Outwardly, however, she showed no great alarm. The change in her pupils was only a natural reflex; she had long expected that a day like this might come.
She glanced at her empty hip. The hand axe she had always carried was gone, but she still instinctively reached for her waist, only for her fingers to touch an empty belt.
She slowly raised her eyes again and surveyed what remained in the tent. The waterskin was still there, with some food piled nearby. Her hand axe lay behind the food, its blade half-hidden in the bag's shadow, its haft exposed. The leather wrapped around it was just as she had wound it herself.
Someone had clearly tossed it there on purpose. Her gaze finally settled on Viserys and lingered for a long while.
Outside the tent, wind brushed against the oilcloth with a faint sigh. To Asha, it sounded like the distant sea calling to her through the night.
Asha studied the face, its light and shadows shifting in the firelight from outside, and finally spoke. Her voice was far calmer than she had imagined, though her throat was slightly hoarse. "Are you Viserys Targaryen? Why do I feel as though I've seen you before? I don't remember ever visiting the Red Keep in King's Landing."
"Yes, I'm Viserys." His face betrayed little emotion, and his tone was level. "And we have met. I saw a band of Ironborn in Lys before. You were leading them."
But after hearing his answer, Asha said nothing. She did not even look at him again. Instead, she lifted a hand and reached back to press the nape of her neck.
Through her disheveled, matted short hair, her fingertips touched the swollen patch. The skin felt hot, as though a ball of fire had