Chapter 1: A Summons
Notes:
All rights for the series naturally belong to GRRM and those involved in making the shows House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Naera did not like the sea. She preferred the skies.
Yet, obligations were obligations, and appearing before the Court when summoned was necessary. It was necessary to her, however, to spite her father by appearing as late as possible, or reasonable. So, she danced from free city to free city, port to the harbour, finding a sane way to delay her arrival just by another day, if it ensured she have the last word.
From Naath, there was a direct ship to King’s Landing with a stop at nightfall by the Sunspear. She would have taken that ship, but, oh, she could hardly spend more than a moment in Dorne, she was sure before she would be saddened by the memories it brought her.
So, she took a different ship, one headed towards Mereen, and there, she refused one for Volantis, instead opting for one that went to Yunkai, and then, she sailed for Braavos, where she spent half a year in the House of Black and White—not at all by her own choice, of course, before she sailed back to Volantis, smuggled a slave whore out and spent the rest of her journey to Dragonstone in her embrace. She had been fun until she tried stealing from her.
She left her shortly before arriving at Dragonstone and flew her way to King’s Landing. She wouldn’t want to make her father wait, of course. She wondered what he wished to tell her, something he doesn’t think will offend or bother her, so it probably will offend and bother her, but she couldn’t presume. He could be proposing another matter of marriage for political gain, or perhaps he meant to question her on her journeys. It could be anything. Now that she was back in court, there was much to be done.
Many people do not struggle to find faults in the ways the Valyrians, and by extension, the Tararyens, lived their lives. People are almost eager to express their disgust at their “inhuman and incestuous” ways of marriage and tradition, but it is important to remember the unofficial words of the Targaryens, that read true even to their ancestors of Essos, that “Targaryens, like their dragons, answered to neither gods, nor men.”
One may argue that it is right that they do not. In fact, who was ever willing to stand up to them? No god, old or new, had ever scorned the Targaryens during their long and sometimes bloody reign over Westeros, but some followers of the Religion of the Lord of Light in Essos, particularly in Asshai, tend to credit the Doom of Old Valyria as the outcome of their gods’ fury over their “inhuman and incestuous” ways. But, the Doom isn’t relevant to this story, and thus, it shan’t be discussed in length.
The Targaryens were a dynasty descended from the greatest civilisation in the world, and their kings oft ruled with the same grace and servitude as is expected. That is not true for all their rulers, however, as a single mention of Maegor the Cruel, son of Visenya, dismisses any claims that the Targaryen reign was a peaceful one.
The subject of this documentation revolves around the reign of King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar (though, one may make an argument that considering the majority of the Rhoynar population is concentrated in the territory of Dorne, which is not a part of the Seven Kingdoms as of yet, the titling of the King as the Ruler of the Rhoynars is as true as calling him the King of Volantis, as a minuscule fraction of his true subjects were Volantean), and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms (In reality, Six) and Protector of the Realm, and the troublesome matter of his successorship.
When King Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of his Name, also known as the Old King during the final years of his reign, lost his son, heir and hand, Prince Baelon, he had appointed a Great Council, in the year 101AC, to settle the dispute over his succession. The Great Council’s decision had been followed in the year 103 AC, when the Old King perished, putting the Old King’s second son Baelon's son, Viserys, over his heir's daughter, Princess Rhaenys.
King Viserys was, by all accounts and evidence, a quiet and traditional man, who loved his family very much. His younger brother, Prince Daemon, was a constant source of frustration for him, but he refused to let his deeds shadow the pact of fire and blood between the brothers. With his first wife, Queen Aemma, King Viserys had two daughters, Princess Rhaenerya, who he later named heir to scorn his brother, and Princess Naera, who better donned the title of Knight than she did princess.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
Naera was dressed in white, her silver armour gleaming in the noon sun, her silver-white cape fluttering in the breeze when she stepped into the Red Keep. She walked slowly, sauntering, delaying and stalling, as she made conversation with wet nurses and maids, several of whom rushed away at her words and stares, and was even staring out a window, out to the shit-stained streets of King’s Landing, before a Kingsguard was sent to ‘escort’ her to the Throne Room.
His name was Redmond, she learned, Ser Redmond. He had a head full of blond hair and clever green eyes that squinted when observing something in the distance. He was a reader, then, or perhaps damaged his eyes in some other way. It didn’t matter, Naera decided, when Redmond began staring at her armour with a look that neared disdain.
She wouldn’t make a friend of him, then, because she knew that look very well. She also knew his thoughts. Pretentious bitch, he thought, probably, acting as though you earned it when you know you haven’t.
Naera smiled at him, “Would you spar with me later on?” This always caught them off-guard. They reached the door to the Throne Room, the quiet murmuring of people inside making Naera frown. More, and more curious. What did her father want this time?
“Indeed, princess,” Redmond answered after a beat.
“Oh, there’s no need for formalities—Naera is fine. At dawn, tomorrow, then?” She smiled, a thing of dazzle and charm, with the way her eyes crinkled despite her young age.
Redmond smiled politely, hesitantly, his eyes wandering—fake. Naera pulled at the door handles softly, and walked in.
Throughout her life, Princess Naera earned herself many titles, the White Night, the Princess of Dragonstone, the Wanderer of Asshai, the Silver Queen of Highgarden, and much, much more. Her journey through life began on less than glorious terms.
After the death of her mother, Queen Aemma, her father’s second wife, Alicent Hightower, insisted that King Viserys send Princess Naera to Dorne as a way to heal the rift between Dorne and the remaining kingdoms. This was probably for Queen Alicent’s personal gain, as the young Princess Naera had been very hostile towards the Queen, even more so than her childhood friend, Princess Rhaenyra.
King Viserys agreed and sent Princess Naera to spend her youth in Dorne, set to wed the future Prince of Dorne, Prince Raiden Martell. During her time in Dorne, Naera had transformed from the little girl who hid behind the walls of the Red Keep to a lady warrior, having mastered every style from the lance to the water dance. She had been knighted by the reigning Prince of Dorne at the age of sixteen and her knighthood had been recognised by her father, King Viserys I, who proudly proclaimed her the “Second Visenya.”
As a knight, Naera often partook in tourneys and jousts, and although the tourneys of Dorne were far more violent than the ones she had witnessed in King’s Landing, she emerged victorious more often than not. With her white hair and silver armour, her white capes and her silver weapons, she quickly came to be known as the ‘Silver Knight of Westeros’. Adding to that moniker was her dragon with which she had been bonded since birth—Wisetone, a sun-white scaled dragon with a calm temperament to match her calculated, though oft impulsive also, self.
By all accounts, and none more convincing than her many, many letters to Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Naera had been very happy with Prince Raiden, often mentioning how he loved spending time with her in the Water Gardens, writing, “He combs through my hair as I read to him, the feats of Baelon the Dread, or the trade routes in Astapor…” She also wrote, “His eyes enamour me, and he sings to me every dusk—he never bores, though I do not know how.”
The princess also records her losing her maidenhead to Prince Raiden long before their marriage, the deed rumoured to have taken place on the “most ordinary of days and nights, when nothing was strange, not even the moans of a Targaryen princess in Sunspear”, as spoken by the Dornish Court’s fool.
Tragedy struck early, however, when just days before they were to travel to King’s Landing for their royal wedding, Prince Raiden fell ill and died, well within a fortnight. Several in Dorne had the suspicion that King Viserys had commanded his daughter to poison the Prince, but other accounts suggest that Princess Naera had been far too consumed by grief to have done it. There are a few who suggest, strangely, that Naera had taken it upon herself to end the life of Prince Raiden because she grew weary of his calm and “fairy-talesque” personality, wanting someone who could challenge the fire and blood within her instead.
No definitive evidence proves any of the above-noted suspicions, however, it is curious how at the tender age of Eighteen, simply months after her intended’s death, she rode upon her Dragon, Wisetone, and fled to Essos.
In a letter to her sister prior to her departure, Princess Naera wrote that her reason for her journey to Essos was “to grieve, for no cause and no reason can be purer held than that borne out of pain, dear sister”.
Her journeys in Essos are far better recorded by her, in her journals stored at the Citadel in Oldtown, appropriately titled, Times in Essos, by Princess Naera Targaryen, published across seven volumes featuring her adventures in Volantis, Slaver’s Bay, Qarth, the Dothraki’s Grass Sea, Asshai and the Shadowlands, Lys and Naath, as well as her final journey in Essos, which in fact took place years after her return to King’s Landing, to Valyria.
Each of these volumes is heavy with detailed writings of the climate, vegetation, fauna and societies, as well as customs, of the places she visited. Her journal of Valyria, though at times deranged and misleading, provides some of the only knowledge of the vegetation of Old Valyria possessed by the world, consisting of the proper diagrams and descriptions expected of a scholar, which she was revered as.
In her personal diaries and letters to acquaintances around Essos and Westeros, she detailed a string of love affairs she had undergone, ranging from a Dothraki warlord to a sweet noblewoman, daughter of a wealthy Yunkish merchant. When word of her endeavours reached the Westerosi court, however, Queen Alicent Hightower was outraged, insisting upon Princess Naera’s behaviour as being destructive of the reputation of House Targaryen. While the King and his appointed Heir, Princess Rhaenyra, were not particularly bothered by her deeds, King Viserys had been convinced by his second wife to remove Princess Naera from the line of succession, something largely fought against by the Blacks. Princess Naera, however, did not learn of this ordeal until years after, when she returned to King’s Landing,
Princess Naera never truly ‘fled’ from her family, instead keeping her sister well informed of where she went and what she did, and she even wrote to her father, over a dozen times, though he never did respond. Her journey in Naath was cut short by an imperial order sent for her, commanding her to return to court effective immediately, and with full honours. She was furious.
Thus, it is understandable why Princess Naera, who had written to her father of her journeys, to her sister of her triumphs against Dothraki Bloodriders in the Great Grass Sea, or against revered slave-soldiers in the fighting pits of Mereen, and had never received a response from the first, but had been suddenly, unexpectedly, ordered to return to King’s Landing, a city she couldn’t even call home, for no cause explained, reacted as she did.
Princess Naera delayed her journey by several days by taking backwater routes and unnecessary detours. In the end, she arrived in King’s Landing nearly a year after she had been summoned, when the journey should have taken no longer than a fortnight.
Upon her arrival, however, her ire grew.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
Her shoes hammered against the marble floors of the throne room, dozens of people within going silent as she walked. Her father sat on the throne of swords, his face contorted in tire and body withering with age. A brown-haired woman, dressed in lavish green and gold stood by his side—Alicent Hightower, as did another woman, her hair white and pure, her eyes lilac and smiling—Rhaenyra.
Naera approached the steps before the throne, two White-cloaks, Kingsguards, standing on either side, hands ready at the hilts of their swords, ready to protect the royal Family. Had they forgotten that she was the Royal family?
“Your grace,” Naera addressed with narrowed eyes, a part of her anticipating fury, or abhorrence, but nothing in between. King Viserys raised his chin on his hand, bandaged in a shade of linen matching his skin. The bandaging looked fresh, changed recently.
“What took you so long?” He asked, baffled, eyes wide and fingers outstretched. A flash of a smile bloomed into a grin. Father. He walked down the steps to the throne, examining her with a teasing eye. “My daughter,” he rested his hands on her shoulders, on her cold armour, “You have grown.”
“Considering that you last saw me when I was, well, twelve, I suppose that I have.” Naera smiled back, “you have aged.” King Viserys laughed, something that reversed his life a decade or two, and embraced his daughter.
“Princess Naera Targaryen, the Silver Knight,” said Viserys, “my daughter, how have you been?” Naera smiled, something of joy and recognition, definitely of pride and achievement bursting through her at her father calling her by the name she had earned.
“I believe that there will be plenty of time for that later, your grace,” Alicent interrupted the moment, granting Naera a diplomatic smile, one devoid of any meaning. “You should tell your daughter why she has been summoned,” Alicent smiled again, but there was joy in this smile. It made Naera’s skin crawl.
She stared back at her father, who glanced off at meeting her eyes. His hands dropped from her shoulders, as did his smile from his lips. Father, Naera wanted to sigh. She couldn’t.
“There will be time for that, your grace,” Rhaenyra interrupted, sensing the sudden tension that engulfed them. Naera narrowed her eyes at Alicent, knowing full well that the only reason behind her pressuring her father to reveal his intentions in court was to illicit a response out of her. Whatever their plans were, she wasn’t going to like them. “I believe Princess Naera is exhausted after her journey.”
“Yes, you are right,” Her father beamed again, “We shall dine in my solar tonight, that shall be for the best,”
The political scene Princess Naera returned to, after most of her childhood spent in the liberal calm of Dorne, and all her adulthood in the free lands of Essos was one of tricks and deceit. During her long conversation with her sister upon returning, Princess Naera learned of the sharp divide the noble lords and court officers had classified themselves with—the Greens, supporting Queen Alicent’s claim that her son, Prince Aegon, was the better heir to the Iron Throne, and the Blacks, supported Princess Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, which had been formally ratified by the King also. She learned of the controversy around Princess Rhaenyra’s children, though her sister did not admit to having had an affair. She wrote, in a journal entry that afternoon, “Rhaenyra lies, I can tell—but I do not fault her.”
One crucial thing she had learned was that she had been removed from the line of succession, but by all accounts, the Princess did not agonize over it, nor did she blame her father for his decision. She only stated to her old friends from King's Landing, such as Lady Elysabeth Tyrell, in a letter, that she “had no need or want for the throne.”
The first few hours she spent in Westeros were enough for her to acclimate herself to the society, as she had spent years doing just so in the free cities. She left behind her armour and weapons and donned the obvious black and red of her house when the royal family convened for the family dinner.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
Notes:
This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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Chapter 2: Civility
Summary:
Naera finally learns of her father's reason for summoning her to King's Landing, and she is NOT happy about it.
Chapter Text
Naera hated Aegon.
From the first word the boy spoke to her, she knew that she wasn’t going to stand him for long. “Do they even knight women?” He had asked, and Naera had been civil. It was a frequent question. His second question, however, had been out of line.
“Did you really fuck a savage war lord?” Viserys and Alicent roared at his impudent words, but it wasn’t ire that hit Naera, but reminiscence. Khal Roq’ko had been a passionate lover. Savage, yes, but never to her…eh…usually, not to her. She chuckled at the memory. No.
Civility. “I did not,” she denied, “that was my friend, the Khaleesi Freya.” She wasn’t lying in completion. Freya had, on being the wife of Roq’ko, laid with him often for pleasure and heirship. Everyone had gone silent at that, looking unto Naera with expectance. She continued, “We had met in Volantis, and she wanted to run from her life, so we fled into the Great Grass Sea.”
“Why did you go with her?” Aemond asked. He was a small child, something of loneliness lingering in his voice. Aegon rolled his eyes at his younger brother, reprimanding him to quiet down.
Naera smiled again, her mind travelling back to those locks of obsidian hair and golden skin. She had reminded her of Raiden, in more ways than one—the same love of poetry. No.
Civility. Civility. Civility. “I didn’t really have a choice,” Naera laughed. Lies. “She stole something of mine ‘n I needed to get it back. I followed her to the land of the Dothraki, and we…got lost.” Yes, she stole her heart, and a prided dagger. She had followed for the dagger. “We were taken by Khal Roq’ko’s khalasar, and they fell in love and married. I happened to display particular strength in battle, and wasn’t sold as a slave. Freya pleaded for my leave and Roq’ko agreed.” Lies. Lies. Lies. She wanted to weep. That was not all there was—there had been passion, and love, and heat. There had been so much more, but she needed to be proper. She needed to be appropriate, for Rhaenyra, for her family, so that the Hightower filth that had infested it wouldn’t gain the upper hand.
“That’s it?” Aegon was disappointed. “I don’t see what the grand deal is with you and the Dothraki, then.” Oh, that child. Naera’s stomach churned. You know nothing. Naera remembered, and recalled, and relived in her mind, those shallow brown eyes and expanses of bronze-gold skin in the twilight hours of the day, as their blood pooled to the ground, one ounce at a time until all life had fled them. She had to.
“I did defeat two bloodriders in combat on my first day,” she smiled, gaining words of praise. Her father grasped her hand with affection, serene and content. Lie again. She had defeated three bloodriders in single combat on her first day, and Roq’ko himself in single combat on her second day, the very ordeal that found her not dead. Freya had only come in weeks later. “After that,” she changed the subject, trying her best to forget those nights, “I lived with the Red Priestesses in Asshai.” Naera immediately regretted her words, as memories of deathly pale skin and blood-red lips refreshed themselves in her mind. R’hllor, no.
“What did you do there?” Laenor, Rhaenyra’s consort, questioned with a smile.
“I learned about their religion and mythology, their miracles also,” A summary, at best. Naera took a sip of her wine, cursing its shade of red. It reminded her of so much. It reminded her of the woman in red, the Red Woman, of her words and her eyes, the mischievous twinkle in them as she did the bidding of her god, the Lord of Light. It reminded her of Melisandre, and her--She shook her head, “I haven’t converted, do not worry,” that earned her a round of chuckles, most loudly by her father, but she couldn’t care to listen. They were lies. She had converted, in whatever conversion into the Faith of Light meant. She had prayed to the Lord of Light and had received its fruits. She had done it all. Thoughts of the Red Woman wouldn’t leave her early—her practised laughter, her ominous words, her magic—her magic that brought them delightful justice. Oh…no. Civility.
There was an empty seat beside him, the plate and wine fully laid out. Was his Hand joining the dinner?
“Where after?” Rhaenyra asked, glad that you kept your composure.
“Lys, and then Naath, where I learned ways of healing and treatments faster than I’ve seen in Westeros, but I wasn’t there long before you summoned me,” she turned to her father, and all the calm and colour had fled his face. He sweated and glanced off, pulling his hand away from yours. What is it?
“Naera, we have…” he began, “it has been years since Prince Raiden…” he saw the way your face lost its colour also, and he could imagine it, surely, he could imagine and remember the pain of losing a lover. A spouse, by all means, other than in name. “I am afraid…I…I believe it is time for you to consider marriage, and we have a match.” He exchanged glances with Alicent, who was not at all discouraged by your negative reaction. She had planned this.
Naera chuckled. They didn’t realise it. They didn’t understand her yet.
If they wed her to a Lannister, she would squander his wealth. If they wed her to an Arryn, or a Northener, or a Baratheon, she would kill them before they could lay their honourable fingers on her body. If they tried anyone else, she would run. She would fly.
“Well? Who is it?” Which kingdom did they want to sell her to this time? “Lannister or Tyrell? Or is it someone else?” Her eyes were wide with ire, her breathing now bated, her heart hammering in her chest. A part of her wanted to declare her pride, to list out the titles she had earned in Essos—Red Priestess of Asshai, one of the thirteen of Quarth, the Master of the Mereenese pits, the Bane of the Unsullied, and so much more. Yet, she couldn’t. For Rhaenyra, she reminded herself. For your House. For Fire and Blood.
“Prince Daemon,” Naera looked up. Had her uncle joined them for supper? She eyed the empty spot next to the King. He wasn’t there—he hadn’t just arrived. He doesn’t mean—“I believe that you would make a good match, and, uh…” he looked to Alicent again, and said, “and,”
“Is that what you think?” Or, is it what that whore has been whispering in your ears? She didn’t say those last words. She didn’t need to. Naera stood, turned, and left.
It is uncertain what went through Princess Naera after she learned that her father, King Viserys, encouraged by Queen Alicent, had decided to wed her to her uncle, Prince Daemon. It was partially a reward for his recent calm and collection, and partially a way of restricting and subduing the princess herself.
It is significant to recall that Prince Daemon had earlier sought Princess Rhaenyra’ss hand in marriage and that he had never known Princess Naera well. For a man of his character, being a rough and determined man, to be refused the hand he sought was one thing, but for another marriage to be forced upon him after the death of Lady Rhea, was not going to leave him in a very agreeable state.
According to the Court’s fool, Mushroom, Prince Daemon had learned of his marriage three weeks prior to the Princess’ arrival in the city, and the Kingsguards had been forced to hold him back for the intensity of his anger. Following that, he had taken to liquor and nightly visits to the Street of Silk, where he “deflowered a maiden every night” and also “pounded her until she wept”, if Mushroom were to be believed.
Princess Naera, according to some witnesses, was seen to mount Wisestone after storming off the dinner and was seen to fly off towards the east an hour before night. She returned Wisestone to the Dragonpits half a week afterwards, calm and collected.
A series of rumours followed, most properly illustrated by Mushroom, in his poorly lyricised songs, of Prince Daemon and Princess Naera having “midnight trysts” and an “unspoken rendezvous”, but the evidence is scarce. The Princess’ personal comments on the event are noted hastily in her journals, explaining that she had travelled back to Essos, to Asshai, and spent time there with the Red Priestesses of Old. She had referred to a few by name, in particular, Lady Melisandre of Asshai, writing in her private journals that “Melisandre told me to follow the light, but I see no visions in her flames;” and, “only in dragonfire, I see truth, but help me, R’hllor, for I have no answer where to flee this while.”
This would all suggest that she intended to sever this union before it flowered and that she had no intention of wedding Prince Daemon, her sister’s position be damned, but it is not so. A fortnight after her ‘outburst’ at the dinner, the Princess agreed to the marriage, almost definitely for the sake of protecting her sister, Princess Rhaenyra’s reputation.
Just because she needed to wed Prince Daemon, the Princess didn’t consider it important to actually get to know him. She was quite sure of it ending up a loveless marriage at best, and an abusive one, at worst. She wanted nothing of attachment to her uncle, who was nothing better than a stranger to her. Prince Daemon, when he returned to the reality of his situation, apparently tried his best to court his niece and make something of their matrimony other than hollow promises, but she wasn’t complicit.
