The fire crackled in the center of the pavilion, casting a warm glow over the mismatched crowd of warriors, hedge knights, and sellswords. The air was thick with the scent of roasted boar, sweat, and the bitter tang of Westerosi ale. Aranji sat beside Lord Dagon Wythers, a minor Stormlander lord with a booming laugh and a reputation for breaking bones in the melee.
To Aranji's surprise, he was enjoying himself.
Dagon slammed his mug on the table. "I'm telling you, the man tried to parry my swing with a chicken leg. A bloody chicken leg!"
Aranji chuckled, swirling the last of his drink. "And did it work?"
"Gods, no. I broke his arm and took the leg for myself. Best meal I had that week."
Aranji shook his head, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "You're insane."
Dagon grinned. "And you're still a mystery. You've got the eyes of a ghost and the voice of a monk. Where are you really from?"
Aranji leaned back, letting the firelight dance across his pale features. "You ever heard of Yi Ti?"
Dagon blinked. "Aye. Far east of Qarth, past the Bone Mountains. Land of gold and silk and emperors who think they're gods."
Aranji nodded. "That's the one. I'm from a small clan near the forests north of Yin. We served under the Pearl-White Emperors, long before the Azure Dynasty took the throne. My people were swordsmiths and sealmasters. Modest, but proud."
Dagon raised a brow. "And what in the seven hells brought you here?"
"Storm," Aranji said simply. "I was escorting a trade envoy across the Jade Sea. We were caught in a typhoon. I woke up in the Reach, half-drowned and half-naked."
Dagon laughed. "And now you're here, drinking with a Stormlander and signing up for a melee. The gods have a sense of humor."
Aranji smirked. "If they exist."
Dagon took another swig of ale. "And that sword of yours? Doesn't look like anything I've seen."
Aranji reached into his sleeve and unsealed the Aikuchi with a flick of chakra. The blade gleamed in the firelight—sleek, dark, and humming faintly with energy.
"It's a longsword," he said, handing it over. "Forged in Yi Ti. Stronger than steel. Cuts through almost anything."
Dagon turned it over in his hands, whistling low. "Feels like it could split a knight in half. You sure you're not a prince in disguise?"
"If I were, I wouldn't be drinking this horse piss."
They both laughed again.
Then the tent flap opened.
The laughter died.
Six gold cloaks entered first, armor gleaming, swords at their hips. Behind them strode a man with silver hair, violet eyes, and a presence that silenced the room.
Prince Daemon Targaryen.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His gaze swept the room like a blade, sharp and arrogant. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew he was the best—and dared anyone to challenge it.
He made his way toward the highborn squires and young knights, nodding to a few, ignoring most.
Aranji's eyes narrowed.
He activated his Byakugan.
The world shifted.
Daemon's chakra was unlike anything he'd seen in this world. It wasn't vast, but it was refined—dense, coiled, and burning like a forge. Threads of energy extended from his head and chest, faint but visible. They weren't natural. They were… tethered. Anchored to something beyond him.
"Like a puppet," Aranji thought. "But not controlled. Connected."
He scanned further. The other Targaryens had similar threads—less intense, but present. It was as if their blood carried something ancient. Something that shimmered just beyond the veil of chakra.
"Closer to gods than men," he murmured.
He deactivated his dōjutsu quickly, but not before Dagon caught the flicker of veins at his temples.
The Stormlander glanced at him. "What was that?"
Aranji didn't answer. Just took a slow sip of ale.
Dagon didn't press. "You're a strange one, Aranji of Yi Ti."
Aranji smirked. "And you're loud."
"Damn right I am."
They clinked mugs and drank.
[Image Dagon]
[We are about to get into one of the more important parts]