Chapter 29

GUEST PALACE – BACK COURTYARD – BRAAVOS – MORNING

The sharp ring of steel echoed across the stone courtyard.

Caesar—bare-armed, sweat on his brow—clashed blades with one of the Templars, a knight built like a fortress but graceful as a dancer. The Templar's longsword sang with each swing, measured and patient.

Caesar moved quick, darting in and out with his short sword—light and fast, like an killer's fang. But it wasn't enough.

CLANG.

Steel struck steel again. Caesar staggered back slightly, his breathing quick.

Kai—now bearing the name Kartiga—stood on the steps nearby, arms folded, watching with a calm that never cracked.

"Don't panic, my lord," Kartiga said.

"I'm not," Caesar muttered. "He's just… not giving me a bloody break."

The knight stepped forward with a low chuckle. "The enemy won't, my lord. I've already given you many."

Another swing. Another clash.

"I mean no insult," the knight added, still steady. "But an assassin wins with surprise. With poison. In shadow. Not here. Not in daylight.".

He feinted high, then low. Caesar just barely dodged.

"In open battle," the knight said, "a good knight will cut through ten assassins."

That part—stung.

Not to Caesar, but to Kartiga, who stood a few paces away, arms still crossed but jaw now clenched ever so slightly.

His eyes narrowed. He didn't speak, but the look in them said enough. The knight's words had touched something—shinobi's pride.

The knight, still calm, didn't notice.

...

Footsteps.

A soft gasp echoed from behind the garden wall.

They turned.

From the path came Daenerys, dressed in a white gown that shimmered like morning frost. Her hair was brushed long, her silver braid curled over her shoulder. She moved with poise, but not pride—still unsure how to carry herself in silk.

Two of her female shinobi followed, dressed simply, quietly smiling like handmaids.

Even the knight hesitated.

So did Caesar.

She looked beautiful—and far older than sixteen for a moment, and yet… still just a girl beneath the light.

Caesar blinked, forgetting the sword in his hand.

"Damn…" he whispered.

She walked to his side, lips parted slightly, unsure what to say now that she was here.

He smiled first.

"You wear the morning well, little queen."

The words left his mouth softer than he expected.

She looked up at him—eyes wide, caught off guard.

But she quickly turned her face away, cheeks flushing pink as she hid the look behind a polite smile.

"I was wondering…" she said softly, "if you would come to the market with me. For a walk."

Caesar blinked.

He glanced at Kartiga—the new Kartiga—like a boy caught off-guard, silently asking: Did I say that?

Kartiga stepped close, leaned in, whispered with a hint of amusement.

"You told them yourself… yesterday."

Caesar turned to him with a look: Did I really?

Then turned back to Daenerys.

He gave a small, sheepish smile. "Of course. I'd be honored."

He glanced down at his soaked shirt, the sweat shining under the sun.

"Would you—uh—excuse me just a moment?"

Daenerys gave a quiet, awkward laugh. "Yes. I'll wait."

She stepped back with the Shinobi, posture careful and composed—but her eyes still lingered on him from time to time.

Caesar gave a low sigh and muttered to himself as he turned away: "Bloody wine…"

Kartiga only smirked.

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 BRAAVOS – MARKET STREETS – LATE MORNING

The city bustled.

Bells rang from the canals, fishmongers shouted in Braavosi, and colorful fabrics stretched from stall to stall like wind-kissed sails. The scent of dry fish, herbs, and fresh bread filled the air.

Caesar walked beside Daenerys, their steps slow. Not hurried. Just enough to blend in.

Behind them, Tanaka followed at a distance—quiet, watchful. He joined halfway through the street but said nothing, eyes flicking between alleyways and crowds.

Further back, two maidservants—Shinobi in plain robes—walked as handmaids, their posture relaxed but vigilant.

The street was wide, but between Caesar and Daenerys… the silence was close.

For a while, neither spoke.

They watched performers juggle daggers. Listened to the clack of merchant coins. Daenerys paused once to admire a mask on display, white with painted flames, but said nothing.

Caesar glanced at her now and then.

She noticed.

She tried not to show it.

She kept her chin forward, her steps polite—but he saw the way her fingers tightened slightly at her side.

He wasn't surprised.

She was young.

Sixteen. Curious. Proud.

But still wary of the man who had taken her from her brother's side.

Yet she was bold enough to ask him to walk with her.

And he admired that.

So finally, he spoke—off-topic. Light, but not careless.

"Do you wish to go back home?"

She didn't answer right away.

Her eyes didn't leave the market street ahead.

Then he clarified, slower this time.

"Back to Dragonstone. The land you were born in."

A pause.

Then she said, simply: "I do."

He nodded once. Looked out at the canal beside them.

She turned slightly. "And you? Where are you from?"

His breath left him in a slow exhale.

"So far away," he said. "Too far to be bothered with."

She looked at him, but didn't press.

The same answer the maids had given.

No names. No past.

She looked ahead again.

Then Caesar asked, without much change in tone:

"Do you believe your brother is the true king?"

She hesitated.

Then replied, "He is the last dragon."

Caesar gave a quiet smile.

"Is he?"

She opened her mouth—then closed it.

Didn't know what to say.

They passed a fruit vendor. The man bowed without knowing why.

Caesar kept his eyes ahead.

"Do you want to see him sit the Iron Throne?" he asked.

She stopped walking.

He did too.

The street flowed around them.

She looked down. Then, slowly:

"No," she said. "But… the common people… they're waiting for him."

His reply came faster this time.

"They're not."

She looked at him sharply.

He continued, voice calm.

"Common people don't care what games the high lords play. They just want to live another day. Feed their children. Bury their dead without starving."

He began to walk again.

She followed, quieter now.

But she still said, "Illyrio said they're sewing dragon banners. Praying for his return."

This time his voice softened.

"He's lying."

She stopped again.

He turned to her gently.

"No one is waiting for no one," he said. "The last dragon anyone truly cared about died before you were born."

Her face shifted.

Eyes down.

The fire in her dimmed for a moment. The truth stung—more because she suspected it was true.

Caesar looked away.

Then spoke again, just above a whisper.

"There is hope."

She turned to him slowly.

He looked at her now— Not as a teenage girl.

But as a man who saw something in her that even she had not yet seen.

"A dragon," he said, "can take back what was lost."

He held her gaze.

Then asked:

"Is your brother… the only last dragon?"

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