There are many retellings of the Princess sword-fighting until dawn against the most brutal guards and soldiers, and then disappearing after breakfast for hours, until nightfall. She trapezed around the city streets after dusk, making friends of whores and blacksmiths alike, and would be back in the Keep to try her lance or her sword before light.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
Naera. She didn’t like her name that well. It sounded broken, halfway, as though only a segment of the full name had survived. Naera. She had first learned how to spell it in Westerosi when she had been five, and her mother had sat her down and taught her, letter by letter.
She couldn’t ever forget her way of teaching it—It went: N, as in Naath, A, as in Aegon, and Naera would always interrupt with, ‘or, as in Aemma,’ and her mother, Queen Aemma, would smile. Then, there was an E, as in Essos, R, as in Rhaenys, and another A, as in Aegon, or Aemma, or Astapor. Two places in a name. Maybe she was meant to travel the world, after all.
Princess Naera would change her name if she could. She would change it to something that sounded fuller on the tongue, that didn’t leave the Westerosi mouth halfway through with an uncomfortable taste, or to something that simply did not fit into her sister’s name as a lopsided puzzle piece. Something like Rhaenerys, or Aemmeyra, or maybe just Rhaenys, or Rhaella, or Daenys, Daenerys, and on it went.
Naera sighed. It was too late for that. She liked her given name better—The Silver Knight, or any of the other things the common citizens of Essos had named her. They felt chosen by her, in a way—she chose to be the Silver Knight. She did not choose to be Princess Naera of the House Targaryen, no longer Second in Line to the Iron Throne, Second Daughter of King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. She didn’t choose it, and she no longer wanted it.
She liked being in the Godswood, not for the Old Gods, or the New, or those of Old Valyria, or even for the God of Light. She loved it for the Silence. She loved it for the isolation, and the calm, and the freedom. Naera had found a nice spot there, between two tall hedges near a stream. None dared venture there, because it was too far from the entrances, and the rumours of a ‘flaming panther’ crawling the back hedges had steered them all away definitively. She didn’t create the rumours of the panther, of course. Why would she? She created the panther. That was different, and a lot harder than the rumours.
Now, half the days, she would gather her journals there, working on the manuscripts, adding or removing anything of significance or the lack thereof, and reading through her personal journals for any crossovers, missteps, or anything like. Her works were important—they were knowledge of a brisk, informative nature—she couldn’t afford a single phrase of ‘inappropriate’ weight.
Naera. She was reading an entry in her journal, months and years old, from her days in Asshai. Melisandre had taken her to stare into flames for hours at a time, but she hadn’t seen anything, at least, not at first. She had heard. A chill ran down her spine at the memory, the image of the encircling flames in the darkness, the sting of sweat running down her skin, down her neck, and her chest, and her forehead, and her eyes burning from the light. The smell of soot and coal and the dusty ash of the fires were up in the air, but it didn’t matter. She had heard. She had heard a woman’s voice, confident and loud, speaking in Valyrian. She referred to the entry she had scribbled in haste immediately afterwards—
It was distorted at first, as though heard through a wall of water, or the border of a realm. It was low and slow, but then I heard, clear as I heard Melisandre’s chants—
Eli Astaprot istan. dohaertrossa sir yno inkot iorzi, daeri. First, I went to Astapor. Those who were slaves in Astapor, now stand behind me, free. And then, I saw. I saw, within the flames and the flicker, saw a woman with hair as white as mine, and I heard, Hembar Yunkaihot istan. Yunkaihi dohaertrossa sir yno inkot iorzi, daeri. Next, I went to Yunkai. Those who were slaves in Yunkai now stand behind me, free.
Sesir Mirinot mastan. Now, I have come to Mereen.
Naera?
But there had been more—there had been another vision, another image in the flames, of leather collars and chains, of people with sunburnt skins and overworked stamina. There were slaves. There was a woman, in blue. A woman with the blood of the Dragon. A liberator. The Breaker of Chains.
“Jevy qrinuntys ikson daor,” I am not your enemy, Naera spoke, Naera remembered. “Jevy qrinuntys jemo paktot issa,” Your enemy is beside you.
“Jevy qrinuntys jevor riñar laodissis ossenis. Jevy qrinuntys jemo syt meri belma se boteri se udrazmi ezi.” Your enemy steals and murders your children. Your enemy has nothing for you but chains, and suffering, and commands…
Naera froze. The manuscripts ended there. But…she remembered. She remembered more, she remembered seeing, and hearing more. Had Melisandre dragged her away before she could write it all down?
Naera?
She gathered her quill and ink on the grassy floor, and spoke, and wrote, “Udrazmi jemot maghon daor.” I bring you no commands. “Iderennon maghan.” I bring you a choice, “Se jevo qrinuntoti pojor gurotriri maghan,”
“And I bring your enemies what they deserve,” her quill snapped against the parchment. What?
Naera glanced up, frantic, confused, and afraid.
“Didn’t know that my intended wrote stories,” Naera cringed at the word when she finally turned to face her ‘intended’. The Rogue Prince stared down from the high fence hedges, a smirk settled at his lips. It made her feel as though something tugged a thread down the inside of her throat. Intended. It made her skin crawl.
She stood hastily with her books, her journals, her truths. “I don’t know much about her at all, really,” he went on, as Naera crossed the hedges through a winding pathway, well within his line of sight. When she finally reached the winding road, by his side, she quickened her steps. She didn’t need this today. Or ever, really.
Daemon didn’t let her leave, however, apparently making no note of her downset eyes, furrowed eyebrows and frowning lips, and grasped her elbow before she could slip away. “She’s been refusing to see me.” He yanked her elbow gently, forcing her to face him. She tightened her jaw, eyes set on the books in her arms.
“She’s been disappearing for hours all day,” he continued, “even her maids don’t know where she saunters off.” Daemon raised her chin with her thumb, forcing her to meet his lilac eyes and what she saw was strange. His long silver-white hair was untidy and unkept, unusually so. He wasn’t angry, for all he’s worth, and he certainly wasn’t not confused, but he was sad, almost. Her frown deepened.
“I did not see it of any consequence,” she spoke curtly and shook his hands off. “Nothing you say, or do, can change anything. You are of no consequence.”
He laughed, hoarse, empty, mocking, angry, “I am of no consequence? Udra sylvie, ābrazyrys,” Naera’s face contorted at his words. He was doing it to hurt her, to make her hate him, to make her say anything at all, and she knew. ‘Wise words, wife.’ She took a step back, and another, and another, teeming disgust and boiling hatred brewing a difficult amalgamation within her. The lengths she went to for her sister, but she had to. For Rhaenyra.
“And are you of greater consequence, then? Skoros emagon ao gaomagon? What have you done, other than running circles around the Dothraki and drawing plants in Naath?” Civility. Civility. Civility. He caught her wrist, pulling her close, threatening.
Did it really matter? It wasn’t just Alicent Hightower, was it? Everyone knew that they would be at each other’s throats, and she knew it better than anyone else. She needed to be calm. She needed to be temperate. For Rhaenyra.
“Udligon issa, timpa azantys. Skoros emagon ao gaomagon naejot gūrogon bona?” Ha. What was this, now? Answer me, Silver Knight. What have you done to earn that?
Ha.
Naera laughed, dry and loud, and hoarse.
Oh.
“You know nothing of me, or mine.” She spoke, as loud as she could—damn the worlds that hear it. He knew nothing. None of them did. None of them could ever understand, and she saw no point in trying. There was no consequence in trying, other than her failure and disappointment.
Daemon was taken aback, at least, and didn’t question her, or stop her, when she walked away, arms heavy with journals and ink staining her skin. He saw her silver-white locks disappear in the bushes of the Godswood, her heavy breathing resonating.
A question loomed his mind, certainly.
Had he fucked up?
At the very least, he knew the answer.
It is said that the Princess had refused to meet with Prince Daemon after her father had suggested their marriage, wanting to make it a blind union for both of them. Prince Daemon did not take her terms well and was seen at the doors to her chambers multiple times, asking her maids about her whereabouts.
The Princess would take to the Godswood after breakfast, allegedly hiding between some lone high bushes, and working on the scrapping and rewritings of her manuscripts of Times in Essos. She wrote once, in near dismay, that “He has found my safety—well, fuck,” probably referring to Prince Daemon discovering her hiding place in the Godswood.
The Princess consulted her sister, who had known Prince Daemon for much longer, who suggested that she treat the prince with the civility she would appreciate he treated her with if her journals are to be taken for truth. Princess Naera then tried her best and beyond to appreciate her uncle’s attempts at courting.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
Notes:
Please let me know if there is anything wrong with the Valyrian quotes because I can barely make sense of the language :/
Thank you
Chapter 3: Melisandre
Summary:
Thoughts of Melisandre of Asshai and Naera's passionate endeavours with the Red Woman begin plaguing Naera as Daemon attempts to get closer to his niece.
Notes:
NSFW - sort of; Not anything explicit, just some mildly suggestive themes
You have been warned.Also, Wisestone (pronunciation: "Why-stone", but without the 'h' in why (so really its wai-stone))
Chapter Text
Liberator. Breaker of Chains. A Targaryen, with an army of freed Unsullied. Why would a Targaryen ever need such an army? Could it…will they be overthrown? Is she a redeemer? A conqueror. The woman didn’t seem cruel, instead, she seemed rather brilliant. Altruistic, but with a mission, and that was perfection. She was intelligent, proud, and oh, so, very, very beautiful.
Gods, Naera sighed. She needed to speak to Melisandre about the visions. She had yet to receive a response on paper.
A book lay in her lap, something on the life of the Slave Masters of Mereen. She had read it before, but she needed to revisit it all. She needed to know when the flashing images of broken leather collars and that woman filled her mind. She needed to know.
She closed her eyes, and leaned back her head, breathing in the serenity of the Godswood. She needed to read. She needed to be prepared, for whatever the days found her with. She needed to be well read and well trained, and primed and proper, but without losing the will of the soldier. She needed to be perfect.
“Mereen has not had a King for centuries,” she read aloud to the silence, “It had been an old colony of the Old Empire of Ghis, but when Ghis warred against the Valyrian Freehold, it affected their lands greatly.”
Footsteps. She stopped; breath bated. Who was it this time? They slowed, stopped, and quieted. No one significant, she supposed. It wasn’t ‘wrong’ to read in the Godswood. It's just—it’s the Godswood. What if God’s offended?
“The coastal cedars all fell, and the soil baked under dragonfire, and later the hot sun, and was blown away.”
Footsteps, again. She whipped around this time, standing and looking around. If she was to be disturbed every other minute, she might as well have retired to her study. Naera saw a glimmer of silver-white hair, ducking beneath a bush. What, now?
“I can see you,” she called out loud, for no response, “Prince Daemon,” she added. Nothing. She considered sitting back down with her book—she needed to know this. It had to mean something. It had to be related.
She couldn’t. Sighing, Naera tried one last time, “Kepus,” and saw him stand tall, a teasing look in his eyes. Useless man. She rolled her eyes. No, no, no. He wasn’t winning with his overtly covert ways.
“My beloved niece called?” He jumped over the hedge rather than taking the long, winding path, and sat opposite her, a bunch of windflowers held in his hand. Naera pressed her lips against each other at his antics, choosing to return to her book.
Civility—treat him how she needed to—she needed to let herself be courted.
Daemon raised her chin again, like the other day, and said, “I brought you something.”
“I don’t like flowers,” they wither, and they die, all too soon, is what Naera didn’t add, but she didn’t return her eyes to the written word. She wanted to see what he’d say. He just smiled at her again, smirking all the same, picked out a flower from the bunch and tucked the stem behind her ear.
“I never said that it was flowers,” he reached his hand down to his waist and unsheathed a dagger of dark polish and sharp width. Valyrian Steel. He tossed it up in the air, catching it by the blade, and reached the hilt out to her. It was engraved beautifully, a dragon’s jaws parted before the blade, and the hilt reminded her of Wisestone’s scales;
Naera looked back at her uncle, then at the dagger in her hand. She could stab him. It would be so easy.
“No,” he almost heard her thoughts, or just saw the joy it brought her, and raised his eyebrows, backing away slowly, “You wouldn’t,” he crawled back regardless. Ha.
“Wouldn’t I?” She asked a mirror of his smirk and set the dagger down. No. He was too good at this—he knew what she wanted, what she’d say, or do. He knew, or perhaps, just once, he understood.
Daemon crept forwards again, close enough to rest his forehead against hers, and asked, quietly, “What’re you reading?” Princess Naera exhaled at his words, nearly sighing. He wouldn’t understand if she told him the whole of it. No one would. No one, but Melisandre.
“A history of the Free City of…,” she answered his question, and her fingers toyed with the edges of the paper. Naera stared back at him, at his raised eyebrow, his short-trimmed hair. His short, trimmed hair. “You cut off your hair.” She stated, more to herself than to him.
Daemon smirked, “At least you noticed,” he shook his head and ruffled his hair, “wasn’t looking like you would.” Naera shook her head, a chuckle leaving her nose.
No. No, no, no. He was very good at this.
“…Mereen. A history of Mereen,” she turned back to her book. Yes, that was better. She would just read, and somehow make time for Asshai, and get some answers from Melisandre—actual answers, not some cryptic statements on nights and terrors. She needed to treat him how she wanted to be treated. She wanted to be ignored, for once.
“Hadn’t you spent time in Mereen?” He started again, brushing away stray strands of her hair. “I’ve heard stories.” Naera wanted to frown, she really wanted to, but why was he doing this? Why was he respecting her? It was a ploy, surely, to get closer to her and win some fraction of her heart, for they both knew that she was too quick to fall, and then he would leave. He would leave her for some whore or maybe even her sister, and her world would collapse.
“I did, yes,” curt answers, quiet, calculated words. That was enough for him, and his like.
“Care to share?” He prodded further, of course, he did and smiled in a strange way. He smiled in a way that made her want to answer, to show him, to prove.
“Well,” she spoke before she could stop, and it was enough for her uncle, her ‘loving’ uncle, to pull away the book on Mereenese history, and lay his head on her lap instead. It was too late to retract her words, she knew. Naera felt exhausted, and his head on her lap wasn't as comforting as it was irritating. She wanted to leave. She couldn't.
Naera thought back. How had she ended up in Mereen? She began, “I was sold as a slave,” not her first, or last time.
“Who would dare sell a Princess into slavery—give me his name,” Daemon growled, not as angry as he could be—she was alive and free, clearly, she had escaped that fate.
“She is long dead,” Naera chuckled, biting her tongue, she had killed the Khaleesi of Khal Dror’hza after breaking out, “I fought in the pits,” she continued. Naera didn’t tell him of how they first sold her as a whore, of how she murdered the first two ‘patrons’ and was whipped and taken to the pits. He didn’t need to be told that. He probably knew. It was just the way the world worked across the Narrow Sea.
“How long?” He asked, instead, without the joy or the tease.
“A few months?” She couldn’t remember at all, in fact, “I fought dozens of times in the fighting pits,” and they named me the Master of the Pits, she didn’t say. “I was later freed for my skill, and I stayed as a free woman for some time, working on my records,” she gestured to the pile of poorly bound journals beside her, “and then I left for Quarth, in the far, far east.”
“I see,” Daemon responded, reaching for one of her journals—the third, which she had titled, Times in Essos – III. Mereen: Life and Customs of the Mereenese. It had the words and opinions of all the slaves she had spoken to, from the whores to the lady’s maids, or from the rock draggers to the educated slaves, who taught and learned, at the behest of their owners. He flipped through the pages lazily, pausing at the rough sketches interwoven with the scripts and the scribbles of her writing in bright purple and magenta, with the usual black and blue inks.
The first was a pencil outline of a little girl with blooming cheeks and a bright smile, her hair bound in two braids. The daughter of a slaver, perchance, for he could see no iron collar and no metalled chains. He flipped the page again, trying to make sense of Naera’s messy penmanship. He paused at words he could decipher—se, iksos, issi, buzdaris, she wrote in their mother tongue or some bastardized dialect of it.
He chose a different journal then, one titled, simply, Twelfth (Asshai 2), and Naera wasn’t paying attention. The weight of his head on her lap seemed to break her bones almost as painfully as his presence suffocated her soul. Her feet felt numb, her neck felt stiff. She paid no mind when Daemon picked up the second personal journal she had noted in Asshai and was actively planning her departure.
How the fuck can she read this? Was the question in Daemon’s mind, referring to the downright ugly penmanship of her journal. This one was written in blood red, and the pages were charred in some places or dusted by ash and soot. He narrowed his eyes at the handwriting, at the small, scrunched, but somehow overly spaced-out letters on the pages.
He understood even fewer words this time, only Nuhyz, jorraelan, iksi, being the indications of it being written in Valyrian also. He flipped past the pages, past the blur of yellow parchment and red ink, and stopped, near a third of the way, at another sketch. This one was refined, carefully done, and painted properly. It was a woman, with flaming red eyes that glowed through the pages as though someone held two candle flames behind the paper to make those eyes shine, and the palest, smoothest and unblemished skin he had seen. Her lustrous copper hair was nearly covered by her cloaks and fabrics of blood red, the very same shade as the ink surrounding the artwork.
There lay written, below the painting that stretched the entire page of the journal, in a hand distinctly different from his niece’s with curves and proper loops and decor, Lady Melisandre of Asshai, and then, in a language he couldn’t comprehend, in ink that had browned—blood? —with strange symbols that evoked stranger feelings within him. He could almost smell spices past the ashy smoky fragrance of the pages.
“Which language is this in?” He asked Naera, turning her attention back to him. There goes her ploy for escape.
“Hm?” She hummed, peering down at the book he had begun on. Oh. The sketch of Melisandre, her eyes twinkling ominously even through the old parchment. She looked down to where Daemon’s finger lingered, at the bottom edge of the page, at the writing in the oldest language of Asshai, and it glowed red. The smell of spices—anise, cloves and nutmeg, she knew, flooded her senses, and she smiled.
“Asshai,” she answered with fondness. Oh, Melisandre.
“You can speak their tongue?” and write it too, she wanted to say, but she simply nodded.
“Yes,” she took the journal in her hands, and Daemon sat up again. Naera stared at the portrait in reminiscence. Oh, Melisandre and something strangled her heart, as she thought back to her last words to her.
The golden flames of her chambers had made her red eyes burn orange, and her blood-red lips had traced down Naera’s jaws so very, very slowly, teasing, trying, waiting for what, she did not know. She may never know how her lady love thought, how she will continue to think, long past Naera’s death.
Then, with the ardour expected of an infatuated, devoted lover, gasping, sweating, yearning, Naera had begged, and her pleas had been answered. Then, when all was done and tired, Melisandre had held her close, smiling, beautiful, and whispered, “We shall meet again, ‘tween sand and salt, when the sun dips below the sea for hours spent in delight in your embrace, and not ‘ere that, my Princess.” Her Princess and that was perhaps the only time she had delighted in that title.
Her Princess.
Melisandre’s Princess.
Melisandre’s.
“Teach me,” and Daemon broke her chain of delightful thoughts, bringing her back to her reality. She was not in Asshai. She was not in Essos. She was not free, any longer.
Naera sighed, shaking her head, “You will struggle, kepus,” it was not an easy tongue.
“Try me,” he smirked.
Well, his loss, his problem, his struggle. She did not need to hesitate. Naera began with a simple phrase, you will not succeed, but all Daemon heard was a shrill, near melodious ululating, or an alternation between two strangling tunes that added up to nothing, and somehow also everything. It resonated with the mind, enchanted it, pulled at the hidden fragments of R'hllor Naera had learned embued everything and everyone. It made magic true, and the of accomplishment upon mastering just a phrase in the tongue was brilliance personified.
He stared at her blankly, dumbfounded, and she laughed.
“You would find better luck with probably any other language, my Prince,” and closed the journal. Learning the tongue of Asshai had been difficult for her also, but Melisandre's methods, the way she’d teach Naera how the tongue need be placed on the roof of her mouth, slowly, carefully, with mingling tongues and clashing teeth, with promises of pleasure and rewards and release, with endless patience and only the sweetest of punishments when she’d neglect her learnings.
Melisandre had always wanted to teach—in retrospect, Naera could pass as her apprentice at turns, if it were not for their nightly endeavours, but those words and scenes were not for the world to see. It was all—it had all been so very, very—
“Well, which other languages can you teach me?” Daemon questioned.
Naera shook her head, “Nothing a tome or a Maester worth his links cannot teach you,” she lied outright. No tome in the Seven Kingdoms held knowledge of the tongues of Asshai, the proper dialects of the Dothraki, and the ways of the walled City of Quarth. Not until she sent her compendiums to the Citadel, anyway. That had been the point, hadn’t it? To honour Raiden’s love of learning and her curiosity, to travel the Lands of Essos and bring its fruits to the West.
She had gotten distracted by the joy of free will, the thrill of a duel to the death, the honour of a victory against those who threatened her very life, the lust that came with her lady love, and every other person and every other event that had stolen some portion of her regal exterior, and set her free. She had gotten distracted, and now she wanted this old life no longer.
She wanted to be free.
Daemon remained silent for a minute, and another, and then spoke, “Why do you come here?”
Naera leaned back, against the leafy hedges and twines which dug at odd angles into her back, and sighed and said, “It is quiet,” she smiled to herself, “it used to be a place I could be alone, uninterrupted,” with my thoughts and my passions, away from prying eyes and schemers.
“Away from prying eyes and schemers,” he finished her words, and twirled a lock of her hair in his fingers, asking, “Do they call you Silver Knight for the hair?” but when she shook her head, he added, “I do not pry, Naera. I simply wish—”
“To know me,” she finished his words this while, frowning, and added, “but I do not wish the same.”
He sat up and turned to face her, holding her face with his hands, tender. Why?
“Why?” he asked instead, lowering himself to face her eye to eye. “Tell me,” Why do you not want this marriage to last? No. Naera stood, her morning dress hiked and untidy.
“Because I do not want it,” she told him when he stood again, but spun on her heel, climbing over the tall hedge with her skirts bunched in her hands.
“You agreed to it,” said Daemon, as he followed her suit. Naera smoothed down her dress and pulled away fallen leaves and twigs.
