Heat did not tire him.
Nothing did anymore.
He stood in the outer yard stripped to the waist, dusk skin gleaming with sweat that had more to do with habit than need. The training posts were arranged in a half-circle around him—thick oak beams sunk deep into packed sand, scarred by years of blades and practice strikes.
He held the arakh Oberyn had given him years ago. For personal usage it was definitely smaller now.
As by thirteen he was taller than most grown men in the estate. By fifteen he stood a full seven feet, shoulders broad as a doorframe, arms corded with dense, unnatural muscle, that alone made his presence fill the space that many could not replicate, and he enjoyed that without apology.
At first, he'd thought it simply fantastic fortune. Abnormal genetic markers. Along with a hefty diet since birth. But no, he begun to remember other lives, not in their entirety but clear enough.
He remembered towers of metal that scraped polluted skies. He remembered rifles that spat blue-white plasma. He remembered standing behind barricades of alloy and polymer and "spamming fireball". Several lives, spanning across the ages.
And now A Song of Ice and Fire
He rolled his shoulders, letting out a sigh, as thought back to the time he tried to cast a couple spells once he was regaining his memories. He lamented the unsuccessfulness attempts as he found not a lick of it in his system, he never thought he would miss the days of waiting small cooldowns between spells more than now. As for all he had now was just muscle.
Well not that in its entirety, muscle, inhuman speed and what he felt like an inexhaustible reserve of stamina.
He smiled faintly knowing within this setting he more than blessed. "I suppose I'll have to make do," he murmured to himself.
A stablemaster's shout carried across the yard.
The wagon had stalled at the far gate.
One of the draft horses had gone lame in the heat, foam lathering its flanks as it strained uselessly against the load of grain sacks bound for market.
Men cursed. One kicked the wheel. Another tugged at the reins as if anger would solve anything.
He sheathed his arakh and walked toward them.
They noticed him at once. Their curses died in their throats.
"Boy," the stablemaster began, then faltered. Deimos saw the correction flicker across the man's face. He was no boy. Not anymore. "We've got it."
The wagon gave a dangerous creak as the horse stumbled again, legs trembling beneath the strain.
Deimos did not answer, as proceeded to past by them. The animal's eye rolled white when he reached for the harness, but his hands were steady, deliberate. He unhitched the horse piece by piece, easing the tension from leather and iron until it shuddered free.
Then he bent.
His fingers closed around the wagon's front beam. The wood was rough beneath his palms yet it wasn't genuinely not that uncomfortable so he pulled.
The beam slightly groaned in protest along with the wheels jolting once, and then the load shifted and began to roll smoothly.
He walked forward alone, dragging the laden wagon through the gate and into the courtyard beyond. His boots carved shallow furrows in the packed sand, each step measured, unhurried.
Behind him, the men only stared.
His breathing did not change.
When he reached the stable, he lowered the wagon with careful control, easing it down as gently as a mother setting a babe into its cradle.
"Your welcome by the way," he said.
No one laughed. They simply stood there, silent and wide-eyed, as if unsure what, exactly, they had just witnessed.
It should have been enough.
The fear. The awe. The space people gave him when he passed through the surrounding area. He felt it in the way voices dipped, in the way shoulders turned aside. It was recognition. It was respect, along with... fear.
But as always some men were no better than a rabid beast no matter the time. Captain Belmond's son Arlan had always looked at him envy and hatred. For reasons that he for the life of him couldn't truly understand why.
Arlan could generally be perceived as conventionally attractive in a soft, boyish way. Quick with a grin that showed perfect teeth.. well for this time, he was also quick witted in way that made others gravitate towards him. Lysa being one of them as she had once stood at Arlan's side, laughing at those same jests.
Until she hadn't. She had come to see Deimos by chance once taking a late during a late evening trip to the kitchens. She had not known what came over he as at first she caressed his arm as if, discovering a new species.
"You're different," she had whispered with unrestrained awe.
He had not denied it. There had been nothing to deny.
What followed had not required coaxing or promises. He had not asked. He had not persuaded. He had simply been himself.
And she had crossed the line of her of her own will. But what could he say she came to fuck with a real dornishman.
Arlan had never believed that also he was not one to take a slight silently, especially one to that degree.
They waited near the dunes beyond the walls of his home. Deimos had known they were there before they stepped out. Five of them.
Arlan and four of his yes men, sons of lesser stewards. well built, by ordinary measures. The sun sagged low as they blocked his path. "Thought you'd take what isn't yours bastard?" Arlan called a sick amount of venom seeping into each word.
Deimos stopped. The wind tugged at his hair, cool against his neck. "First of all, had I known she had been involved with you I would of went about my day, I fail to see the reason why its my fault that she came upon me, perhaps its due to many of your inadequacy's no? ," he said evenly.
Arlans anger seemed to surpass of what he though was possible. Such amount of envy in such a tiny little guy.
"You.. you bastard get him!" screamed arlan
The first blow came from the left. He heard the rush of air before he felt it.
A club struck his shoulder.
The wood shattered.
Splinters rained down. The young man holding the broken haft stared at it as though it had betrayed him ignoring the searing pain .
For a heartbeat, there was silence but not to face total humiliation they rushed at him. All at once. It was so disappointing, sad even.
A wrist flashed toward him with a blade. He caught it mid-swing and squeezed. Bone gave way like kindling. The scream had barely formed before Deimos drove his elbow into the attacker's throat, dropping him into the sand.
Another leapt for his back.
Deimos reached over his own shoulder without looking, seized a fistful of tunic, and hurled the body forward. The young man struck the ground hard enough to leave the ground bloodied leaving himself struggling for breath.
Arlan came at him with a sword he could tell had been real training there. Yet he had stepped aside and drove his forehead forward.
Teeth scattered across the sand like thrown dice. leaving Arlan staggered. But it wasn't enough as he procced to kick the pricks knee, shattering it on impact. The fight lasted less than a minute.
When it ended, four young men lay in the dunes, whimpering, or staring in mute horror at limbs that no longer looked the same.
Arlan tried to crawl away, dragging himself with his hands. Deimos stepped forward and placed a hand on his back. He pushed him gently into the sand.
"You mistook strength for stupidity," he said quietly. Arlan sobbed never thinking the bastard had such strength he was no brute he was a demon.
Removing his hand, he walked back towards his home without looking behind him. By morning, the event of what had happened was circulating or to say the least a heavily bastardized version. Brigands beyond the dunes, they claimed. Masked men. An ambush. With him arriving in time to drive them off.
No one questioned it too closely. The truth lingered anyway, heavy and unspoken. After that, when he passed through shadow city's lesser tended areas, conversations died mid-sentence. Mothers pulled their sons aside. And patrolling guards averted their gaze as they hadn't seen him.
His name began to mean something, not just size, not just strength... but Dread