getting to his feet and giving a respectful bow. "At dusk, he will make me recount it while teaching me to play Cyvasse."
"I warn you, he is a cheat," Aemond said as he picked up a white shirt of fine fabric from his bed. He then draped a long piece of fabric around his neck, which functioned as a hood, as Ser Jorah had warned them it was not good for their enemies to know where they were. Given the rarity of people with his hair, it was best to cover it.
"Will you go with the queen?" Aemond nodded. "I heard they would be going outside Yunkai to assess their number of men with Ser Jorah."
"I've told you hundreds of times," he recalled, rolling his eyes. "Keep reading; though it may seem boring, the Conquest of Dorne is a crucial fact for the Blackfyre. He attached the scabbard of his sword to his belt and confidently left the tent.
As the Unsullied had indicated, he had to ride through the birch forest and up a steep sandstone cliff to reach Daenerys and Ser Jorah. Both were on horseback, so he stopped his Shadow next to the queen's mare, Silver.
"How many?"
"Five thousand," Dany replied, trying to avoid the arrogant "I told you so" look Aemond was giving her. "Mercenaries, do you know them?"
"The Four Crows among the Crossed Lightning are the Crows of the Storm," he pointed to the right flank where they were lurking. "The Broken Sword are the Second Sons. We've beaten the Company repeatedly; they're not a problem," he concluded, resting his hands on his thighs. "The soldiers in the center are Yunkish, mostly slaves."
"What do you think, Ser Jorah? Can we defeat this army?" the platinum-haired one asked her knight.
"Easily," he nodded. "Their slave soldiers are no match for the Unsullied."
"But not without shedding blood," there had been plenty of blood on the cobblestones of Astapor the day the city fell, though very little of it was his or his own. "We might win this battle, but at that price, we couldn't take the city."
"There is always a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was arrogant and vulnerable. Yunkai is already on guard."
"Ser Jorah is right. What happened in Astapor reached the ears of all Essos. If they do not surrender, they will be as foolish as the Good Masters," she gave a moment for the situation to sink in. "It would be best to talk to them. Traders like to talk."
"And the mercenaries?"
"They are mercenaries, and especially those two companies would break any deal for better pay," she swallowed bitterly at the memory of the last time she fought against them. "Let me talk to them."
"They know you, Aemond," Dany contradicted solemnly. "They will know what to say and how to say it. In contrast, they do not know me. They will be curious, want to see the dragons, and know what I will say. They won't feel threatened by a woman."
"As you wish, but you must keep in mind that the manners of these companies are not the same as those of the Golden Company," he warned. "They have no respect for anything or anyone."
"You may be present if it makes you feel more at ease," she looked at him with patience, though inside she thought he did not believe she was capable of facing mercenaries. "Ser Jorah, send a message to the Yunkish saying I will receive them this afternoon in my tent. Also, invite the captains of the mercenary companies. But not at the same time. The Crows of the Storm at noon, and the Second Sons two hours later."
"As you command."
The dragons turned their horses around and began the ride back. In silence, they rejoined the army. The deep trench surrounding the camp was already halfway dug by the members of the company, and the forests were populated with Unsullied cutting birch branches to sharpen them into stakes.
They made a brief visit to Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied, warning him of the possibility of a battle. Dany insisted that the slaves who surrendered should be spared, while Aemond ordered that any mercenary attempting to escape should be executed. They then continued their route to the camp.
Within the perimeter established by the Unsullied, the tents were set up in neat rows, and the queen's golden pavilion was in the center, followed by Aemond's gray pavilion. A second camp stretched nearby. It was five times larger, more scattered and chaotic; it lacked trenches, tents, sentinels, or enclosures for horses... Those with horses or mules slept next to their animals for fear of theft. Goats, sheep, and hungry dogs roamed freely among the hordes of women, children, and the elderly.
"Do you know their captains?" Daenerys asked once they entered the pavilion.
"Unfortunately," he replied with a sigh. He slowly approached to admire the dragons resting. He would never forget the first time he saw them. They were small, yes, but they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
Drogon, the black and scarlet-scaled one, was the one he liked the least. Since the first time they met, he had acted warily towards his presence. Rhaegal, the green one with bronze flecks, seemed to be indifferent as long as he was not bothered himself, his mother, or his brothers. And finally, Viserion, who was the most beautiful according to Aemond. He had cream-colored scales that easily resembled white in the sunlight, and his horns, wings, and spine were a bright gold. Since their first meeting, he had shown a sweet attachment to Blackfyre, clinging to his shoulder when he rode, allowing his caresses, and protecting him from any contact that wasn't his.
"Would you call them friends?"
"Not exactly," he responded, lowering his head, knowing his relationship with the other mercenaries would not help. He kept thinking as he watched Drogon and Rhaegal curled up sleeping.
"Missandei, what languages do the Yunkish speak, Valyrian?" he asked his companion, who was already inside when they arrived.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the girl said. "It is a different dialect from Astapor, but it is similar enough to understand. The slavers call themselves the Wise Masters."
"Wisest?" Dany sat cross-legged on a cushion; Viserion extended his white and golden wings and flew to her side. "We'll see how wise they are," she concluded as she scratched the scaly head of the dragon, between the horns. She looked at Aemond, who was keeping an eye on the dragons as if he were concerned about them. "Let me talk to them," she asked in High Valyrian. They usually spoke this way when they were together, not to prevent someone else from understanding them, indeed they were sure Missandei spoke it better than both of them, but it was a habit they liked to keep.
"I've already said yes," he responded seriously, turning slightly to look at her. "But as a warning, I might not agree with you."
"Then we should talk about our plans beforehand," she offered. "So, what are the Three Daughters like?"
The queen had finally accepted his advice. He approached his desk and began writing on parchment, which he then gave to Missandei, who, after glancing at it, began preparing her speech.
"I'll tell them about your policy towards slaves," Aemond continued as she focused on her writing. "And how the people of the city would be treated."
"This time I want to speak for myself, and for the dragon's sake," she concluded. "I won't let them make a fool of me."
"Your wish, Your Grace," he said and approached her. He helped her up, then walked with her to the tent's entrance. As he held the flap open, he noticed that the sun was beginning its descent. "Are you ready?"
"Ready," she replied with a determined gaze. "Let's see how wise the Wise Masters are."
The tent was already lit with dozens of candles, and the queen would not enter alone, not if she could help it. Her companion, Missandei, stood behind her, while Aemond, positioned to her left, and Ser Jorah to her right. All were ready for the audience.
The sun was setting, and the desert was beginning to cool down. The first members of the mercenary companies would arrive soon, bringing with them the clamor of their own camp and a promise of violence.