Daemon caught her by her shoulders, and he leaned down, searching her eyes, but she said, as quiet as a whisper, “You will gain nothing from this marriage, Prince Daemon. I have been removed from the line of succession. My acceptance does not mean anything—I agreed for Rhaenyra, and I agreed for House Targaryen,” and she spoke even quieter, for the threat of someone overhearing her words would mean her certain downfall, “I agreed so that the brilliant and wonderful Queen Alicent cannot find reason to belittle my sister.”
Daemon froze again, just as he had the other day, helpless, bewildered, estranged, confused. He let her walk away, again, and watched her disappear in the greens.
Yes, he should’ve said, he agonised, we must, together. Together.
He looked down to where they had sat, at the piles and piles of journals, and the heavy tome on Mereenese history. He couldn’t know his niece if she didn’t want him to—but he could try.
Naera ran her hands through her hair. Pitch black, with a wavy character, now, rather than the flat silver locks she had donned since her arrival. Dull. It was a rather permanent hair stain, but she had done it all before.
Naera had first stained her hair dark to survive the Dothraki Seas because a woman with shining silver hair would make a most wanted fuck, as she had learned. She needed to blend in, at least in appearance, and it had worked for the most part. This time, she stained the lengths to spite her uncle, despite the lack of his proper provocation. She wanted to prove something, though she hardly knew why. He did not matter.
Just until their marriage, she must wait here, and then she can journey to a place with sand and salt adjoined.
The wispy curls above the base of her neck were dry and spun in swirls. She wrapped and twirled her fingers around those curls with fondness—As Melisandre had done before her red woman had clicked her fingers and the dark stain had just melted off in shadows, leaving behind her Valyrian white locks. The priestess had kissed her lips, tender, and reasoned that “the regality in you must never be hidden from me, my Princess,” and she had gushed at her words.
Prior to that, in her time with dark hair, was when she had earned her title. The Silver Knight.
They called her the Silver Knight for her armour, and her cape, and her weapons, and Wisestone, and not just for her hair. She just wanted to see what would happen if she reverted to her dark hair, and what the courts would say, or do, and above all, she wanted to hear what her dear Kepus would say.
Melisandre had finally written a response, scripted in Westerosi with the biblical turns and swirls Naera had learned were characteristic of her lady love’s hand. Elegant. Olden. Perfect.
My Love, Melisandre wrote, but Naera grimaced at the words—she never called her Love. No, Melisandre called her Princess, or some other phrases around Little Dragon, and Warrior or Knight, or Fire and Flame, or some pair of the terms. Naera had been the one to call her Love, and never the other way round.
The truth you seek isn’t one I can grant you. You must discover it yourself, for that is the will of the Lord of Light. Naera set the letter down on her desk, eyes shut tight in frustration as she aimed at controlling her breathing. These weren’t answers. She needed answers. Naera stood, circling her solar, cursing her tight corset and brandished morning gown. Perhaps she shall call on Wisestone and go for a fly. Perhaps she shall make it all the way to Asshai. Perhaps she shall sit beside flames that have burned for centuries and sweat in their magical heat.
Naera sighed. She shan’t do any of that. There is no salt and sand, there is no sea, near where her Love tethers. She must wait.
She read onwards, Melisandre wrote, I worry that the visions aren’t those granted by the Lord of Light, but I cannot presume. You must devote yourself to him, and ask for his blessings of Light, Naera rolled her eyes and read aloud, “for the night is dark, and full of terrors, yes, I know,” but, if only Melisandre could hear her…if only she could see her.
Naera shook her head, and hid the letter somewhere in the many, many documents gathered in her dwelling, among manuscripts and journals and bored sketches and commissioned paintings. That old painting in her second journal from Asshai had raised some memories, and the texts there had reminded her of the woman in red far too well.
Should she paint a portrait of Melisandre? Something to hang opposite her desk in the solar, glowing eyes, glowing rubies, blood-red lips…deathly pale skin…whatever could go wrong?
“Milady?” Her lady’s maid was nice, kind, beautiful, and harboured no hatred. She quite liked her, or, rather, she would’ve liked her if she hadn’t been an informant to her Father. “Prince Daemon is here to see you.”
“I believe I had asked you to send him away whenever he came,” she was turned away from the maid, which helped, in a way, to hide her irritation.
“You had, milady, but…”
Naera turned to face the maid, who had her head downturned and hands clasped in a jitter.
“He is injured and asking for your assistance,” She shouldn’t have told her father of her skill with quick healing, of course. She had, and her father had told his brother, and now, she would have to face him, again.
She could turn him away. She wanted to turn him away, but it would raise questions—questions of whether she had been deceiving people. She didn’t need accusations or rumours.
“Show him in.”
Prince Daemon limped in, his hair limp and matted with mud and maybe a little blood. He had his hand tightly clasped over his forearm; his face was contorted in pain. “Thank you,” he muttered, and sat down at the chair by the window, at her direction.
He paused at her appearance, at her summer dress that hung loosely at the chest to reveal the patterning of her corset, at her sun-darkened skin that shone nearly bronze often, but most of all, at her head of ash and pitch black curls, asking, rather than stating, “You stained your hair.” He seemed to forget his injury, smirking at her change, sure that his comment had forced the shift.
“You should visit a Maester,” she reprimanded him, “My ways are quick, but dangerous,” She leaned over his poorly bandaged arm and unwrapped the messy linen strips over the wound. It was a cut, singular and deep, shrouded by torn skin and muscle and ruptured blood vessels, but she could see bubbles of yellow fat at the very base of the cut, which itself was sliced with precision unlike she had seen in a long time. Valyrian Steel.
“What happened?”
Her uncle chuckled a little, dry, and reached down to his waist for the dagger he had gotten for her, fresh blood dripping down the blade. She pulled it out of his reach and set it aside, and he answered, “’needed a reason to talk,”
Child, she thought, and uncapped her jar of wine, pouring it over the cut very quickly. Prince Daemon hissed in pain, and she stood, tying up her hair whilst rushing around to wash the blade and warm it, but he added, “About the Hightower wench.” Ha. Naera turned to face him, eyes narrowing, then widening, jaw clenching, and relaxing, and lips parting to say something, but she had no words. She settled finally, for the language she knew best.
“Kimivagho.” Talk. There was a threat in her voice, clear as a winter morning. Talk, and do not stop.
Chapter 4: Kepus
Summary:
Naera confers with Daemon on their plots and things take a turn, and then another.
Notes:
WARNINGS
NSFW (slight, more than the last chapter tho)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Absolutely not,” Naera insisted.
The day was young. The sun shone brightly through the glass windows of Princess Naera’s solar, many of which were covered with the banners of her House to block out some light. The room was also littered with candles, all unlit apart from the single on her desk, and her desk itself lay stacked with tomes and journals and texts and papers, quills and inks of varying shades, and weapons. There were a lot of weapons—daggers, swords, crossbows, and more.
The room smelled freshly of blood and iron and ash and wax and soot, and Queen Alicent hated it. Tightly crossed in a gown of green and gold, as always, Alicent Hightower sat on a rather comfortable chair opposite her stepdaughter, who, finding no need for etiquette, was braiding her locks of hair—black, much to Alicent’s amusement, and being positively frustrating.
“I do not want a feast—they’re boring,” Naera explained, tying off her first few braids at the back of her head, pinned carefully in place, one after another. She continued, “I am sure Prince Daemon would agree,” and she loved the thin, forced smile on her Queen's face.
“Yes, but it is tradition,” Alicent argued. The King had charged her to convince the royal couple to not throw away the chance for diplomatic relations at the wedding—a feast provides amicable time for such proceedings, and if he could convince the Dornish to attend out of respect for Princess Naera, who had resided with them for several years, and he could perhaps argue for a union between House Martell and House Targaryen.
Naera knew all of this—it was typical of her father to disregard her wishes, and Rhaenyra’s wishes, whilst indulging his whims. He was weak. He was a hypocrite.
“We are hardly a pair of traditional people,” Naera smiled at her stepmother. Her words had been carefully chosen—she couldn’t say that they were hardly a ‘traditional pair’ of people, for this wedding was doing exactly as dictated by the traditions of Old Valyria, and she couldn’t say that they weren’t traditional people, because for all her liberties, Daemon had argued to wed her in the old ways, and King Viserys had refused. It wasn’t correct by his codes, and it just made Naera hate him more.
He was weak. He was weak. He was weak. He forced her sister to marry for politics, as she is now being forced to marry for the same politics, simply because the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s claims was being questioned—his mistake, not hers, for as much as she adored her good brother, he seemed more interested in men than Naera herself did in women.
Of course, the bigger crime her father had committed was marrying for love himself. It had lost them the support of House Velaryon, which had compelled him to force Rhaenyra into marrying Laenor in the first place—so, all his error, and then a few more errors, because none had been more blinded by the deeds of Otto Hightower than the King himself. He hath let the Hightowers prosper, had taken one of their whores to wife, and he probably wouldn’t be alive to witness how they would undermine the Fire and Blood of Targaryen.
Not on her life, or her death—she would die before a Hightower sits upon the Iron Throne, and be back to haunt the spoiled brat until he forfeits the crown. It was her sister’s, and then her sister’s children’s, and then hers, and then that of Lady Rhaenys, before Daemon, if she would have her way. Yet, of course, there would be no need for any of this, had her father held an ounce of strength in his semblance.
The King’s Error, and there would be a war fought over the succession if no one cut down the towers that were in full bloom. Thankfully, a better way to halt growth than simply nipping at the buds and striking at the roots is to simply burn it all, and that is what she would do. With Daemon. With her Lord Husband, and the words still strangled her insides because she had yearned to confess those vows to someone else entirely.
“I will accept a tourney,” Naera finished her braids, just eight for now, one for each significant battle she had won. There were others, but these had been important—these had mattered.
“A tourney…” Alicent trailed off.
“I will join family meals tomorrow hence, as an exchange,” Naera smiled at her Queen. Compromise.
“Very well, Princess Naera,” there had been other things to discuss—her decision to take to Dragonstone immediately after the wedding, her inexplicable closeness to Prince Daemon as of late, her refusal to see anyone as of late, her dark hair, but Alicent said nothing. It was not yet time for those things.
She departed Naera’s solar soon after, and Naera sat with her quills and parchments and with her journals and manuscripts and notes and sketches. It did not help that she was now stuck working on her memories from Asshai, for they distracted her far too much to work with determination. Within minutes—just minutes, of swiping through the journals on trading routes, she had abandoned it all and sat with only her quill and paper instead.
She needed to write to Melisandre, ask her, tell her, feel her, in whatever pitiful way she could. The feather quill—new, as she had snapped her last before the Queen’s visit—and her hand was sweaty, jittery, shaking.
With a deep breath, she thought, and she wrote in blood-red, My Love, and the words toppled out, one after the other, in her messy but legible hand, I wish I could see you—I wish I could feel you, and I wish that you were here. Yes, I recall that it isn’t time yet, and I know that the Lord of Light shall guide you back to me, Naera paused, contemplating whether she should strike it all off and begin again.
No.
The visions have spread to my dreams. I see the liberator again, and again, and I see her conquer the lands with fire and blood, but no devastation follows. Her followers plot to stab her in the back, but she has a wise one at her side—her name was Rhaenys, but not she who liveth now. The Liberator has Rhaenys by her side, and as she wrote it all down, the words made less and less sense, but she wrote on, there was more, but I do not know how to make sense of it, Naera sighed, and wrote lower, in a different paragraph, King’s Landing is exhausting. I’d rather be in your embrace than in the throes of my wedding—I shall speak to him today, and set for Dragonstone within a sennight of the date. If the Lord of Light be kind, he will not follow. Naera prayed, to any god who would listen, then, that Daemon not follow her to Dragonstone, where there is salt, sand, sea, and silence.
My Love, I reminisce over our times. I shall meet you again, and you shall save me thence with your Light and your glory, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
Naera rolled the parchment into a tight scroll and melted a dollop of red wax over a candle flame. She sealed the letter with her sigil of a three-headed dragon, and circled the seal in a ring of silver ink—the Silver Dragon, in a way, and fetched a raven to send the letter privately. She did not need Maester Mellos reading her declarations, not when his loyalties lay with the Hightowers.
For the night is dark and full of terrors. Bantis zōbrie issa se ossyngnoti lēdys.
The words of Asshai, if the place had any.
Ha.
Naera had always disregarded them when Melisandre repeated the words endlessly to her, near chanting the words to etch them onto her soul, for Melisandre certainly had them inscribed onto hers, but Naera hadn’t taken to it. Perhaps, she should have. Perhaps, she should have joined hands with her when she had the chance.
“Absolutely not,” Naera insisted.
Her solar was dark, with far too many candles lit on impulse. The flames lapped tumultuously for the open wind that breezed through the parted windows, threatening to set her works ablaze. She sat where she had hours ago, with her works and her papers, but now joined by a person she despised marginally less than her stepmother.
“Why not?” Daemon questioned incredulously. Clearly, he did not see the flaws in his plans. Following the wedding, ‘ask Rhaenyra to insist on your return to the Line of Succession, as you would have a union of Valyrian heritage and pure-blooded children to support it.’ If only life were as simple.
“He will never agree to return me to the line of succession, especially not when I am wed to you,” Naera explained. Viserys would assume that it was Daemon starting another plot to get to the throne, rather than changing his ways as had been promised. Moreover, any mention of children would call out the problem of the illegitimacy of Rhaenyra’s—that wouldn’t end well for them, they both knew very well.
Yes, it would be an axe to their own feet, but there was another fundamental issue with the plot—She did not wish to inherit the Iron Throne, or be anyplace close to its heir. She wanted to run, to leave, to fly to Essos and live her days there. She did not want her decisions to tether her—to chain her—to King’s Landing.
“Well, would Laenor be ruling in place of Rhaenyra?” Daemon reasoned. Naera shook your head, exasperated. It wasn’t the same. The Velaryons weren’t abrasive enough to attempt a coup—Daemon was, and she wanted nothing to do with it.
“We need to weaken the Hightower claim, not seek to strengthen Rhaenyra’s”—moreover, Naera did not see how an heir having a sister with pure-blooded children strengthened the heir’s claim at all. If anything, it weakened it further, drawing a wedge into the unity of the Blacks, while the Greens grew more prosperous by day. It wouldn’t work. “We need to bring down Aegon…”
“Well,” Daemon sat back, exhaling through his nose, “the boy’s a dimwit,” Precisely. The boy is a dimwit—a rude, privileged, spoilt idiot. It could just work.
“Well done, Uncle,” Naera stood from her seat, leaning with her hands on her desk. She stared down at her writings—letters, correspondence with Elysabeth Tyrell, with merchants from the East, with rulers from all over. If she could just… “We need to prove his inadequacy, and half our work’s done,” she sat back down, gathering some parchment and black ink.
“How do you propose we do that?” Daemon stared, intrigued by his soon-to-be lady wife, and the way she wrote fast, so, so terribly fast, as he pitied the recipient of her written word. She wrote, and she wrote, and dipped her quill in ink once again, and stopped.
No, but who could she ask to stage an incident? Who could she trust? Absentmindedly dotting her nose cheek with ink, and arriving at a choice, not for herself, Naera stared back at her uncle, mischief twinkling in her eyes.
“Martell or Tyrell?” Naera questioned, rather than answer. She looked up to her uncle, smiling with straight white teeth, with dangerous eyes, and with an excitement that made him feel strangely, Daemon decided. Naera wore a loose evening dress, or rather something one would wear to sleep, all linen and lace that fell off her waist to fray at her ankles. Any other young lady and it would be improper, but he knew she had endured less formality with men a lot more forward than him. He eyed the smudge of ink on her cheek, blemishing her smooth skin, and his gaze lingered on a contorted scar at the apex of her brow.
He wanted to reach out and wipe the ink that stained her skin, and if he could just— “Whatever for?” He questioned when she stared up at him confused, eyebrows raised.
“I have friends in Westeros also, you know,” she smirked, joyful, teasing, “and I am owed great debts from them all.” For this particular case, she took the golden roses and the unbroken to be best suited.
Martell or Tyrell and Daemon could recall the Dornish supporting the Triarchy against him and Corlys Velaryon. He did not wish to suffer the same again—they cannot be trusted.
“The Dornish cannot be trusted,” Daemon echoed his thoughts, “They went against us—”
“In the War of the Stepstones, yes,” Naera rolled her eyes, “You cannot trust the Dornish—I taught Qoren Martell the lance and the noble houses of Dorne and the Six Kingdoms—I, in essence, raised him myself.” Rather, the only reason Qoren, Raiden’s younger brother, hadn’t wed her as is custom with political marriages when the intended passes was that she had practically raised him through his most crucial years, and the attachment between them wasn’t one that could be replaced by duty or lust.
Raiden, Naera closed her eyes shut, to hold onto that splintering vision of smiling dusk and lovely poetry every day. He had called her perfect, beautiful, lovely, his, in nearly every language fit for poetry, and it had not been enough. Their days hadn’t been enough.
“Go with the Tyrells, regardless,” Daemon decided, but he did not fail to notice the way your eyes saddened at the mention of the man who would have stood as her good brother, had tragedy not struck. He wondered at the toeline, just before the boundary, of approaching the thoughts, of asking Naera of her engagement, of her would’ve-been life as the Princess of Dorne, and if she’d have lived it without frustration.
No, he decided without fully thinking the lines, Raiden Martell wasn’t good enough. The Dornish were not good enough for Naera, for the blood of Old Valyria. He was.
Naera finished the letter, sealed it in red wax, with the emblem of the Targaryens, and a ring of silver, and let it sail by air to the grounds and gardens of the Reach, to the flowers and the expanses of peaceful bliss, where Golden Roses were raised to hide their might behind patterned fabrics and delightful smiles.
“We stage a diplomatic incident,” Naera answered his unasked queries, still unsure as to the details of their plan, “Blame it on the dimwit, and let Rhaenyra solve it,” Viserys knew that his son was worth less than nothing, but an incident such as this would lead to
“The Greens lose political support,” Daemon understood, and Naera rounded the table to stand before him, feeling some semblance of freedom of action after the weeks spent in the tumults of the Capital, with her corsets and her cloaks and the awkward glances when she defeated a Kingsguard at her morning spar. She leaned against her wooden desk, arms crossed in thought, and Daemon could have sworn with surety that he was right. She was intelligent, and something close to a good enough fighter, and beautiful, and had political support and experience—she would make a fine wife for him, and he already had her in his grasp.
It was only a matter of seducing her, and he’d have the whole world verbatim in his arms.
“I already refused a feast,” Naera bit her lip, regretful. A wedding feast would’ve been ample opportunity for a disagreement. That’s why her father wanted one. Eh. “There’s hardly any point crying over split milk,” she decided.
“Feasts? Then—” Delight shone on his face, almost, with the promise of not having to indulge dull conversation and awkward comments and swooning young ladies on his wedding day.
“Jousting, I…” Naera shrugged, “I thought it’d be fun. I wanted to joust with this one Kingsguard—Redmond,” and Naera rolled her eyes at the memory of his pretentious refusal to spar with her when she had asked, claiming duty as the greater expense of time, “Put him in his place, as it were,” and Daemon smirked. Naera stared back at her uncle, at his hair he trimmed probably only to see if she’d notice, at his smirk that reminded her of the darkest nights to come, and she felt charged as one does before lightning strikes close to a doomed man, and the winds howl through the open windows, cold, colder. She shivered.
“Yes, it would—” and he stood up, taking Naera’s hand, “It would be brilliant,” and he ran his hands up, and down her smooth wrists and calloused hands. He brought her hand up, skin gleaming in the candlelight, and kissed her knuckles, once, twice, thrice, and once again, and intertwined their fingers, and squeezed, comforting and confident.
Naera felt strange, the strange urge to pull her hand away from her uncle and scrub it until her skin wore off, but also to hold her uncle’s hands the way he held hers—challenging and comforting, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t, because he had picked up her other hand already, and kissed every knuckle, and leaned so very, very close, with his breath fanning across her face, and closer—too nearby, and every ounce of hot air that breezed down her neck and her cheek felt like the scorching fires of Wisestone in heat. Brilliant, indeed.
“Desperate little girl,” Daemon whispered, “so eager to prove herself,” and tilted her chin up to face him, and leaned down, to kiss her lips softly, almost chaste, and he said upon parting, “You never need to prove anything to me,” and his words burned her, made her want to break their near embrace and rush to cold and calm, but she couldn’t. She could never leave this sensation behind.
“Kepus,” she whispered, thoughts running in one direction, and one only, of how he’d hold her even closer than this, and then closer still, and he would move, carefully, slowly, and then absently, rushed and lopsided, and she’d love it all, and she wished to swoon like she once had over Raiden. Raiden.
“My sweet, pure, murderous Princess,” and she laughed through her nose at his words, whatever resistance remained now forgotten. Daemon smiled also, and stole her lips again, for longer this time, and circled her waist with her hands, slow and careful, sure to not cross the line she had surely set in her mind.
No, she'd set no line, and he could take her until she screamed if he'd be bold enough, but Naera did not think of her uncle as the one who kissed her lips with growing passion, but she thought of her first kiss, of her first night, of the day she had lost her maidenhead to her first love. Raiden. Raiden, and the setting dusk over the Water Gardens as he had kissed her so very, very slow. Raiden. The word had been honey on her lips, and she remembered it as such as she played it over, and over, and over in her mind.
Raiden, Raiden, Raiden, and she was drawing Daemon closer to herseusing of her arms, and she was letting their tongues dance and war until she tired, and she was being hoisted to sit on her desk, scrolls and pots of ink clattering to the floor, and her loose nightgown felt tight and restrictive.
Daemon kissed her until his breath ran out, and then some more, for she tasted sweet unlike her personality, unlike her penmanship, and he could hardly help himself before his hands circled her waist, and began venturing higher, and higher, and higher, until he was pushing her arms out of the way to unlace her dress by her chest.
Naera was dazed. Raiden was her only thought, and of how similar he had tasted, how similar he had felt to Melisandre—to Daemon. All dominating and resilient until they had her in their lone arms, and all that facade had crumbled below, and she had surrendered. She would tell him that, one day, when they were comfortable and one, that he reminded her of Raiden, and watch him boil with rage and punish her—maybe he’d bend her over a desk in his solar and rip off her skirt and take her there, or, perhaps, he’d wait until night and torture her slowly, torturously, or perhaps he’d simply laugh it all off, and gaze at her with fondness.
Maybe he’d call her his little girl still, and ha.
No.
When had she begun picturing their days together?
No.
No, no, no— “No,” Naera leaned back, a hand on his chest, and pushed him a step back, gasping, and to Daemon, beautiful. Naera shook her head frantically, stumbled off her desk and circlnd him, and then away. No.
It had been a distraction. She doesn’t want him. She wants only her Red Woman, her freedom, her lady love, and nothing else. It was now or never that she declares her intentions.
“After the dust settles,” Naera swallowed, refusing to face him, “I will take to Dragonstone,” and there, she turned to face her uncle with his narrowed eyes and lustful gaze, “Alone," Yes. Alone, in that great stone palace, as head of the estate, away from the politics of the situation, and she would take Melisandre in her arms, and she'd lose her title and her name and her sigils when Rhaenyra's throne was ensured, and she would find a priest of R'hllor, and take her Red Woman to wife for as long as she lived. That was the plan, then, and it was what she wanted.
Daemon laughed, absurd, “What?” What was this? His loved niece would run from him before he did anything at all—before he had her for him at all? “For how long?”
Naera blinked, and sat behind her desk, facing Daemon, feeling his anger and his irritation rise slowly, arduously. How long? She had no idea—hours, perhaps, to hold her for just hours, or months, to pray for fortune and receive it thus? She would discover when she meets Melisandre, when she holds Melisandre, and never before that. Her uncle leaned over the desk, pointed, and too close to her once again, and she answered, “I do not know.”
He laughed again, and she stared into his lilac eyes and saw the growing fire and the urge to hurt. There was no regret, however, because she knew that it was now or never that she reveals her truths. It would only burn him brighter if he grew more attached. R’hllor, Naera broke their gaze, and saw below, laying on the floor, the very letter Melisandre had written her. My Love, she had written, and it only strengthened Naera’s heart, like a mending wall built of brick and passion to hold her crumbling resistance together.
“I have a friend I need to meet,” she stated in simplicity, “Alone, kepus,” definitive, and he clashed his teeth together, gritting and furious. You do not own me yet, and nor will you ever, she wanted to say, but she doesn't. He would know soon if he refused to accept it now, that her family meant little in the face of freedom.
“Now,” Naera shook her head, relaced her blouse and asked, “What has your dear nephew been up to, as of late?” Avoid the subject further. She liked to avoid the teenage boy also, partially for her peace of mind and mostly for his safety. She wouldn’t want any daggers struck in his throat after some troubling comments.
Daemon went silent, took a step back, and she knew that he wanted to scream, to blame, to hurt her, but he only sat where he had, and answered calmly, with civility, "Whores, drinking, defiled a few maids—” He was being nice, she realised, but a part of her wished that she didn’t. It only painted her as the villain, when she knew that she wasn’t at fault at all.
“Against their wills?” She stood straight, fast, too fast, almost, and asked, pointedly, “How many?”
“Two or three, quite recent,” and for a boy barely of age, too many. Better than proving his inadequacy as an heir would be to establish his inadequacy as a royal of any descent. This would prove valuable, after all.
Naera paused for a moment. Elysabeth would be brave enough—no, adventurous enough, to consider being defiled, surely, if her friend’s temperament hadn’t flipped over without notice, and if she could guarantee her safety…
“Oh, kepus,” Naera grinned, the heat of minutes past forgotten, and calmness and tranquillity washed over her, “This shall be grand.”
Notes:
have patience, reader
Chapter 5: Khaleesi
Summary:
Another day, another vision, another lack of silence in the Godswood.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Naera wore white to breakfast—a loose white dress to beat the summer heat, and let the sun burn her bare arms as she slowly walked to her father’s solar. Family meals, she mused, resisting the urge to spin on her heel. She felt inexplicable and complex, but the sensations boiled down to simplicity in pleasure. She felt fine, in every meaning of the word. Free.
The corridors of the Red Keep leading up to the King’s chambers were naturally guarded, armoured men with white capes raising curious eyebrows as she walked with a dazed smile on her face, head of black waves left loose. She hadn’t seen her father, her sister, or anyone other than her maids and Daemon and Alicent, in weeks.
She had avoided them, almost, but then again, she had no cause to speak to them if they saw no reason to meet with her. A knight stood outside the King’s chambers, with a brandished Morningstar sword, clear green eyes and coal-black hair, but the clear indication of green in his chosen features made her frown. Ah, Queen Alicent’s sworn sword, “You must be Ser Criston Cole,” she smiled, dazzling, shining, bright and lively, and almost innocent, were it not for the Valyrian Steel dagger at her waist, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She shook his hand, much to his hidden confusion, and a thought came to her head as she peered at his features. Kingmaker, whatever that could mean. She exchanged pleasantries and entered her father’s chambers.
She entered to face a plethora of plates and cutlery, and a spread of fruits and breads and cheeses and meats. Her father was helping himself to some plum slices, and Rhaenyra attempting to assist him, while Alicent tended to her youngest son, Daeron. Jacerys and Lucerys bickered with each other, as well as with the others, and Aemond spoke in hushed tones with his sister Helaena.
“You came,” her father smiled, and she made her way to greet him with a kiss on his cheek. “I like the hair,” he added with a fondness that made her cringe. Hair like Alicent?
“Of course,” I keep my word, she didn’t say, and took a seat beside her good-brother Laenor, away from the children and close to her father. Naera took some bread and fruits but took no plum slices. She had liked plums if her father recalled at all.
“Now, what is this I hear about a tourney at the wedding?” Viserys began with furrowed eyebrows, gazing at the dark wavy curls wound around your head, biting away at cheese and bread. Ah, there goes the illusion of a functioning family. She had seen Dothraki bloodriders hold greater affection for their Khal’s horses than her father did for her comfort.
“You always enjoyed them, did you not?” Naera questioned instead, earning a chuckle from her father. A tourney could raise some bitter memories for her father, and to some depth, she wanted that. She wanted him to remember her mother, to remember Aemma, who died by his command. She wanted him to remember how Alicent came into his life.
“I am much too old to enjoy much, daughter, but a feast—”
“Alright,” Naera interrupted, “A feast shall be fine in the stead of jousting, I suppose, if you insist,” There, and there’d be plenty of opportunity to get Aegon very drunk and stage a misdemeanour of the gravest nature.
“There is no reason we cannot have both,” Laenor suggested. Of all the folks in this new and expanded family, Naera had decided that Laenor Velaryon tried his best to make her friend, be it with suggestions like these or with his general demeanour. He was alright.
“Very well,” Viserys agreed, almost chuckling, and irked an eyebrow at her plate, “Take some plum slices,” and lifted his plate to her, “you used to love them as a girl.” Naera smiled and loaded her plate.
He remembered, and as insignificant as it may seem, it mattered to her. She felt nearly guilty for what she had planned on orchestrating with Daemon. It would drain her father of colour, and in moments such as these, she wished to retract her plans completely.
“How do you even recall?” An annoyed Aegon called out. A spoilt child always burns when one showers another with attention, and the saying had never run truer. “Years have passed since you even met,” but his words had no poison that could be reprimanded. It was in his tone, all his ire and his irritation, and his flaws. It was also in his deeds.
“When you have a child of your own, dear brother,” Rhaenyra started with a glance at Helaena, “you shall learn how the most minute facts do not flee the mind,” but the fear that passes over Helaena’s face, and the regret that shadows over Aemond’s lips, as Aegon rolls his eyes is something strange.
Naera brushes it off. It is not her place to interfere, and it shan’t be for very long, indeed.
She turns her eyes to Rhaenyra, who smiles back, fake and bitter, as Alicent settles down next to her husband and speaks, “The wedding nears just three moons, does it not?” Rhaenyra turned back to her food, bitter, bitter, bitter, and then to her son Joffrey, just three name-days old, and tended to him.
“Yes, it does,” Viserys spoke before he thought, and then perhaps the thought of his brother wedding his little daughter overcame him, so he went silent. It was your decision, father, Naera wanted to guilt him, to coax him, to make him hurt. She couldn’t.
No, because whence the wedding came, she would put down the Hightowers and all would be well. She would flee to Dragonstone, and when her sister is secured as heir, she will mount dear Wisestone and flee east to wherever she wished. Her due would be paid and her duties fulfilled. She smiled also, something easy to be confused with the bliss a young maiden would feel filling her heart upon the mention of her impending nuptials.
No, the wedding was nearing, and then the Greens would fall.
In the weeks nearing the royal wedding of Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen, brother to King Viserys Targaryen, former Prince of Dragonstone, former King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, the Rogue Prince, and the former claimant Lord of Runestone, and Princess Naera Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, the Silver Knight, the Master of the Mereenese Pits, a Red Priestess of Asshai, one of the Thirteen of Qarth, a former Khaleesi of the Dothraki, the Bane of the Unsullied, the Scholar from Westeros, and former consort to the heir to Sunspear, tragedy struck.
King Viserys’ cousin, the very woman whose throne he had been given, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and later Velaryon, wife of the Sea Snake, lost her only daughter, Lady Laena Velaryon, during childbirth. Her blood brother, Lord Laenor, was the lord husband to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, and Lady Laena’s two daughters, Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena, now left to be raised by their father, a Yunkish nobleman, had been betrothed to the two oldest sons of Princess Rhaenyra, in classic Valyrian custom.
The family grieved the loss of Lady Laena greatly, other than Princess Naera herself, who had never met the woman in question prior to her death. Tragedy once again struck, near immediately, as all the members of House Targaryen gathered at Driftmark, the seat of power of House Velaryon, for the proper rites to the dragon rider’s death. Queen Alicent Hightower’s second son, Prince Aemond, stole Lady Laena’s dragon, Vhagar, the very dragon ridden by Visenya, and claimed the beast for himself.
This was in the great controversy because all had presumed that Lady Rhaena, the young daughter of Laena, would claim her mother’s dragon as she did not have one for herself. This caused a great disagreement, as Princess Rhaenyra’s children, Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, as well as Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena, discovered Prince Aemond in the midst of committing the act. A brawl ensued amongst the children, and Prince Aemond lost an eye to Princess Rhaenyra’s children.
This heightened the strife in House Targaryen to a great extent, as Queen Alicent demanded that Prince Lucerys have his eye put out by her in exchange for blinding her son’s eye, and in the big disagreement that ensued, it was discovered that the cause behind the brawl was Prince Aemond’s snide declaration that Princess Rhaenyra’s children were bastards, by calling them “Strongs”, thereby referring to the rumours of the Princess’ affairs with Lord Commander Harwin Strong.
When questioned, Aemond let it go that it had been Prince Aegon that had told him of such misdeeds, who in turn claimed that “everybody knows”. His foolishness, however, would return to harm him, as King Viserys put down any questions of her oldest daughter’s children as being illegitimate.
Following that, he also declared that Queen Alicent and their children were to return to King’s Landing and remain there, while Princess Rhaenyra confines herself to Dragonstone with her children and lord husband, following her sister, Princess Naera’s wedding.
While this seems as cruel as a declaration by the King to order the removal of his daughter from the political scene, it is important to remember that the rightful seat of the heir to the Iron Throne, since the Conquest, has been at Dragonstone. The King’s decision to confine Princess Rhaenyra, the very Princess of Dragonstone was not as much a neglection of her status, but instead a finalized blow to any prospects of Prince Aegon sitting on the Iron Throne in her stead.
The Greens, however, would not surrender easily and continued their struggle for power against the King’s wishes.
Naera wanted to laugh.
She had spent barely any time in Westeros and had, in that time, written Sixteen (King’s Landing I), Seventeen (Driftmark I), Eighteen (Driftmark II), and was halfway through Nineteen (Driftmark III – King’s Landing II). Driftmark had been eventful if her half-brother stealing the largest dragon of the time, losing an eye and openly questioning the legitimacy of her nephews could be considered much.
It had only spurned Daemon on—he seemed eager, and eager to ruin Alicent’s children’s reputation, while she had begun worrying for Rhaenyra. Her sister had stopped attending family meals, as did her lord husband, and all her children, choosing instead to leave Alicent's children with the King.
Breaking fast with her family felt like dining in a grimy pit of spiders.
There was some good news, of course, like the impending arrival of Elysabeth Tyrell to the capital, and her agreement to their ploy. It would work out perfectly, and even if it did not, none would be harmed. Another morsel of joy came with Melisandre’s letters, which seemed to arrive faster and more frequently. She had begun to journey, and it made Naera smile—oh, for we shall meet again, ‘tween sand and salt, when the sun dips below the sea for hours spent in delight in your embrace, and the hours neared frantically, she could feel it so, in the thundering and hammering of her heart, in the flicker of every candle’s flame, and perhaps, even Daemon could tell, when her eyes glossed and sparkled for no reason as they spoke, and she sighed incessantly and sweated and crawled away from his casual embraces even further.
She would hold her red woman in her embrace soon, and in anticipation, she had begun painting her lady love with the utmost care and patience. Her planned visits to Wisestone, or Daemon, or the Godswood to work on her papers had all dwindled, and she spent hour after hour in her solar, surrounded by the finest colours gold could buy, as she struggled to recall every line and curve of Melisandre’s body.
The painting was in its process, and Naera was focused for the longest while on perfecting those beautiful expanses of skin and flesh, from her sharp cheeks and melancholy, but burning eyes, to her neck, and then lower, and lower…this painting would be scandalous for display, she realised and hid it from her maids. She would always rest it behind herself, facing the wall, and rest another painting, a landscape she had abandoned weeks ago, on the side that faced the room. It was the perfect disguise—to be hidden by something nearly identical to itself.
Melisandre had taught her that one, in a way, but that was a tale for another moon to recall.
My Princess, the last she had received, just the previous night, had read, your marriage nears thus, but I saw in the flames that you intend to make the day of another’s stage. I wish you only success in your endeavours, with no mention of her journeys. Strange, cryptic, the very epitome of her.
On this fine day, Naera was being fitted for her dress, nearby her closet, away from the portrait and the papers and weapons. The dressmaker was a gentlewoman, frail and soft and sweet and meek and timid. Boring, she’d love to say, but as she fastened her first trial at a gown onto Naera’s chest, she wondered if this is how Daemon saw her.
Gentle. Meek. Fragile. Probably, she knew, with the way her refusal all those dusks ago had slid off his mind as do silks over the skin, without a blemish. He was just as forward, if not more, buying her gifts he knew she’d love, and then leaning too close and then kissing her, soft and then fast, and every once, in a while, she’d forget to resist.
“Well,” Rhaenyra had returned to the scene, thankfully, as the wedding neared, and was as a calm, tempering force on her soul as the green wench was a poisoning arrow on her temperament. “This one does finely,” she grinned at Naera and joined her side, before the mirror, and began smoothing the fabric around Naera’s chest and waist.
White, embroidered with flowers in beige, with a neckline hugging her collar too closely and a skirt hooped and large and covered in meshes and laces. No.
Naera shook her head, “Too white,” for she was anything but a pure, dainty maiden, and she scoffed when Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. Her sister adjusted the fabric by the shoulders, tugging it behind and holding it in place.
“The next one, then,” Princess Rhaenyra directed the dressmaker.
Naera sighed, collapsing onto a chair, and said, “Why don’t you choose?”
Her sister shook her head and sent the dressmaker away, taking a seat by Naera’s side and raising each dress to stare it down. Her eyes held melancholy of a sort, like a great regret chained away at her core that poured out in invisible tears down her spirit.
Naera laid her head back on her chair. It was about Daemon, of course, it was. The way she saw it, Naera would be happier with Laenor, free to travel the world and spend her life with her lady love, as Daemon would certainly be happier with Rhaenyra. Fate had played a dangerous, ill-fixed game with the four, and denied them all joy while forbidding them all choice.
No.
“Rhaenyra,” Naera began, turning to her sister, taking her hands and holding them tight, “Cry over your losses openly if you will, but live never by my side with an unquiet spirit,” and she leaned forward to embrace her sister, who smelled vaguely of milk and dragon.
“I am well, Naera,” Rhaenyra told her when they parted, but refused to meet her eyes. She instead busied herself with the fabrics, pulling up something in grey patterned with silver, “I choose this,” and raised the gown to Naera’s inspection.
It was a darkened grey, but light enough to respect tradition. It widened past the waist to just spread off at the ankles, like a ballgown, Naera thought, but with silken sleeves to cover her arms and a narrow waist adorned with clear jewels. Perhaps, a ruby could be switched out amongst them, a memoir of actual love to dangle against Naera’s breast as she wed Daemon. Perhaps, the fire within could lend her the strength to see it through and then walk away.
“Very well, sister,” Naera smiled. It would do just fine for the sham her wedding was sure to end as.
The sea is dry. There is dust and dying shrubbery behind the mountain pass, where the sandy cliffs conjoin, and the sun peeks past. There were horses, many, many horses, and a man, or a woman, or a child mounted on each one, armed with sickles, dressed in leather. Dothraki.
The Great Grass Sea is dry.
Naera saw scales—gruesome, brown and black and charred and horrendous. She saw jaws lined with teeth, hungry, bloody, filthy. She saw wings, scaly and fleshy, but grazing the sandy dust by the grounds. Zaldrizes. A Dragon.
It was that woman again. The Breaker of Chains. She sat on the dragon’s back, staring down at the men on horses.
The woman had her white hair braided in part, the other curls dangling down her shoulders, flourished by the wind. She was dressed in leather, by the way of the Dothraki, and sat upon her dragon, and she said, loud and clear, she commanded with every word, “Ei khal, fin thir nakhaan okke sen dothrakhqoy, aloji qisi mae m’avijazeri athdinar mae,” Every khal, who ever lived, chose three blood riders to fight beside him and guard his way. The men on horses calmed their creatures, blood rushing through their veins.
“Vosma anha vos khal.”
But I am not a Khal.
“Anha vo vokkak sen dothrakhqoy.”
I will not choose three bloodriders.
No. She was a Khaleesi. The Breaker of Chains was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. The Khaleesi of all the Dothraki.
“Anha okkak ei yeri.”
I choose you all.
“Anha aqafak san ale yeroa ei Khaloon ray qaf khalasaroon mae,” I will ask more of you than any khal has ever asked of his khalasar.
“Hash yeri adothrae hrazef ido yomme Havazzhifi Kazga?” Will you ride the wooden horses across the Black Salt Sea? Every Dothraki warrior, now bloodrider, raised his spear, his sickle, and his sword up at their leader and swore some vow of allegiance with a shattering roar. Yet, the Dothraki had never sailed—the Dothraki do not sail. Me nem nesa. It is known.
Yet, for her, they would. For their Khaleesi, they would break the laws, the bonds, and the faiths of their ancestors forging. They would bow to her might, for she was no man. She was a Targaryen, and closer to a god than to a man.
“Hash yeri vaddrivi dozge anni ma khogaroon shiqethi mori majin vohhari okrenegwin mori?” Will you kill my enemies in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses? Yes, they answered, surely, but the noise drowned it out, the shrill neighing of their horses as though they could discern their riders’ minds.
“Hash yeri vazhi anhaan Rhaeshis Andahli, jin azho me Khal Drogo astasqoy mehas hatif Maisi Krazaaji kash shieraki vitihir asavvasoon?” Will you give me the Seven Kingdoms, the gift Khal Drogo promised me before the Mother of Mountains as the stars looked down in witness? The warriors, all the different khalasars, under all those different khals. Those khals were dead now, and the forces were united. They were united under her.
“Hash yeri m’anhoon, ma jinne m’ayyeyaan?!” Are you with me, now and always?! They clashed their weapons against their chests and breasts, promising their hearts to the Targaryen warrior, to the conqueror.
Chaos erupted, as the men closest and farthest declared her with pride, raising their weapons to pledge their allegiance, roaring in acceptance of her rule. They cried, every single one, “Ze Qoyi qoy!” Blood of my blood. You are the blood of my blood, Khaleesi.
Khaleesi.
Naera awoke in a cold sweat, drenched, breathless and lost.
Sunlight poured with ease through the open windows of her chambers, illuminating her surroundings in the glowing gold that came with dawn. Her mouth felt dry, as dry as a desert, perhaps.
Khaleesi.
Targaryen. Breaker of Chains. Mereen. Three Dragons. Conqueror. Queen. Dothraki. Khaleesi. Khal Drogo. Rhaenys by her side. Sylvie Rhaenys,
Wise Rhaenys. She needed more—these glimpses, these random sixth senses were not enough. She needed more to piece this together.
Visions in the flames. The Dothraki Grass Sea. Khaleesi.
She wondered what occurred after she left. Had the bloodriders taken over, fought for control, killed, and won? Were one of them now leading her khalasar?
No.
Roq’ko’s Khalasar. It wasn’t her khalasar. It was not her burden to bear. No. She wouldn’t wonder. She wouldn’t think. She wouldn’t let her curiosity make her worry about what she has already left behind. She will not be shackled. She will be free.
Naera had made her choice, and she did not regret it. They had tried to keep her with them—Freya and Roq’ko, and she had refused. They had tried to force her, and she had fought. It had been her choice, her choice, and not one made by circumstance. It had been her decision to leave them alone, and it had been for the best.
She felt dry, scratchy and blistered and burnt.
Did it ever rain in King’s Landing? Naera couldn’t recall.
She laid back against the hedges of her spot in the Godswood, a bronze dusk towering over the horizon. The air was cold and wet, the kind one would feel before the rain—before a hurricane, or a storm that would devastate the crops and ruin the lives of thousands. She knew those storms too well, but her skin was still as dry as a forgotten plot of sand.
She did not carry her journals this time. She sat only in silence, feet crossed and arms folded. Defiant, to a God, surely, but she could not bother. She knew the gods, trusted them, and trusted their idiocy. She’d survive their wrath once again.
Hark, footsteps. She seems to never have silence in the Godswood. The steps were loud, and confident, breaking twigs and dried leaves without a care for those who prayed. Daemon. Naera sighed, letting her head drop down in agitation. The silence had been splendid, had it not?
“There you are,” he greeted, almost, and climbed over the tall hedge to sit by her side, “Laenor was looking for you. What’s that about?” A mention of her good brother made her curious—Laenor never searched for her, never bothered her, and that was what she loved best about him. On this fine day, yet, the sourness in Daemon’s voice made her smirk.
“Don’t be jealous, uncle,” Naera clicked her tongue, “it doesn’t become you,” Naera folded her knees up, and hugged them to her chest as another headache plagued her countenance. Daemon twirled a finger around her blackened curls which never quite settles within her braids, and he dragged a heavy hand down her back, comforting.
“What’s wrong?” Ha.
Where would she even begin? Her headaches, and her visions, and that she had hardly seen Wisestone three times since her arrival at the Capital, all those months ago, but she couldn’t be bothered to make the time, or that the wedding was nearing and she needed it to be done with, but none of it mattered when all she could think about was that tribe of raiders, robbers, rapers who had called her Khaleesi.
She heard voices, every now and again, often of that very woman, even when she did not sleep. Valar Morghulis, another voice echoed in Naera’s mind, shrill enough for a woman’s, soft and gentle, reeking of oppression, but with an able tongue which screamed translator, and then the voice of the conqueror answered, All men must die, but we are not men. It made Naera want to smile. No.
Naera sighed, “Nothing—it is nothing;” but irked an eyebrow then, “Laenor? Whatever for?”
“And Rhaenyra. They had one of the Dragonkeepers with him,” and Naera shot to her feet, eyes widened. What? “When? Where?” but the Silver Knight was already climbing over the tall bushes to haste her way out of the Godswood. The dragonkeepers? Whyever, would they need her? She had not—
Naera ran with stumbling steps but caught herself from falling over and eventually made it to the exits. Rhaenyra stood there, alone, frantic, glad to see her sister, breaking the fashion of the previous days in which they had been positively avoiding the other.
“Naera,” she caught her by the shoulders, gasping, “Wisestone is gone.”
Notes:
I referred to the original dialogue scripts for the Dothraki phrases, so I don't THINK there should be any issues
I know that its a little random but
yeah
Chapter 6: Wisestone
Summary:
Naera visits the dragonpits with Daemon, Rhaenyra and Laenor, and settles on a conclusion. The day does not end sweetly, however.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Princess Naera Targaryen had had a dragon egg chosen for her before her birth, as is Valyrian custom. Her father, King Viserys I, had chosen for his second child, one from the very last clutch laid by Visenya’s Vhagar. By the accounts of the court and verbal anecdotes, the egg had been the most ordinary of Vhagar’s last clutch, which was surprising when considering that, of the five eggs of Vhagar’s final clutch, two had never hatched, one had birthed a creature which burst into flames and died immediately after, and the last had been terribly diseased.
The egg given to the young princess was as ivory pale as her Valyrian descended hair, circled and tinged with silver and gold, and had hatched when the Princess was a nameday old. She had taken the young beastling to Dorne following her betrothal to Prince Raiden Martell and had escaped Dorne, after Prince Raiden’s death, on dragonback also.
She had named the silver-white wyrmling Wisestone, acknowledging his wisdom and his stone-like scaling. She described the dragon’s behaviour and habits at length in her journals, pointing out how it adored jewels and gold and anything that shone and glimmered at all, and his preference for human flesh over animal meat. She also noted of the dragon’s personality, stating how Wisestone was aloof, and that he reminded her of a pale-furred wandering Cheshire cat in the Water Gardens named Godred. Wisestone never yearned incessantly for the Princess’ attention, and while both ride and rider held great love for the other, neither needed the other at every passing moment, unlike some others, such as Princess Rhaenyra and her mount, Syrax, both of whom had had a very strong attachment to the other.
Wisestone had been her constant companion throughout her journeys in Essos, for better, or for worse. Following her journals left at the Citadel post demise, the Princess had suffered in the Dothraki Grass Sea because of her dragon, as the horse riders had been intent on naming her a witch to be burnt or hung, and her dragon a horse-eating beast to be slain. Their attempts at burning the Targaryen princess had not concluded well for the Dothraki, however, and she had left the seas unscathed once her business had concluded.
In pure opposition to the troubles she faced in the Grass Sea, the Princess had never been more glad of having Wisestone by her side as she had while she explored the reaches of the Shadowlands. As a land of death and dragons itself, Asshai was a region Wisestone had immediately, in Princess Naera’s words, “almost declared home”, and had formed itself a lair by the sea also, adorned with carcasses of sailors and wanderers as well as the stolen fineries and gold of merchants.
A few moons past her arrival on Dragonback to the capital city of King’s Landing, Wisestone had made himself a home in the Dragonpits, adorned with the usual bones and gold, but with a surprising number of jewels also. The keepers of the Pit are on record as having made it a rule to remove all gems and gold from themselves before making their way to feed Wisesetone, for the twinkle of rubies could break the dragon’s control within seconds.
Just days before the wedding of Princess Naera and Prince Daemon, the keepers record the silver dragon as having gone missing, as his lair had been discovered empty during the evening meals. This record is conflicting because although the proceedings of the Small Council on that date record a discussion of the missing silver dragon as having taken place, there were no comments by Princess Naera in any of her journals. Thus, the most reliable and important source of information in this matter is absent, and the details of the situation are up for speculation.
The dragonkeepers are said to have blamed the princess herself for her neglect of her companion, as she had failed to make hours for visitations.
Every dragon of Valyrian heritage knows some inkling of its unlived past. Balerion the Black Dread had been borne in Valyria but brought to Dragonstone soon after, and in 54 AC, had fled back to the cursed lands with its then rider, Princess Aerea Targaryen. The keepers had probably recounted the tale to Princess Naera, who, by all evidence, would have staunchly refused her dragon as having ties to Valyria past blood at all.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
The Dragonpits were shrouded in darkness, the stench of rotting flesh, and iron, and blood, and flame thick and matted in the humid air. There were chains on the floor, Naera could see their dark shadows, but she did not wish to learn who suffered its misfortune. She walked half a step behind the old dragonkeeper who spoke only her mother tongue, as he led her, and Daemon, and Laenor, and Rhaenyra down to the lair of Wisestone.
The stone floor was damp and sticky, perhaps with urine, or blood, or both, and it was all so terribly dark. There was only ash, coal, pitch black, and Naera saw little swirls of blue and violet dance in the darkness. Perhaps it was the reflection of the fire held by the man to lead their way on a matted pane of darkness, perhaps she had simply fallen past the brink of insanity. Or, perhaps, those changing shapes that resembled whips and kneeling men were another vision of her making. The darkness made her chest feel heavy, pushed a weight down on her and made her gasp to catch another lungful of the wet air.
Naera could hear hissing, and breathing, from every direction, and she could feel warm air brushing down her neck. Sweat pooled at her forehead, little crystal-like droplets that glimmered in the flames of the torch the man held. She stared at the fire, at the cackling swirls of yellow and gold, and its very core that glowed blue, and she could have sworn that she saw a glimpse of silver scales. Wisestone.
The keeper stopped on dry ground, lighting a second wooden torch and handing it to Naera, who held onto it with uncertainty. She could see something sparkle in the near distance, a changing glitter which called to her. The fire burned warm against her skin, and she took two, three, four steps, until her feet hit something solid, and the sound of dropping metal alarmed the group.
“Tyne dārilaros,” the dragonkeeper was an aged man with wrinkles gracing every last inch of his face, but Daemon was more confused by what he called Naera. Second princess, in the brashest of translations, and the disdain in the old man’s voice did not go unheard by any. “Sylvie dōrenka…”
“Wisestone,” Naera corrected absently, eyes glossing at the sight of jewels and gems and gold scattered by her feet, “ñuhyz zaldrizes Valyrīhy issa daor,” my dragon is not Valyrian. Her dragon had never seen Valyria, never breathed its air, never laid talons on its ashen, cursed soil. Her dragon was not Valyrian, not to her, who believed that heritage is chosen and not assigned at birth.
Wisestone’s lair in the Dragonpits was new, barely lived in, but already adorned with bones of sheep and men licked clean and jewels snatched carefully from their decaying bodies. Naera stared down at the place he had made home—at the emptiness of it, besides the jewels—diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and more rubies. There were so many rubies, and carcasses, and took slow, careful steps despite the absence of a warm, deadly beast sleeping by dusk.
Naera stared at the cavelet adorned with gold and tinged with blood, at the little crack on the ceiling that let the light of the setting sun pour in, making every silver chain and coin twinkle in the darkness.
“Aōha zaldrīzes sōvegon naejot Valyria kostos,” the dragonkeeper refused to speak the name chosen by Naera, instead saying, your dragon may have flown to Valyria.
Naera shook her head. Wisestone—her Wisestone would not travel to a land unknown, not without her. He would not call that place his home, which he had never seen. “Daor,” she refused, “Ēza daor.” No, he has not.
“Naera when did you last visit him?” Rhaenyra knelt by the gentle scratches against the stony ground where Wisestone would have slept, running her hand along the longest of dents. Naera could not recall.
“Ēza issare bōza,” she admitted, it has been long, “but he wouldn’t…no,” her companion would not have abandoned her this way, she knew. Wisestone did not require frequent visits and loving embraces. Wisestone did not require her constant mind and thought.
“Pār konir sagon se drīve, dārilaros,” the keeper answered, clinking his staff against the floor. Then that is the reason, princess.
Naera closed her eyes, shaking her head, relentless, “Emagon ao eptan pōnta qilōni gaomagon ry Zaldrīzesdōron?” Have you asked the keepers at Dragonstone? Naera picked up a ruby dripping with blood, circular, encased in gold, and clear as glass, with a broken tooth stuck to its back. Next to it was another ruby, a sharp shade of carmine or pepper that shone orange in the firelight, as large as her hand, and matted with browning claret. How?
“Issa, konīr iksis daorun arlie konīr,” Yes, there is nothing new there. “Valyria iksis se mērī udligon. Ziry zȳho iksis lenton.” Valyria is the answer. It is his home. No. Valyria is not his home, Naera knew. A place one has barely seen can never be one’s home. King’s Landing was not his home, neither was Dragonstone, or Valyria.
No. No.
Sunspear?
Wisestone had grown up in the fields adjoining the Dornish capital. He had flown through its desert grass and fed on its wildlife. He had grown there to his towering height, taken flight there, he had lived there. He had also lived in Essos. He had lived with her, in the Grass Seas and in the lands adjoining the Slaver’s Bay when she had fought alone for her life. He had flown her to Naath, to Lys, and Qarth—he had lived in Essos for as long as she had.
Suddenly, the rubies made sense. The flaming, blood-soaked rubies made complete reason and sense, as clear as the crystal waters of a Northern stream when summer broke their ways.
She hadn’t been the only one to yearn.
“Sȳndorion.” The land of shadows, “Ēdas iā lenton isse se Sȳndorion.” He had a home in the Shadowlands, by the stony ports where he preyed on rich merchants and fleeing maidens alike, where he was worshipped for his fire by the priests and priestesses of R’hllor, and she had left him to his art, whilst she learned another for herself.
“Ahsī?” The dragonkeeper sounded unsure.
Naera stood, dropping the rubies on the gold with a clatter, hand now stained with red, “Asshai. There is no place else.” Was this the answer? Was she to journey to Asshai now that she knew Melisandre was no longer there? It was absolutely the kind of cruel joke the Lord of Light would play, she knew.
There was only one way to get some answers.
She raised the torch to level with her eyes, staring at the lapping flames and charred wood at its core. She could feel Laenor’s confusion, Rhaenyra’s curiosity, Daemon’s irritation and the dragonkeeper’s annoyance. She brought the flame down. Later.
“Naera,” Daemon took her free hand, the bloody one, despite the darkness, and asked, “Do you—will you go to Asshai?” Concern, certainly, for if her uncle cared for anything, it was his dragon, Caraxes, and he expected her to worry the same. She couldn’t travel to Asshai. It would take weeks to reach by sea and if she failed to find him, several other weeks to return. She couldn’t.
Naera shook her head. “I shall write to a friend in Asshai,” Eraine, or Velaena, or Aertha, or any of the other Red Priestesses she had known who still resided in the lands of death.
“To Melisandre?” Naera flinched at hearing her name from Daemon’s mouth, and the memory of that afternoon in the Godswood, when he had looked o’er her portrait and asked her about the language of Asshai descended on her. She smiled, broken, and shook her head.
“Someone else,” but did not tell him why she couldn’t write to that Red Woman. She followed the keeper out of the pits, her heart a little lighter as her mind grew heavier with the possibility of Wisestone being safe and glorious in Asshai—yes, that was enough. The thought of her companion safe and revelling was sweetness.
Laenor and Rhaenyra left them there, claiming to take to the Small Council to inform the king of Naera’s theories, and she was left alone with the disdainful dragonkeeper who grumbled something along the lines of 'never leave a dragon alone,' before departing for his works.
Daemon stared at her, at her lilac eyes that had reddened and dried, and she stared back at him also, at the way he bit the fine skin on the inside of his mouth, right under his lips and to the left, how his nose flared every fifth breath as he searched for words, how he ran his tongue over his teeth, lips still closed, as he found no words. Waiting, waiting, tarrying, and no thoughts came until he settled for a sentence.
“Naera, nyke…” and her uncle embraced her, warmly, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and resting his chin against her forehead. “Ziry kessa mire sagon syz,” It shall all be fine, and yes, he was worried, and fearful, and sweet, almost, but Naera did not care. She knew her dragon, knew his attitude. If he had left her side, it was not her fault. If her had left her side, it was to do someone’s bidding, perhaps even his own.
Naera told him so, “Gaomagon zūzagon daor, kepus,” Do not worry, uncle, “Kostōba nēdenka issa.” He is strong and brave. She held onto Daemon’s waist, feeling warmer, and warmer, and a dizzying spell of sleep washed over her. She let her eyes flicker close, but in the darkness, she saw, clear as a glowing moon on a black night sky, gold. She saw gold, liquid, boiling gold, and she felt its heat, the warm air being blown off a pot of melting gold over a fire she couldn’t see.
Then, it moved, it was picked up by strong, scarred arms, which held its weight with ease and dragged it through the air and tilted it over. Like honey that pours with a glossy temper out of a jar made of quartz, slow, shiny and delightful, the gold poured out of the blackened vessel, and as it fell down, and down, she saw hair—white, silver, but golden under the light—Targaryen hair, she saw, and the head that bore it, as molten gold poured over him, and down it went his eyes, and into his ears, and caked his head of white hair as it charred his skin red. A Prince, perhaps, but no more, for as his silent screams were sung, the gold had hardened thus, and he fell to the floor, dead.
Naera backed away in a step, eyes clenched close to hold onto the sight. A crown for a King, were the words that echoed in her mind. A crown men shall tremble to behold, and she knew, by the depth of the voice that resonated, by the silent screams of the dead prince she never knew, she knew, that if she turned, just a step and another, she would see the Conqueror again, watching.
An ache, sharp, yet dull at the same instance tore through her head, her vision blurring until she only saw the gold again, but its heat had all disappeared. There was pain, hot, blinding, white pain, more urgent than any wound she had suffered, and Naera clawed helplessly at her eyes which burned and ached even more, and tears ran down her face as she tugged at her hair. No, she wanted to beg, as all her sight melted into blinding light.
The last thing she felt was Daemon’s arms holding her up again, as her knees collided with the ground at the Dragonpits, clutching her head in cries. Something warm trickled down her neck, her chin, and her face, but she couldn’t dare open her eyes.
No.
Melisandre sat alone, in a cabin given to her by a Pentoshi merchant. She ran her hand absently over the ruby at her neck and shrugged off her red cloak. It was long past dusk outside her cabin, and she had lit every torch, and every lantern she could find to brighten her room. She wanted no darkness, not even as she undressed, for the night is dark and full of terrors, and any who chooses the darkness is a fool.
She pulled off her boots and layers, and sat again, on the rocking, polished, creaking, wooden chair, caught in just a thin, silken chemise, the very colour of her ruby, and she let her copper locks fall to her shoulders.
She had seen something in her flames three days ere—more flames, lapping up, and down, and sideways along a silken blue fabric, reflective glass and flames there too, and then she had seen his face. A burning home, and after her warning, the merchant had saved half his estate. In whatever remained, he had allotted her a chamber with a promise of any facility he could provide, and she had accepted.
She lit candles, one, two and another two by the windows, three by the bed, another by the mantle above the fireplace, and she had the home servant prepare a blazing hearth for her also. She sat on the floor, sighing at the drag of silk and satin against her knees, as she knelt in front of the fire. Placing her hands on the stone mantle above, she harmonized her balance, with grace, and calm, and began a song to her God.
“R’hllor, I have done your bidding,” she gazed into the fire, unblinking, “Show me once more—show me what I must do, for the night is dark and full of terrors, but your light burns it all away.” She looked into the flames, at the swirling gold and carmine and red, and she saw. She saw faces, one, that split into two, and two, that split into four, then eight, then more, and more, and more, until every face, distinctly different from the last, opened its eyes, and crumbled away.
Melisandre looked closer, eyes narrowing slightly, and she watched as the crumbles morphed into creatures with hammering legs and furious trails—stallions, and they ran, and ran, hundreds at a time, and they ran, until the drumming of their feet against grassy lands faded into chants around a house of hay. Chanting, chanting women, whispers, men, women, children with no faces, just bronzed skin and braided hair. They circled another, standing above them all, a woman with silver hair, gagging, bleeding from the face, no eyes, no nose, just blood, and grime and flesh, and her form rippled and crushed away.
She saw the waves of the fire that burned too blue to be flame—the sea. She must sail, perhaps? She saw those waves collide against each other, and as they met, the twinkling, shimmering, sunlit tops morphed into jewels, intricate and delicate all the same, but the gold turned to silver, and the silver glowed brighter, and brighter until she saw luxury, embroidered silver and iron on ivory skin, silver hair, silver blades, and blades clashed, pouring blood.
She blinked, tears flooding her eyes to keep them from dying out. On, and on, red, hot, thick, delicious, decadent blood poured down, and down acres of ivory, before it all crumbled away with the flicker of the flames.
There, she saw, in the very core where the flames were pale blue, she saw two violet orbs dotted with black, streaked in radius with brown, and blinking eyes that consumed them both, and those clashing steel blades again, and steaming food, and red wine, laughing people in gorgeous dresses, and luxury, and bodies moving in rhythm, syncing, writhing in pleasure, and then red, red, red—red silks, red gems, red blood, red skies, and it all darkened to brown, then black.
Yet, that darkness burned away, the light took its place, and she saw the sea waves, morphing, clashing, colliding, flowing against stone, and rock, and sand, and salt, and a golden orb descended down into the pale, pale waters. She must find Naera.
“I praise you, my Lord, my God,” Melisandre sang, “I shall do as you show me.”
I shall find my Princess.
Notes:
Forgive my Valyrian
Chapter 7: Daemon
Summary:
Daemon thinks back on his life and makes an intriguing but infuriating discovery about Naera. Naera dreams of an old encounter in the Shadowlands.
Notes:
I am aware that Daemon's perspective of the situation has not been properly fleshed out, and this will not completely fill in his situation either, but it is an attempt.
Chapter Text
Daemon Targaryen had lived a life tainted by death, war and distrust. He had fought for a succession which he had been denied, fought for a bride which he had been denied, and fought a war also, the War of the Stepstones, which he had won, only to relinquish his crown in exchange for his brother’s favour and love. His brother had refused to let him join King’s Landing's court in any proper demeanours, refused to specify his place in the line of succession, refused him his chosen bride and refused him another war when the sailors had gotten their crabs again and returned things to the way they had been.
Tap.
Yet, Daemon had said nothing. He had felt nothing new other than the rage on his brother, on those who manipulated him, on his own weakness which had failed him in those wars, and he knew that he would lose again. He would lose, and lose, but the Gods are just, and they shall grant him solace for his losses.
In all his life, Daemon had owned only three things he considered precious—his sword of Valyrian Steel, Dark Sister, with which he had slain and injured and watched life pour out of men faster than he had felt wine pour down his mouth, his Crown of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, won with fire and blood and death and devastation, but it had been his, which he had happily surrendered for his family and his heritage. He prided his heritage, his blood that came from Old Valyria, his fire that had been borne out of dragons, his dragon, Caraxes, the Bloodwyrm, and his family, despite his disapproval of his brother’s weakness in matters of all heirship, diplomacy and action, his older niece’s idiocy in ruining her political position by bearing children which so brazenly lacked Valyrian heritage, and his ingrained hatred for all his brother’s children from his second marriage—the drunkard idiot raper, the miss-eye thieving cunt, the infant whose name resembled his, and the little girl with her bugs and silence. They all meant nothing to him because they weren’t dragons. They were sheep, and dragons should never have mingled with the scum in the first place. The dragons should have flown above the forever, kept to themselves, and never allowed filth into their bloodline. Alas, it had been done, and now the consequences were all that remained to be dealt with.
He could feel a war coming, could feel the calm before the storm that swirled even then. It wouldn’t be soon, not anytime near, but eventually, some little ant will consider himself a King, and all hell would rain down, in fire and blood, and he was not going to let the Greens win.
He would sooner burn them all.
Tip-tip.
He had not known what to make of his brother’s stupidity in forcing another marriage on him after the Bronze Bitch of the Vale—he remembered Viserys’ sentiment when he had stated that Daemon would have everything he had ever wanted—a Valyrian bride, who had been defiled and dirtied by the Dornish and the Dothraki, then wandered off to forbidden lands of shadows and darkness and learning, removed from the line of succession, forgotten by all in Westeros but by a handful of Citadel maesters and cunts who still dared insult her, and then called back, handed to him to salvage and protect, when it was clear from the years of rumours and centuries of legends which she had left behind in her wake, that she was the last person who needed protecting.
It had all been a filthy, patronizing joke to put him in his place and hope for his satisfaction. The stench of the Hightower cunts—of his brother’s beloved, primped and prepared Queen, was all over it. Alicent, he knew, would die by his hand in the war if it ever came, and he also knew that it would. There was a storm already brewing, in every snide comment and disdainful glance at Rhaenyra’s children, at every brandished green or black gown donned by the women for their factions, in every word spoken and every breath taken, the seeds of war had been sown. It was only a matter of time.
Tip-tap.
Perhaps, this is what would set it in place. The death of his bride, his niece, the beloved Silver Knight of the East—no, of the West, where she had grown, but also of the East, where she had been known, and where she still was known. He did not know what had happened, and he would not know ever, perhaps. He did not know why her dragon had fled the pits, why she believed him to have flown to Asshai, why she had torn from his embrace screaming in pain. He did not know anything about her, and Alicent had already mustered that fact for herself.
She had questioned him for her state, blaming him in all but the direct phrases, but the thin watery veil had ripped away when Viserys had snapped at his Queen, and put her down for her words. For once, his brother had been strong, and Daemon would have smiled had it not been under those circumstances.
For all Daemon knew, the Greens could have poisoned her before the wedding. They had enough reason for it, with her quickly growing reputation and her academic splendour, and the fact that she had dragged the Dornish to attend the wedding-Qoren Martell himself, which would provide the opportunity for an alliance. She was resourceful, and brilliant, and principally exotic, as Daemon saw her. It could be them, it probably was, but he had no path to prove their involvement, no method to ruin them, not without her mind and her ideas and her relations. He had nothing without her, and yet, he had nothing of her.
Tap, tap, tap, tapping droplets, were all he heard, those which spilt off Naera’s bedside table and hit the floor beneath, from when he had knocked over a pitcher of water. Tap, tapping, tip, tip, splat, and it sounded a little different every time. Daemon sat alone beside her, staring at her closed eyes and slackened shoulders.
He did not move. He only looked.
He had been surprised, annoyed, understanding and a thousand other things by her resistance—she had run, she had refused, and she had escaped him several times already. She had refused gifts, cut down advancements, and avoided him at every turn, except when she hadn’t.
There were times, and those were the very times which gave him hope, the times when she had not refused him, at the very least, not at first. Sure, he could count the encounters on his fingers and still have half his hand left unsatisfied, and sure, she had crawled away to her writings and her musings and absent gazes and glossy eyes, and those dozens of languages she had mastered and her god-awful penmanship, soon enough afterwards, but the path was clearly set—he’d have her, one day, one night, and forever after, and be satisfied.
He had not been satisfied for very long, with both his material desires and his needs for recognition. His favourite brothels had not seen him since that night, that strange night, when he had held her, kissed her, felt her against his skin, if only for a moment. Like a man far stepped into insanity does not know the pleasure of drawing blood until his first murder, Daemon had never really known the luxury and pleasure that came with his niece—he had been enamoured, even if he realised it hours after his wrath at her declaration faded away, even if he had never quite gotten a taste of her to satisfy his hunger, but he knew then, that perhaps, his brother had been right—he would be satisfied by Naera—he would be made happy by Naera.
Though, not then. She would make him happy, and he'd spend his life trying to do the same, only if he could get her to stay. Dragonstone, alone, he would not tolerate. He had never acknowledged the demand again. He would not accept it. He needed her.
Her skin had gained an oily, greasy sheen, perhaps from the sweat, perhaps from the ointments he had seen Maester Mellos spread across her eyes. There is no sign of a wound, they had said, adamant, pulling down her lids to make him see the rosy flesh and whitened surfaces of the eyes. There was no wound, but he had seen her weep crimson.
Where had the blood come from, which they had themselves seen her matted in, which they had seen dry and crust on her cheeks and drip torturously slow down the sides of her neck? If there was no wound, there could have been no blood, and there could have been no pain, but she had screamed aloud for all to hear. He hadn’t been able to help her at all, besides holding her still, before the maesters dragged her away to her chambers and examined her sleeping form for hours.
Incompetent, all of them, Daemon had decided when they only prescribed sedatives and anaesthetics and ointments for the scratches, she had inflicted on herself. He had spoken to his grace, hoping to have his brother send for Eastern healers, for Naera had certainly trusted them more than the Citadel’s finest. Viserys had promised to try, but the way his brother had paled and sweated and stumbled away from her chambers, after nearly everyone had left, told Daemon enough that he wasn’t going to make it to his desk that night.
He needed to send for healers himself, as fast as he could, before hope could be lost—just, that he knew none. He had had no need for such healers, and who was he to ask, besides the doubtful old maester? Not enough, he knew.
Naera’s skin had taken to a sickly pale hue, growing green, then mustard yellow, then back to the face which reminded him of split cream. There's hardly any point in crying over split milk, she had told him once, and the memory made him close his eyes with ire. Why now, why so close to their wedding, so soon after Wisestone’s disappearance?
He recalled the night in vivid detail, the way her eyes had twinkled as she sought out a devious plan to orchestrate their wishes, the way she had written fast—written, on a desk full of correspondence—written. Daemon stood. There, Naera had known the best and mightiest of Essos, and she had written to many. Surely, he could find something in her study?
The door to Naera’s study creaked open slowly, splintering and heaving under the effort. He stepped inside, a candle held in his hand to guide his way through the darkness.
A lone, golden flame sparkled in the study, on her desk, illuminating a sphere around itself. Daemon crept forward, avoiding collisions with chairs and stacks of books, and lit every candle in his path. He lit many—but there were twice as many left, and even though the room glowed yellow and he could see every scrap of parchment, there were more candles to be lit, too many. He ignored the remainder and walked around her desk, passing a faded landscape in progress.
He pulled her chair backwards a foot, flinched at the shrill dragging that sounded, and then sat down on the ebony cushion. Comfortable, was his first thought, and he dragged the chair towards the desk and settled down. There was an assortment of inks laid out before him—black, blue, red, purple and magenta, he had seen, but he noticed rose, and silver, and a forested green also, alongside bundles of feather quills. There were twine-bound papers, yellowed with age and dusk and tainted with spills and burns, arranged in piles, all around the edges of the desk. Her manuscripts laid before him, every single one of them, and he wondered if he’d need to read them all before finding that which he needed. His eyes glazed over the nearest one, and he could recognize words such as mountain pass and leather making, and he swore, silent, to the Old Gods of Valyria, that he'd read them all one day. He'd read every word written by his lady wife, and appreciate them also.
Daemon began at the first letter on her table. Its seal was broken, covers crumbled, and scanning the contents with haste, he found it to be correspondence with a spice merchant near Pentosh. He referred to the next but discarded it upon noticing a rose emblem at its seal. Tyrell. The next, and the next, and he saw letters by old friends and neighbours in Mereen and Astapor, diplomatic correspondence with Dorne, personal letters to friends and noblemen and women all across Westeros, and political reports from Qarth. He chose not to question the address of that final letter, which called his niece One of the Thirteen of Qarth. It was a tale for another day, and he did not need to pry more than necessary. She’d recite all those tales to him one day, confess every crime and speak of every accomplishment she had endured and committed in her years away. Not today.
The next letter he read was odd. My Love, it addressed, and he stopped in his tracks. He knew that Naera had had lovers in the past, her Dornish prince, her Dothraki relations, rumoured or not, as much as he was irked at their mention, he had never considered her to still hold an affair. It filled him with wrath, almost, burning and irritating, and he brought the letter closer to his eyes, reading the looping, dragging, beautiful penmanship in blood-red ink.
The truth you seek isn’t one I can grant you; Daemon furrowed his eyebrows. A Mystery, a truth sought by his niece, one denied by someone who calls her his Love. You must discover it yourself, for that is the will of the Lord of Light. The will of the Lord of Light? A Priest—a red priest, of all people, then, who his to-be lady wife still loved, but his curiosity rose above his ire at the next statement. I worry that the visions aren’t those granted by the Lord of Light, but I cannot presume. Visions? Naera had never mentioned visions, she had never mentioned any religion of any kind, at all.
Daemon knew that the Red Priests and Priestesses of the Shadowlands, those who preached the faith of R’hllor, watched flames for their visions, and interpreted them for the commands of their God.
You must devote yourself to him, and ask for his blessings of Light, for the night is dark and full of terrors. The night is dark, and full of terrors, and the near hundred candles in her study made sense. The faith of light, from the Shadowlands, where Wisestone had fled. Visions? Her agitation, her headaches, and her behaviours made sense, just another fraction of it.
The letter was unsigned, unmarked, with no emblem on the broken wax seal, just the red ink. Yet, the writing seemed familiar. The looping, rounding, dragging beautiful writing seemed familiar. He leaned back, the parchment still in his hand, and stared at the golden flames around him. He saw nothing in the flames but the flicker of fire, nothing in the light but the surroundings of the study. His eyes narrowed at a portrait, hung across from the desk, of a beautiful face, dressed in red. It was new, he had not seen it on his last visit, but his Naera’s signature by the edge made him curious.
The face was familiar, with its melancholy eyes and copper hair, flaming pupils and downset shoulders. A ruby glimmered at the woman’s throat, shining the same colour as her eyes. She wore red, a red cloak, rosy lips, pale, unblemished skin—ah.
He knew her.
Lady Melisandre, from the journal.
He knew her hand. She had written the letter. She had called his niece Love; she had asked his niece to commit to her faith to solve her visions. What had she hidden from him, from all of them, he did not know.
A clatter, from the bedroom beside him. He shot to his feet, the letter forgotten on Naera’s table, panic rushing up him. No one was set to visit, and the maesters had advised him to leave her alone also. The maids had been forbidden from entrance for the safety, and two members of the Kingsguard had been stationed outside her doors. All incompetent, Daemon knew, and his heart hammered in his chest as he tightened a grasp on his sword and made his way to the bedroom.
Shhh…
Naera’s eyes snapped open. It was dim, but not dark, but too blurry to see anything. Her head dizzied over, hitting something hard as it fell back. The impact sent an ounce of pain through her head, and her vision cleared off.
She stared to her left, and her right, at the ebony frames and iron ornaments she could see and feel, and the ground and seat beneath her moved rhythmically, mimicking steps in sync. She was in a palanquin. All around her, there was red—red curtains, red light, and oh, red woman. Melisandre sat opposite her, with a pale, slender finger to her lip, whispering words she couldn’t hear, sounds that were heard distantly, as though a wall of water blocked and rippled the voices.
Shhh…
Naera reached forth, finding her woman’s skin, and held Melisandre close, lost for words. No, she would not let go. My Love, she heard in her mind, look, and when Naera turned her eyes and she followed the priestess’ direction, she peered out of the partition in the red curtains at the world without.
She saw stone, obsidian stone, towering up, up and high, tinged with green, as the sky shadowed black, and she could see no life, no people, no trees, no plants. There was only a river, a river of glowing green that poured by the very feet of the slave men who carried their palanquin, where it bubbled with a darkness she couldn’t bear to stare into. She could smell the acrid stench of the green liquids, could see the thin layers of steaming vapours they sent up with every slow movement.
Naera let her eyes glaze over their path, and looked up, and there was almost a hole in the sky. Between the swirling, contorted, cursed black storm clouds, at the very centre, was a blast of light, pouring straight down to illuminate a city of black stone and towering palaces, where the glowing, frothing, bubbling, burning green river ended, and winged creatures, the shade of coal and ink, flew round the tallest towers and preyed on ill fish and dying wanderers.
Stygai, the Corpse City of the Shadowlands. Melisandre let the curtain fall, and blocked Naera’s sight. She curled a hand around Naera’s cheek, and dragged her face forward, to stare, red eyes to lilac eyes, and to touch, pale skin to sun-bronzed skin, and she smiled, eyes twinkling, hopeful, glad, happy but with a darkness, mysterious, and oh, so very seductive with those flaming red eyes that shone like stars in the darkness, and the large set ruby at her neck that glowed and pulsed with every breath.
Naera swallowed, struggling to breathe as the air felt sudden and hot and humid, gazing at the red woman’s eyes in her sunken, shadowed sockets, at the unblemished skin of her face, at the fire in her eyes, and she leaned forward, and gave her a kiss. My love, she heard again, in her mind, my Knight, and her kiss grew desperate, a battle bound to be lost, my princess, and Naera gasped, moaned, cried in pleasures unfound, as her eyes opened to bright light, to the sunlight that poured around her.
She sat up, head heavy, eyes drooping, and sighed at the hollowness in her heart. A dream. She looked around, searching for water, but the half-empty jar of milk of the poppy by her bed sent panic through her heart. She remembered, the pain, the gold, the sleep—how long had passed? She went through the jars and bottles she assumed Mellos had left by her side, beside the milk of the poppy. Herbal teas, Essence of Nightshade, ointments and other mild poisons to keep her sedated. Useless.
She reached out her hand towards a bottle by the edge of the desk, its label faded away, but there was an ointment within. What had they done to her? Grasping the glass jar of ointment, she yanked her hand towards herself, hitting the vessel that housed the milk of the poppy down to the floor. It collided against the wet floor with a clatter, but Naera did not care.
She opened the ointment jar, ignoring the sounds that came from her study, and sniffed the substance. There was olive oil, a numbing agent by the burn, wheat or starch for the viscosity—harmless, and useless.
Daemon barged into her bed-chamber from her study, panicked, a hand set on his sword. The serenity of the room died away, and fright, movement, and a rush took its place. Naera did not move, still holding the glass jar, raising an eyebrow at her uncle.
“You’re awake…” he spoke, opening and closing his mouth, unsure of words, searching for the right phrase as though he had a hundred to utter. Oh, he had seen something he shouldn’t have, in her study. He should not have ventured there at all, really. It was an invasion of her privacy, but she knew that he would hardly be bothered, as the man who taught the citizens of King’s Landing to fear the gold cloaks that were supposed to serve them.
He saw her eyes set behind him, at the door to the study, and an inkling of guilt washed over him. He swallowed cautiously.
“How long was I asleep?” Naera set down the jar when her uncle relaxed his grip on his sword, manoeuvring her legs down to the floor. She flinched at the wet sensation at her feet, staring down to discern the source of the icky stickiness. Naera stood on dry floor, dragging her feet against the carpets to dry them, and made for the door.
Daemon crossed the room in three strides. He caught Naera by the arms and pulled her into his embrace, sighing at the way the pained panic ebbed out of his body, and he turned his head to whisper a soft "shhh..." in her ear. He took a step forward, and another, and another, and gently pushed her back onto the mattress, still holding her.
“Too long,” he confessed.
Chapter 8: Three Answers
Summary:
Naera prepares for Lady Tyrell's arrival in the capital and has an interesting family dinner. Daemon learns a little about her past.
Chapter Text
It was roses, roses all the way. On the beds, in the twenty vases laid out on the tables and floors, on the sheets, on the curtains, on the windows, on the very ceiling of the chambers. Everything was filled with roses.
Naera was plucking more roses from the gardens—red, pink, white, yellow, and more, and more, and every flower that resembled a rose at all, was plucked and dethorned and cut diagonally at the stem and dropped into water. There were twelve maidservants with her, all fetching flowers in haste, trying in vain to get her to leave the work to them and take another hour of rest.
Naera did not listen. Everything needed to be covered in the finest roses from the finest florists in the capital. Everything.
“I thought you didn’t like flowers,” Daemon watched her from the edges of the gardens, arms folded, teasing.
“They’re not for me,” Naera answered with a smile, fingers scabbing over from the thorn cuts. It wasn’t good for her, he knew, everyone knew, even the incompetent maesters, who had long ago given up any hope of coaxing the princess to rest. They had ordered a Kingsguard—but she always carried around that dagger he had gifted her. Ser Redmond would survive, surely. A stab to the neck shouldn’t perish such a respected Kingsguard.
“My prince,” Grandmaester Mellos began, hissing at the sight of blood roses in Naera’s hands as she continued her actions, “It is imperative that the princess rests. If you would be so kind, as to—”
“Are you asking me to use force on my lovely niece?” Daemon chuckled, “Get another Kingsguard.” He was enjoying this far too much. He only hoped that Crispin Cunt could be next—that would be amusing. Mellos grumbled his disdain and walked away, glaring at Naera as he left.
“How’s this one?” Naera held up a rose, yellowed and wrinkled with age, withering away, “Good enough for the chamber pot?” Daemon laughed, walking over to her and taking the rose from her hand. He glanced at it for a second, at the spider crawling within, and dropped it to the floor.
“I believe,” he took her scratched, bloody hands, “that is quite enough.”
“Oh, but uncle,” Naera giggled, eyes closed, “She hates roses—it shall be grand. The roses shall be everywhere.” Lady Elysabeth Tyrell, long befriended to Princess Naera, did, famously, hate roses. The lady always argued that anything rained without measure brings abhorrence to its once lover. It is her logic that a Targaryen can come to tire of fire, as a Stark can tire of winter, or a Lannister can tire of being wealthy, or roaring? It did not always hold up.
“Now,” Daemon spoke without thinking, “I believe that you should rest now. Lady Tyrell shan't be here for another day, at best,” and he cursed himself because he would have loved to see the Green Queen’s sworn guard beaten by a barely armed girl—and he knew that she’d win, irrespective. She was Visenya returned, surely, and yet there was no sign of her Vhagar, he twirled a black lock of hair on his finger, swirling the stained hair around his finger. “Any answers from Asshai?”
Naera wiped her hands on her dress, leaving behind carmine and soil-coloured streaks on the silk. “It shall take time by raven. Another week, perhaps,” but the wedding would be upon King’s Landing by then. She turned to the maidservants who had toiled for hours decorating the chambers of Lady Tyrell prior to her arrival at the behest of their Princess, and exhaustion was evident in their sweat-laden faces. Naera directed them, “Away, girls,” and turned to take her uncle’s arm.
The dozen young servant girls, who had probably been happy to receive a summons of service from the princess as close to her wedding, who had probably expected to help with ribbons and hair or jewels and wine, were probably glad to leave to tend to their arms.
“And our plan?” Daemon questioned, quietly.
“We begin.”
The streets of Pentos were loud with trade and bargaining, the occasional wail of a stolen slave and the laughter of rich merchants as they crush the dreams of common labourers. There were men, women, and the occasional children, in cyan blue for those with wealth, in greens and maroons for the middle folk, and dirtied yellows for the labourers and slaves. No, slavery had been long abolished in Pentos due to Braavos, but that had hardly stopped the practice in reality. The slaves were still branded with tears for whores, with hammers for builders and fish for fishermen. Among them, on occasion, is spotted a man or woman with flames drawn across their faces-the slave priests of the Red Temple, but they hardly appeared and hardly wore red.
Amongst them all, between the labouring, harassing, cheating humanity stood a lone Red Woman.
Melisandre of Asshai stood by the ports in Pentos, as she had stood the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, waiting. She was waiting for a ship bearing orange flags with a red sun pierced by a golden spear carrying the richest Dornish Red wine to ever grace the Free City of Pentos. It would also have something—someone a lot more valuable, whom she did not yet know.
She had sent a letter to her knight, a short note of tribute before her big day, to tell her love of the obligation of her position. She had seen in the flames a Targaryen rogue Prince in delight, and Melisandre knew where duty applied.
Naera's duty would come soon, as her entire life, Melisandre had embraced her obligations. Once, it had been to spread her legs when she was still called by another name, and now, she would board that ship, in one way or another, and follow its way to King’s Landing, then row a boat across the Bay of Black waters and reach the ancestral home of the Targaryens. For now, she needed to tarry, even if it took days, if it took nights, if it took weeks and months. She would wait.
“I will win if we joust, my dear,” Daemon said with a scoff.
“How can you be sure, unless we try?” Naera argued.
Laenor was holding his laughter, lips pressed together painstakingly, as he averted others’ gaze. They heard themselves, he trusted, I shall not be the first to laugh. I shall not be the first to blush. I shall not be the first to laugh.
“We could, yes, but I wouldn’t want my dear niece injured and with Maester Mellos of all people on her wedding night,” and King Viserys cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Yes, surely, the thought of his brother fucking his daughter was a little disconcerting.
“Well, I wouldn’t want my sweet and bloodthirsty uncle injured on his wedding night either, but I want to joust,” and Aemond crinkled his nose above his soup, unable to tell if he witnessed love or late between his soon-to-be-wed half-sister and uncle, “and if he isn’t willing to indulge me, then—”
Daemon clicked his tongue, “Don’t be stubborn, it doesn’t become you,” and Aegon was being far too liberal with the wine for a boy of his age. Queen Alicent was staring across the table, counting his glasses, frequently putting the pitchers out of his reach to keep her, by all means, idiot son sane enough to behave.
“Oh, I could say the very same for you, could I not?” Jacerys was intrigued—his aunt was loud and brash, much like his grand-uncle, and he wondered why his mother wouldn’t let him speak to her outside of meals. He also wondered why she always chose the seat closest to his grandfather, the King, and besides his father, and never near him, and Luke, and Aegon, Aemond and Helaena, or Daeron and Joff.
“Fine,” Daemon yielded, taking a sip of Dornish Red from his soon-to-be lady wife’s glass, and added, “When you lose, limagon doar.”
Naera seized his glass of Arbour Red instead and scoffed, “Nyke gaomagon limagon daor, kepus,” I do not cry, uncle, but she was far too drunk, was she not? She had had far too many pitchers of far too strong wine and not nearly enough food to hold it down, and Naera felt giddy and ecstatic. She met his eyes across the table, narrowed and laughing, and revelling in how bothered every adult at the table was.
“Wine?” Aegon asked his uncle, already reaching for a decorated glass jug.
“None for me,” Daemon spoke breathily, and downed Naera’s glass to emptiness, and watched curiously as Alicent dragged the boy down before he could refill his own serving. “I must say, brother,” Daemon addressed Viserys, “These family dinners are proving very entertaining, indeed.”
Naera pushed around the maybe dozen peas on her plate. Where had the rest gone? She had had at least double this many, and could not recall chewing them. Huh, but she brushed it off. She filled herself another wineglass, and chose only Dornish Arbour, perhaps out of sentimentality, or perhaps because every other wine tasted vaguely of pig piss, and she filled her glass halfway only, for the sake of etiquette, as well as her shaking hands.
All playful mischief drained his face, and some inkling of concern took its place. He reached his hand across the table, past the rich meats and soups and wines, “Now, now,” Daemon took her glass before it touched her lips, “That’s quite enough,” and made sure to curl his fingers around her blackened curls that gathered around her face and tucking the bunch behind her ear. Laenor stared down at his food uncomfortably, still not the first to get uncomfortable, and doing it well, for his sake, but almost let his laughter loose at the clear agony on Queen Alicent’s face when Daemon handed Aegon Naera’s glass.
Sure, a drunkard prince being fourth in line to the Iron Throne wasn’t anything unusual, but from the Green Queen’s perspective, things had been depreciating at an accelerated course since Princess Naera and Prince Daemon grew close.
“Well,” Naera shrugged, “I believe I shall retire now,” and was joined by half the table. Alicent took her part in assisting the King off the table and sharply asked Aegon to remain, whilst Laenor cared for his own children in the absence of Rhaenyra, who had chosen to dine in her chambers.
When Naera stood, she was surprised to feel no dizziness and even made it all the way out of the King’s solar before she stumbled a step and was caught by Daemon. She giggled when he took her arm, telling him with slurred words and a grin he could only call silly, “The looks on their faces!” She burst into laughter, and Daemon laughed also. Were they evil? Meh.
After catching herself and her breath, Naera continued, “In all’nesty—honesty, kepa,” she leaned close, “You will lose,” and leaned her weight on her uncle, trusting him to help her to her chambers.
“We’ll see who loses, my knight,” Daemon chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist and taking careful steps through the echoing corridors of the Red Keep. It was hardly night, and midnight wouldn’t strike for another hour and another, and he knew that the city without the Keep was alive with dazzling lights and wonderous crafts.
Every step for Naera made little translucent dots dance in her vision, and the moonlight that crowded the corridors filled with firelight only made a dull ache emanate off the spot where her brows met her nose.
Naera rested her shoulder on her uncle’s shoulder, a sweet refrain from the pain and blur, but she bent her neck in a way that hurt, and with dizzying gazes and a spinning head, she stopped following his steps. Naera leaned against his chest, his build that stood as a stone wall to support her, and wrapped her arms around his neck, telling him in spirit enough that her head spun.
“You didn’t have to drink as much,” he chastised, “You’ve barely recovered from that day,” oh, that day, when she had awoken and behaved as though all was dandy, and he had almost chained her to her beds. Arrogant, self-destructive and beautiful, he had decided after that.
“Oh, I’m fine! I’ve done worse—there was this one time,” Naera coughed, choked, and ignored it with a sigh, “I was stuck with this…uh…assassin, yes…a Braavosi assassin in a ship of mutineers somewhere off Slaver’s Bay,” and she giggled, uncharacteristic, and leaned into his shoulder, easing her head, “’n the assassin was trying to ham—h…hack, yes, that’s the word, he tried to hack off my skin with a knife, trying to take my face—don’t ask—and,” she pointed to a long, nearly faded scar by her left ear, “You have never seen a woman with half her face covered in blood knocking Ironborne overboard a ship, and you never will.”
“Take your face?” Daemon asked. Take a face? A disguise? Literally?
“I said don’t ask!” Naera shook her head, “Either ways, it was a miracle I survived, and the next day I was fighting Unsullied guardsmen in Astapor, all the same.” Unsullied guardsmen, Daemon smiled. Men without cocks? Naera did not seem particularly interested in that anyway.
My Love, and he felt a vague strangling on the inside of his throat, as though one was tugging a barbed wire around his neck. He felt his breaths shorten with every second, his hand tremble as they held her weight. She was drunk and dishevelled and in no state to take his questions with civility, he knew, but still.
“Oh, you’re burning,” Naera smirked, coming to a stop, just a dozen steps away from her chambers, backing him up against a wall—bold; “You’re burning with questions.” Daemon felt the thudding, thumping, thrumming of his heart begin to choke his chest with its fastened, blatant hammering. “A man wishes to ask a question,” she mused, smiling in a way he could only note as ominous. “A man has held her thrice as she walked,” by the pits, by the roses, by the palace 'dors, and she trailed a jittery finger over his chest, nearest his heart, smiling deviously still, “A girl shall grant him three answers. Epagon, kepus,” Ask, uncle.
Daemon gasped, and he felt fear running through him, the urge to push his niece away, to unsheathe Dark Sister and defend himself, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, with the way her lilac eyes teased him, with the sprinkle of silver hair by her scalps that had begun to taint her otherwise dark stained locks, with her words, and her ways, and herself. He could never push her away as she had him. He did not have the strength, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted that strength.
He stared into her eyes, twinkling, sparking, and the dilated pupils from the wine she had indulged in, and the dancing lights of the flames around them, beautiful, she was, with her toned form and height, her slender fingers and her breasts that always spilled neatly into a corset she fastened too far. She was beautiful, he knew, with her scars and her mysteries, and she was strong, perhaps even as much as him, and he’d find out soon enough but Daemon knew he would be more so adept at calling her such when her hair grew past the darkness which she had given it, and show off her Valyrian heritage again, when she smiled beside him as his, and when he knew of every venture she had failed and won and every life she had taken.
There, he knew. She had already handed him the opportunity to begin the journey into her past. Three questions, and he’d ask them with care.
“Well,” Daemon leaned close against her face, letting his nose brush against her ear, and he breathed, making her twitch and shudder. “I’d love to know more about this face taking assassin. Who was he?”
“A man has asked his first question,” Naera grinned with her straight white teeth, taking his hands and pulling him towards her chambers, “and a girl replies…the assassin was…” she blinked, twice, thrice, and again, thinking of the right words, “…no one.”
“No one? Naera, is that a proper answer?” He rolled his eyes, grasping her by the waist, making her giggle near his neck. Brilliant. His hands burned where they touched her, as one would feel holding up one's hands to the noonday sun--it burnt, and it amazed.
“I am being honest,” she spread a hand along the side of his neck, “It was no one. What is the man’s second question?” She spun on her feet, dragging him along on a heaving, dancing twirl.
“Well, if you’re about to answer each question like the first, I’m going to need a thousand to learn anything valuable of you at all, Naera,” Daemon flirted also, and the fear of the moments past had passed, and the peace that came with her trivial answer had made him bold—bold enough to lift her above him, in one stroke, grinning up at his princess, his bride.
“And you wish to learn of me?” She stretched her arms to hold onto his shoulders, humming at the pleasure that came with it and tilted her face to the side in feigned curiosity.
“Of course, I wish to learn of you—I will know you,” and his declaration made her draw a soft breath, “I will know you, like the back of my own hand,” and his words sent chills down her spine, “I will know you like I know my sword—as though you are a part of me,” and she smiled at him with bated breath, intoxicated in both alcohol, and perhaps the drug that was his existence, and as he took gallant steps towards her chambers, stopping right by the doors, “My second question, princess,” and he set her down, feeling the rush of boldness and defiance—the kind he had brandished for years in frustrating the court and ‘ailing’ his brother—the kind he had let dull to sincerity in the past few weeks. No more—she had let him taste joy, his wonderous and proud knight with power and beauty and wit, with their plot to fell the towers, and he’d return the favour with ardour—he’d return the favour with worship.
“What would it take me to win you?” To win her, she, who was brilliance personified—seasoned with experience, beauty, power and wit. To win her, would be to win everything he could have.
Naera laughed, delighted, warming, head thrown up and arms dropping down, and her eyes watered for a second before she blinked it away. She stepped back, sighing out a frown to smile just bitterly.
“Nothing.” And she disappeared into her chambers. He spotted the edges of a smile, heard the semblance of a near-erotic gasp, and he followed her within. Where was her sworn guard, had been his first wonder, but he couldn’t care for long enough. No, he was a man on a mission then. To win her.
“Will all your answers be as blunt?” He closed the door behind himself, slamming it shut with more force than he had intended. Naera stumbled towards the candles lit in her chambers, lighting more and more as she went about.
“Is that your third question?” Naera smirked at him before opening the door to her solar and lighting more candles there
“No. No…” Daemon shook his head, following her in and careful of the door this time.
Naera sat at her desk, and he noticed how letters had just piled up on his niece within a few days. She picked up the one at the top, broke its seal, and began reading.
Daemon sat opposite her again, watching her face smile and contort as she processed the contents of the letters. He smiled—fond—at her faces, and tried counting the other scars on her face. She wrote a long response to the creditor of her first letter in black ink, sealed it shut and set it aside to be sent on the morrow.
She picked up the next, and smiled, for it was unsigned and unmarked, apart from the burn of fire that sparked in her veins at the very first touch. Melisandre. She set it down, to be read later, when the day is younger and she isn’t joined by another—when she isn’t watched by another, for Daemon did watch her. He watched every twitch, every flick of her fingers, every blink of her eyes, and he missed nothing. She was an open book held a mile away—she hid nothing, but her appearance did it for her. Her appearance, her attitude, and her aura all deterred away those who dared as though shooing away a stray dog.
Daemon knew her better than that already, and it had taken him only weeks to go about it. In weeks, he had torn down her first mystery—it was only a matter of time until he broke the next. If she stayed, which she wouldn’t. Melisandre could swear that every love between them had been a lie, and she would follow. Daemon could confess a love for her he couldn’t possibly have—at least, past a certain lust for her and what she brings—and she would leave still.
Her freedom mattered more, she knew—more than him, or his lust, or her own. He was of no consequence.
“My final question,” Daemon had decided, and he turned to his back, glanced at the portrait there, and turned back, “What is Melisandre to you?”
Ha. What did he know of her Melisandre? A Red Priestess from Asshai, someone Naera missed, someone Naera did trust, and had spent a very long time with. What could he know of her beyond that? Nothing. She was no one to him, just another passerby in his long, bloody life, but she was dressed in better blood and bore better fire in her blood than he ever could, she knew.
Melisandre had shown Naera the truth. She had shown Naera the falsities of the Old Gods of the forest and Valyria, the lies and deceptions of the chastising and guilting new gods of the Seven, and the divinity and the brilliance, and the glory, and the truth of R’hllor. She had shown Naera that passion is nothing to be ashamed of, and love, nothing to seek or avoid—she had shown Naera lust, and sin, and pleasure, and called it love, and she had accepted.
She had loved, and she shall do so until the long night arrives, until the Great War begins, until Azor Ahai bloods his wife to defeat the night, and burns the darkness away with his fire, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
“Everything.”
Chapter 9: A List
Summary:
A summary of the events surrounding the awaited wedding, a series of cheesy lovey-dovey declarations, Daemon talks to Naera about travelling afterwards.
Notes:
I read a lot about the many unexplored regions of Essos before writing this, so bear with my obsessions.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Princess Naera Targaryen, for all her time and adventure in Essos, had not summoned any of her Eastern friends or acquaintances across the Narrow Sea to attend her wedding to her uncle, Prince Daemon Targaryen. The friends she did invite, however, were not treated with noble respect, but instead showered by friendly pranks and musings.
Lady Elysabeth Tyrell, one of Naera’s two guests invited to the royal wedding, had arrived in the capital, complaining about the smell, to find her chambers filled to the brim with roses—the flower she famously despised. She had demanded different chambers, but after a heated conversation with her old friend, Princess Naera, Lady Tyrell had simply scooped up armful, after armful of brandished, beautiful roses from her rooms and had them dumped somewhere around Flea Bottom, claiming that it would temper the stench of shit and sweat.
Princess Naera’s second guest to the capital had been Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne, the Lord of Sunspear, the younger brother of her once betrothed, Prince Raiden Martell. King Viserys had insisted that Naera try to arrange a match between Prince Aemond and Prince Qoren’s daughter, Princess Aliandra Martell.
Queen Alicent had allegedly expressed distaste regarding a Dornish alliance through her son, and she had offhandedly insulted the Dornish for their amorous practices, pointing out their faithlessness in the eyes of the Seven. Princess Naera had been infuriated by the Queen’s comments, considering that she had spent her late childhood in Dorne, and to suggest that Dorne was not proper enough for Prince Aemond was a direct insult to her own self. The King had also been profuse of his distaste for the Queen’s words.
Naera had dismissed the King’s ideas immediately by stating that Aliandra was Qoren’s heir over her younger brother, Qyle, and would thus inherit Sunspear, and was, by all means, and accounts, Nymeria Returned. She did not need a royal alliance to colour her reign. Moreover, the very idea of the Dornish choosing to bend the knee at a time when their trades and productions were high and brilliant, and so soon after joining the support of the Triarchy in the War for the Stepstones, was moot. Qoren Martell had not even attended himself, instead sending a delegation consisting of his close relatives.
While the King was highly disappointed by this development, Princess Naera had almost seen this move coming and had even greeted the delegation herself, not mentioning at all the absence of the anticipated guest.
The events of the days surrounding the royal wedding had been very taxing on Queen Alicent, who claimed to have fallen ill and avoided court and duty, therefore giving Princess Rhaenyra, who had returned from Dragonstone, power in King’s Landing’s political scene surrounding the wedding of her sister and her uncle.
- An excerpt from ‘The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife’
by Maester Creyolin of the Citadel
“If I’d have my way, I’d wed you in the ways of the Old Gods of Valyria,” Daemon held Naera’s hands, a sullen warmth radiating off him in waves and blows, that travelled down her hand, up her arm, to her neck and back and face, and blew outwards, out of her skin, making little crystal droplets of sweat form on her skin—barely seen, but there. “I’d wed you beside fire, and take your blood, like the ways of our ancestors.”
Naera smiled with her eyes and her lips, sweating through her gowns faster and faster, and it made her wish to throw off a layer or two. “If I’d have my way, I’d wed you in the ways of the Dothraki, beneath the open skies for all the world to see,” and Daemon raised her hand, kissed its back, and gazed, and gazed, at her lilac eyes and her again silver hair—indisputably Targaryen, outspokenly Valyrian, now she was. His Valyrian bride, soon enough.
“I’d wed you by the ways of the Ghiscari, the lines which arguably must have mingled with the Valyrians,” Daemon continued, “I’d watch you wear a tokar of the finest silks, and a veil of blood red, and rinse your feet in the purest of waters, and I would serve you forever more,” his words were uncharacteristic, Naera knew, but the softness in his eyes, the beating of his heart made her believe his honesty. “We’d emerge from the Temples of the Graces, one heart, one soul, bound together by golden chains.” Naera smiled at him irrespective of the implication of slavery. She knew the Ghiscari customs—the rites of fertility, and none of it spoke love to her. It was agony and bloodshed to birth a child, as her mother had passed in birthing her brother who lived for no longer than a day, and her grandmother had passed doing the same.
“I’d wed you in the ways of the Qartheen,” Naera spoke with an inkling of pride. She was one of the thirteen of Qarth, though they had allowed her to leave the land after a few threats of annihilation at the breaths of Wisestone. “Where I would present you with a worldly token signifying my love, and you would do the same for yours, which can never be refused,” Naera let her fingers brush up, and down, and up and down Daemon’s own skin, and she saw the way her touch made him shiver, “I’d gift you a dagger, like you had once, to me, of the finest Valyrian steel, and pledge myself to you with blood.”
“I’d wed you in the ways of the Lord of Light, from deep within the Shadowlands,” and Daemon watched the smile flicker off Naera’s face in a blink, “I’d hold you hand as we pass over the fire, and I’d share my fire with you when the night is dark and full of terrors.” Naera retracted her hand, burning in a way no longer pleasurable or assuring. He dared.
His eyes were dark and full of terrors, a low, preying kind of anger which bubbled beneath the surface of his soul, never jumping, never turning judgements, never lashing out, but it was there—brewing, growing, teeming, infesting his declarations of love. My love.
“You can do whatever you want,” Viserys sighed, and they both loved how uncomfortable he had become, “after you marry in the Faith of the Seven.” Surely, the chaste and honourable ways of the Westerosi were a calm, soothing, numbing spread on the passion they so often displayed. They could practically hear the Green Queen humming her approval.
Naera sat opposite Daemon again, beside her father, beside a Laenor who had all but wrestled Rhaenyra for Joffrey to tend to as a way to distract himself. Alicent was absent, and Aegon drank rampant, despite the early hour.
“Yes, your grace,” they spoke in unison, raising strange eyebrows at each other after it happened. Too similar, indeed.
“Your grace,” Naera addressed again, “I hope to travel to Dragonstone with the children and Rhaenyra, and Laenor, after the wedding,” she fought, and she fought the urge to spare a glance to Daemon—to his rage, and the way his jaw would clench, surely, and his eyes would narrow, and his lips press into that thin line as they always do—effortless and natural, and Naera couldn’t look.
“I shall accompany her, of course,” Naera whips her face to her uncle, nose flaring, eyes glaring.
“That shan’t be necessary, my Prince,” and Daemon only smiled a sly, slow grin, eyes narrowed, and burning with rage. Rage. She had seen her uncle rage, during duels, during fights, during her moments of sentimentality towards her past, towards Melisandre, whom he had never known—whom he will never know.
“Not at all, my princess,” Daemon smiled, fake, “I shall go wherever you go.”
“You’re to travel after the wedding?” Laenor asked.
Was she to travel after the wedding? Yes, alone, if she had her way—but if she didn’t, she could always drag along Daemon. She could always take him away to Asshai and push him into a lake of cursed water. She could always hand him to her khalasar when she found it—Roq’ko’s khalasar if she ever found it. She could have him sold as a slave somewhere in the Bay, have him sacrificed to the Many-Faced God—god, she could just ditch him in Sothoryos, and she’d never be held responsible.
Naera smiled. “Why not, since my lord husband is willing to follow me wherever I go,” Daemon’s face darkened at her expression. He remembered some of the fear, perhaps, from the other night, when she had spoken cryptic and ominously. He knew nothing about her, but at least he knew that he didn’t. It was more than he could say about his brother, who made no effort at all.
“Well,” Viserys sighed, resigned, “Daemon, keep her safe,” and both Daemon and Naera snorted. Daemon knew she had no need to fight for her safety by now. Naera knew that he wouldn’t be alive for very long to keep her safe if he travelled with her.
“The courts of Yi Ti have long occupied my attention and list,” Naera smiled, “I’d love to write a comprehensive history of their culture and legends. Oh, but I’ve always dreamt of making it to the Jade Sea, to learn the tales of the…the Fisher Queens, one day.” The world is full of wonders, Naera knew, and she had not explored so much of it. An entire continent remained, and all that lay between Qarth and the Shadowlands. She had only caught glimpses of Yin as she passed it to Naath—oh, what she would give to see it all. Her uncle, apparently. She’d only have to gut her uncle, her lord husband, in the gut, with a gutting tool such as a dagger, such as one made of Valyrian steel, and do him away, and do the world a favour.
“How proper of you, sister,” Aegon gulped another mouthful of white wine, “Eastern savages as chosen company.” The Dothraki, sure. The Asshai’i—eh, they did burn children and take slaves, sure. The idiots of Slaver’s Bay, of Volantis, sure. The cultists in Braavos—uh…deadlier savages, but sure. The YiTish, no.
“Yi Ti is a dynasty older than Valyria, Aegon—they were scholars before the Valyrians learned to speak.” Yi Ti, the old empire, with its guarded secrets and ancient stories, its trade and its luxury and its learnings. She would see it all, one day—she would see it all, and have time left for more.
Daemon did not fail to contemplate the sheer wonder in Naera’s voice. The world, in its wonders, made her blood burn with joy—as how battle burned his. Opposites. She would cherish the world around her, learn its darkest truths, and walk away smiling. He would be condemned to rain fire and blood on it. They were not similar at all.
“Do you really have a list?” He asked her later, as they sat in her study. Naera was working on her correspondence, again, but the brash and slowly healing cuts on her hands were slowing her down. Sending letters with bloody prints might not be taken well by merchants asking for her advice on trading westwards.
Naera hummed, questioning, hissing and crushing another drafted letter and tossing it aside. She began again.
“A list of all the places you want to see one day.”
Naera set down her quill, joining her scratched hands, thinking.
“Yes.”
“What’s on it?” He asked, and added, “Do not say everything.” Naera laughed with him, and she leaned back in her chair.
A list. “I need to visit Qarth once in a while,” she explained, “but from there…Yi Ti, the Bone Mountains, the Five Forts—whatever falls East of the Shadowlands, if I don’t die…”
“We won’t die,” he smirked. “I’ll protect you.”
Ha. “I once tricked a Dothraki hoard into burning me at the stake for being a witch and then hitched across the Summer Seas, all within a moon,” I do not need your protection, she did not say. Not because it would be improper or destructive. Because he knew.
“One day, I want to hear every story of yours,” Daemon confessed.
Naera chuckled, she seemed to do that a lot these days, and began, “The first place I ever visited was Volantis,” she smiled, “I spent very little time there—got dragged into Slaver’s Bay—” The Bay of the Dragon. Naera blinked.
“I’m sorry—” she asked, “What did I just say?” The first traces of a dull headache had begun to tear through her mind. The Bay of the Dragon. The Bay of the Dragon. The Bay of the Dragon.
“Slaver’s Bay, you were saying how you…” Daemon answered, sceptical of her confusion.
“Right…” The Bay of the Dragon. “The first woman I met in Volantis was a slave. They say that there are three slaves for every freed man in Volantis—and that the elite have Valyrian Blood, and they live within the Black Walls—pretentious bunch that one. I never liked them.” The Blood of Old Valyria will not suffer this. Naera narrowed her eyes at the thought.
“She told me to sail back West because I was too weak.” Yet I still live while she is dead, and despite the dreadful cruelty behind the idea, it was true. Naera had survived. The slave bitch hadn’t, even after gaining freedom.
“No…” Naera ended the tale, “I spent six months in…in Braavos…you wouldn’t know it, none of you…” none in Westeros knew of the secrets of Braavos. “They also told me that I was weak.” Weak and not ready to be someone else—never ready to give up the identity Naera Targaryen claims to hate, they had claimed. If Naera Targaryen was truly meant to serve the Many-Faced God, she would become no one, “so, I left. Came back to King’s Landing.” The den of treachery is what the Silver Knight seeks. Sail back to it, then.
“Who called you weak?”
“No one.” No one.
“No one?”
“Perhaps, if you travel with me, one day, you shall understand. Tubis daor, kepus.” Not today, uncle.
Hah.
It would so, very, very soon be husband.
Naera did not like her wedding gown.
She had let Rhaenyra choose it, but the way her face contorted as her sister set her hair into braids and dresses was obviously vocal of her dislike. It was grey, with silver, and cheap diamonds embroidered at the waist. Amongst the silver glimmers danged the reddest of rubies.
Naera eyed the cloak of House Targaryen laid on a chair beside her. Absurd, had been her first thought, for what point was it to remove her bride’s cloak—ash black, with the emblem of a red three-headed dragon, and replace it with a wife’s cloak, or a groom’s cloak? It did not matter—ash black, with the emblem of a red three-headed dragon. One should just alter the ceremony to not include that. It was foolish, time-consuming, and a blatant label of the incest that had caused troubles with the Faith of the Seven in the first place.
Rhaenyra clipped the final of eight braids onto Naera’s head and wrapped the remaining hair into a twisted updo. She did not like that either. She wanted bells and jewels and gold and silver in her hair—like she had once done for a wedding…at least Dothraki weddings were fun. There had been seven deaths on that day—a beautiful affair, indeed. She had not been responsible for more than two.
In comparison, Westerosi customs were dull. There were only people, quiet, calm people who drank and spoke in tricks and misdeeds. They expected propriety, only to let it go in the last hour of the bedding.
It did not help that the only thought that plagued Naera on her wedding day to Daemon was of her possible marriage to Raiden. Her Raiden, who had been gentle and calm, but with a frustrating cunningness behind it all. He had been her perfect match, or perhaps they had grown to be each other’s perfect spouses. He could have been the gentleness to her war, the poet to her warrior, the plotter to her impulsiveness—the blood to her fire. Yet, what fire remained in her thus?
“What troubles you, sister?” Rhaenyra dared ask, standing behind her sister, watching her face in the mirror.
“Nothing, Rhaenyra,” nothing that concerns you, sister, but the thought of Rhaenyra needing to accompany the women of King’s Landing as they tease and strip Daemon and gawk rude jokes at him lingered in her mind. She'd pity her sister if her own embarrassment were not to be made entertainment that night. Sure, the bedding was an old, disputed ceremony-but she knew Elysabeth Tyrell, and she knew what the Rose's revenge shall be.
“You aren’t the only one who’s stuck with a marriage you don’t want.” But Naera knew what Rhaenyra saw. She knew that her sister saw a love she did not get to feel for their uncle—a love gone unexpressed. She did not understand—no one understood her situation.
“I know.” Yet, what hurt was that she could have had a marriage she would have loved beyond life itself—the entire world could have remained a thing of books and maps, and she could have been the Princess of Sunspear, wife to the Lord of Dorne. She could have had her first love with her until they grew old and frail and died.
Now, she’d be the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms for the rest of her days—and she’d be more? Yes. She had no love from her marriage, Naera knew, but she would have her freedom. She would be the Silver Knight, former Princess of Dragonstone, wife of the Rogue Prince, and she’d be free after killing him if it came to it.
My love, suffer through this night—the world lies after it.
And a tourney.
“I can’t wait, Rhaenyra,” Naera resisted a giggle, “I shall defeat him in a most humiliating way,” and the sisters laughed together. Rhaenyra thought back to the last time their dear uncle had lost a joust—against her once-sworn guard, Ser Criston Cole. She would give away much to see it again.
“I shall ask for your favour—do not refuse me,” Naera told. Ah, a match of jousting against her uncle. It would make fine practice for what their lives would later look like.
A life of her victories, and of his losses.
Notes:
Yes, it was a very filler-esque chapter.
and YES the next chapter shall be the wedding
and YES mature rating justification with some wildly NSFW activities shall occur.
and NO I will not delay forever.YES, you should comment on your distaste for my ways. DO IT. I dare 'ya.
Chapter 10: A Wedding
Summary:
A wedding. A joust. Some simping.
Notes:
I modified the ceremony to include parts from all the weddings we've seen on screen. The Sept of Baelor did not exist yet (unless I am horribly mistaken), so I tried.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Sept. Sept – Hept – Seven, referring to the Seven New Gods that prevailed over the Faith. It was filled with people, nobles, high merchants, children old enough to not disrupt the proceedings, and guards. There were a lot of guards.
Princess Naera Targaryen stood behind a mostly closed door in the most prominent Sept in King’s Landing, running her fingers over a clear red ruby within an iron crest that dangled from her neck, as she pondered the customs. It was the door behind the Crone and the Stranger, though she did not know the reason. The Crone symbolised time—the future, perhaps? The Stranger held little significance to her.
Her father stood beside her, looking the best at his health than he had in a very long time. His maesters had outdone themselves, it seemed.
The High Septon’s quiet, drawling voice echoed through the Sept within, reading some prayers and extracts from the Seven-Pointed Star. It did not help that it was the same book which had been cited to Princess Alysanne before she married her brother who later came to be known as King Jaehaerys the Reconciler—there were none more deterred by their ways than those who held Faith in the Seven Gods. Naera did not understand why her family agreed with the commoners and their beliefs in this regard, when the commoners so rarely hid their dismay over the marriage of brother to sister as done in he Targaryen family.
House Targaryen had been fueled to stray above the petty crowds, as it was obvious in the height of the Iron Throne above those who stood on the grounds, as it was obvious in the soaring might of the dragon riders above the main populace. They were above them—as they had been, for a hundred years, and a thousand years before that also.
She stared through the inch-thin parting of the doors before her. She could see solemn light, and crowds, and the High Septon leaned over his book between the statues of the Mother and the Father. A stair below and to the right stood Daemon, dressed in black, arms clasped calmly as he struggled through the prayers—struggled, yes, for she knew him better than to think he felt no irritation or ire. She recognised faces by the statues—Aegon, by his height, Helaena, by the dress, Rhaenyra and Laenor, and her two older sons, and Aemond by the black spot of his eye-patch—she almost pitied the boy, were it not for his crime—and a woman in Green, extravagantly dressed, with a gleaming golden Seven-Pointed Star at her neck. Queen Alicent. Yes. That is why the dragon dared heed the wishes of the sheep. Her weak father was the reason.
Naera made an effort to not frown but pulled her arm away from her father. Not for long. Yes. House Hightower of Oldtown shall soon fall. She shall ensure it. The Greens shall forever be defeated, as Aegon’s enemies had been. The dragon does not concern itself with the opinion of the sheep, and it was time they returned to a reign ruled with Fire and Blood, and not compromise and faltering diplomacy.
Naera ran her fingers along the edge of the cloak on her back—ash black, as the remnants of a most disastrous fire, with a blood-red dragon—a dragon has three heads—inscribed in a circle. Fire and Blood, but perhaps she just needed to rediscover her fire—perhaps the man, her uncle, her blood who she had never really known, who stood irate, about to wed her would help her. Perhaps, he’d warm and rekindle her lost flames with his own fire.
Before she guts him, of course. Although, perhaps the pyre of his funeral shall burn her with a delight so strong, a kind of joy which would burn through her blood for all her life. Perhaps.
The doors were heaved open by priests from within, and Naera gave her father her arm. The crowds hushed silence as the King walked in his daughter, his Visenya Returned, down the aisle to where the High Septon stood. Every step felt numbing on her feet, a strange anticipation boiling in her throat—the urge to destroy, surely, but she did not like the sensation. It felt like she had seconds before she had been enslaved for the first time, with no hopes for escape, the way she had felt every second in Stygai before the world came crashing down, the way she had felt when Raiden had first taken to illness. Nothing good came of this feeling.
Naera did not look down; she did not dare blemish the rites and her family. No, she wore the Targaryen cloak with pride, despite the implication, despite the sighs of contempt and aversion at her blood. It had not been her choice, she thought. This was the crown’s disdain to bear and it was an insult to the King to ignore.
Naera looked up to the blinding morning sun that gleamed through the windows, and her own regal lilac eyes caught those of nourishing soil brown. Elysabeth Tyrell stood in a gown of gold and pink, as the rose she was, a teasing look stuck on her beautiful face as she stood closer to the Septon than the rest, ready to receive her cloak.
Her father grasped her arm a little tighter as they ascended the stairs to the Septon—to Daemon, who stared down at his struggling brother with a shielded stare of pity, and then looked upon his Valyrian bride, and smiled. Viserys settled to the side, standing on the left, behind his dear daughter, besides the Queen, and their children.
Naera ascended the final stair alone, her footsteps echoing in the silence, and she stood before her smiling uncle—smiling, still, at her decorated face, her silver hair, and at her silver gown, her black cloak, and he refused to stare between her breasts where the red ruby dangled. He would not let himself be reminded of that ordeal, tubis daor—not today.
“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” and Naera turned with mincing steps to face the statues behind her. She felt Daemon lift up her cloak and saw Lady Tyrell accept it with glee, and he spread another fabric—near perfectly identical—across her shoulders, and yet it felt heavier than her maiden’s cloak, as though a symbol of the weight that came with the ties of marriage. It crushed her from within, and without. Naera turned once the cloak was secure, trying her best to keep herself from frowning.
Suffer through this night, and relish in what comes after.
“My lords, my ladies,” the Septon drawled on, “we stand here, in the sight of gods and men, to witness the union of man and wife,” and Naera thoroughly frowned at his words. Man and wife—not husband and wife, then it should be man and woman. To denote a woman by her man is the simplest form of enslavement. “One flesh, one heard, one soul, now and forever.” No. It would not be forever, Naera knew. Nothing is forever.
She turned to face the Septon, as did Daemon. She held out her hand, and he covered it with his own, as the Septon wound a white ribbon round their joint hands, once, twice, thrice, until he approached seven loops. The Septon spoke as he wound the ribbon around their hands, “Let it be known that Naera of the House Targaryen and Daemon of the House Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” His hand over hers felt warm, comforting, caring.
“Look upon each other, and say the words,” and Naera turned to Daemon, their hands still held.
They spoke the names of the New Gods of the South, in unison, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” and never breaking their flow and rhythm, never cracking their unison, Daemon spoke, “I am hers, and she is mine.”
Naera spoke in a voice quieter than Daemon’s, but heard nonetheless, “I am his, and he is mine.”
“From this day, until the end of my days,” he finished.
“From this day, until the end of his days,” and the threat in Naera’s voice went unnoticed by all—by the Septon, by Elysabeth Tyrell, by her father, and her step-mother, and their children, and Rhaenyra and her family. It went unnoticed by every man and woman in the Sept, other than Daemon.
He tightened his grasp on her hand, smiling fake yet again, but she knew the joy of finally attaining his Valyrian Bride outweighed the possibility of losing her by the worth of a thousand lives. Soon enough, his eyes twinkled with the spark he must hold for a lady wife he has wanted for very long, and he still refused to glance at the ruby and all it represented.
“With this kiss,” and his voice adopted a dulcet tone she had never heard in it before, “I pledge my love.” And the destruction of House Hightower, was that which he did not voice. They knew—oh, they knew the promise very well. Naera couldn’t resist a smile, oh, to watch the perfect Alicent cower and weep to her false gods after all she holds dear is gone, and Naera yearned for the kiss that would promise it all. Daemon leaned forward, tilting his face to the side, the heat that radiated off his face, his eyes, his hands adding up to be too much, and pressed his warm lips against hers for a moment only—a moment of fire and storm that sent a chill down her spine, before pulling away. Yes.
“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” In perpetuity. Naera blinked, as the High Septon unwrapped the white ribbon. Daemon’s eyes smiled down at her, as did his lips, but Naera heard, in the euphonious voice of the woman from her dreams, or do I have my facts wrong?
I wasn’t there, your grace, a deeper, lower voice answered, quieter, smaller, inferior.
No, of course not, the voice of the Conqueror, the Targaryen Princess, the Breaker of Chains echoed in Naera’s mind, but still, an oath, is an oath, and an ounce of guilt ran down Naera, and in perpetuity means…what does in perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?
Forever, surely, Lord Tyrion, whoever he was, spoke.
Forever, and the voices faded away. Naera blinked. No. This was a sham wedding—it was not binding, it was not a promise—valar morghulis, all men must die, and she held no obligation to them all. Didn’t she?
“Are you alright?” Daemon asked her frozen face, concern colouring his joys.
No. No, no, no.
“Of course.”
There was always a portion of theatrics that came with tourneys. The cheers of the spectators, the clink and clutter of gamblers handing their silver and gold to barterers, the whispers amongst high nobility all boldened the knights. The thrumming of drums in a rhythmic setting boiled anticipation. To feel the heave and weight of one’s armour, to hear the hammering of one’s horse’s hooves against the mulch-ridden ground, and to stare into the eyes of your opponent, all those feet away, through the cages of one’s helm, was brilliance.
Daemon rode out on his horse—midnight dark, to match his obsidian armour. He heard the crowds and their cries and their praises, and it cemented a sort of pride he couldn’t source elsewhere. There were a series of knights lined up, bearing the emblems of houses on their chests, their horses lined up in a row—He always chose first. A man dressed in red and black announced his ordeal, as he rode past each and every mounted knight to find one worthy.
The first he faced was Jason Lannister, with his silken cape of red and gold and a lion that roared within. Dragons didn’t duel with Lions—no. The next was a Stark, and a Bolton, and Daemon had no desire to fight a man who stood no chance—no. Baratheon, Hightower, but he had already injured them before, so no. He passed by the Tyrell rose who dared have his beauty tainted, but oh, Targaryen.
With her wedding gown still in place beneath gleaming silver armour, and it made sense why she had chosen one with wide ankles—his lady wife, his beloved niece, his Naera had been serious about the tourney. The cloak he had settled on her shoulders just hours ago now acted as a cape, though hidden behind a sheer white cape that glowed in the sun, and when Daemon passed his horse by her, he saw a lilac eye wink through the bars of her helm. Well, he decided, as he turned his horse and lowered his lace to her shoulder.
“Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, has chosen his opponent…” and the man was certainly confused beyond words, but he found them nonetheless, “It is…Princess Naera Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and, uh, the Silver Knight!” The crowds roared aloud, about to witness a match that wouldn’t be seen for another two hundred years at the least.
The man backed away thus, as Daemon approached the King’s bracket, his black stallion clucking its way to the front. “I request the favour of the Heir to the Iron Throne—Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” and if his old love did resent him for caving up thoughts and memories she had buried away, she did not show it.
“Good fortune to you, uncle,” she announced with a diplomatic smile and threaded a wreath of green leaves and yellow blossoms through his lance. He heard claps and excitement of those who watched, and wondered if he should be gentle—what would they think of him, if he disarmed his lady wife. Surely, that he was cruel and merciless, Maegor Returned, as she was Visenya—nothing they did not already believe.
Naera’s grey horse approached the bracket also, as Daemon took his place by one edge of the track. He saw the irritation on her face as she flicked off the visor of her helm, for he had known without a doubt that his niece would have asked the favour of her own sister.
“I ask for the favour of his grace, King Viserys,” and the crowds took a minute to register her request before they cried out in approval—this was hardly a conventional match, of course. “Shall I have your blessing, father?” Naera used her words to coax her laughing, joying, priding father off his chair. He fetched a wreath of gold and twine and dropped it through her iron lance.
“I wish you victory, Silver Knight—my Visenya Returned,” said the King, after which, he returned to his seat, and the happiness was evident on his ageing features. Naera let her horse neigh and directed it to turn and take its place on the opposite end of the track. The drums were beaten with vigour, with a rhythm long imbued into Daemon’s mind from all the tourneys he had won, and as the beats came to a still stop, he reined his horse to stagger and run forth, aiming his spear at an angle meant to disarm—to not hurt his lady wife at all.
Naera, at the other end, rode faster than he did, for she understood that the strength she did not possess would come with the speed her lord husband could not gain, and angled her spear further out into his space—to harm, and not just disarm.
Her armour caught the glow of the noon day’s sun, but her momentum made it all blur into a streak of silver, and as the cape of red and grey-black that hung off her back caught wind in the air, they clashed spears with a brassy, deafening blast of metal and wood.
Daemon’s spear cluttered against her wooden shield, splintering the wood and streaking the symbol of the dragon. Naera’s spear caved in a metal place near his shoulder, throwing him off his balance, and she turned, as her grey stallion blared past, to watch her uncle’s midnight dark horse cry out and run, throwing him off its back and down to the muddy, mulchy ground.
His arm collided against the fence pole, sending a crackle of pain through his shoulder.
There were at least a thousand men and women—and as the Rogue Prince was demounted by his new lady wife, every single man, woman, and child shored up a riotous, thundering uproar. Daemon pushed his way to his feet, gasping and groaning.
Oh. She was not bluffing, it seemed.
Naera turned her stallion, and shouted, “Get him a sword!” Happy.
A squire approached Daemon, holding out the sheathed Black Sister. Oh, he had been wrong—how terribly wrong. He watched Naera dismount her horse, tugging off the heaviest of her armour around her shoulders and arms, and dropping it to the ground, but leaving the breastplate in place. He watched her remove her jousting helm, letting her silver hair fall across her shoulders.
Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister with a shrill sound, throwing away his helm, making his way towards Naera as the man from earlier announced their intentions. Naera held a thin blade, not very strong or sturdy, but he did not know what to expect.
“First blood,” he named his terms, and she hummed her approval above the noise of the people.
“Very well,” but neither of them failed to notice the panic in the King’s eyes as he leaned against the veranda, face contorted in worry. Eh.
Naera held her blade in her high hand, extending it straight, as though it was a part of her arm. Daemon lunged at her, his sword aimed straight, and she leaned away, stepping back, not daring to try her hand at a straight clash. No, Naera instead leaned away, stepped back, whipping her grey gown against the wet mud, and swiped her sword against dark sister as it heaved down, and again, and again—three quiet hits and her sword pointed at Daemon’s face. Ah.
He drew a long breath, whipping around and slashing at her, but Naera—his Naera, leaned away, again, and again, and she managed to catch him off guard with a drastic flip of her hair, and pushed down her leg against his chest. Daemon slipped against the mulch, colliding against the ground yet again, and Naera pointed the thin, flimsy blade at him, at his neck, and the fear of the nights before returned.
A man has lost to a girl, he almost heard her say, but with the fear turning to singed panic, and the panic being the fire that fueled his blood, he kicked her down onto the mud, staggering to his feet, and Naera had already twirled back to her feet—agile, elegant, quick. He watched the silk and silver of her gown tear and screech at the hems, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered—not when her eyes were smiling unlike he had ever seen them do.
Naera clashed her sword against his armour, against his Valyrian Steel Blade, and it clattered off into two pieces. She hissed at the loss, taking a large step backwards, and lunged at Daemon with the broken blade, aiming at his neck. Daemon pulled the blade out of her hands, throwing it somewhere near the shouting man who informed the people of their deeds.
Daemon heard the pitched sliding of metal against metal, as Naera unsheathed the dagger he had once gifted her. Oh, she was being sentimental, in a way.
He gasped a laugh, clutching Dark Sister as hard as he could, and he slashed at her again, and she knelt down to avoid it, piecing her second blade through the joint plates of his obsidian armour. Daemon groaned out in pain, and Naera was again throwing him down with her weight, her Valyrian Steel dagger striking across his cheek in a blur of grey and silver.
Daemon faced the skies, and he watched Naera raise her dagger, coated in his blood, smiling, happy, almost ecstatic, he’d even dare word. He felt warm blood pour down his face, and the sting of a wound well cut spreading through his mind.
Every woman in the crowd—Rhaenyra and Elysabeth in particular, screamed out their joys at her victory, but the face of King Viserys, clapping at his daughter’s victory shone through the rest.
“Well, husband?” Naera held out a hand, silver hair settled down on her shoulders, as she replaced the blade by her waist. Her lilac eyes gleamed brighter than her hair, and her breastplate shone with the light of the sun. The lines on her face had settled, a suppressed smile eating away at her face, Silver Knight. Daemon accepted her hand, unable to fight a smile. He had never enjoyed losing—who did?
He did not leave her hand once he stood but instead raised it above their heads, despite the ache in his leg and on his face. He left her arm hanging high, and wrapped both his arms around her waist, and raised her up higher. The shadow of the tracks escaped her, and the tilted sun illuminated her. The shimmer of her armour blinded him, but he looked on, at her blooming high-set cheeks, her rosy, smiling lips and her eyes—oh, her eyes, which he was sure were amethysts worth more gold than this world could own. She was perfect.
Naera laughed as she did, like a shower of crystal rain after a decade-long drought, like a wakening light in the darkest of hells, and like a little child after receiving praise or a maiden after receiving a flower from her long love. He couldn’t resist—did not wish to resist the grin that befell him.
He had lost.
He loved it.
Notes:
I need comments, guys. I need comments for motivation.
Chapter 11: A Feast
Summary:
A feast. A dance. An interruption. A failure.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wine, food, silk gowns and garners, jewels and gold, and luxury were all Daemon saw. There were glasses, silver forks and knives, and the finest, most delectable foods of the realm, and there was laughter and lavish glee and music. There were servants passing around aged cheeses and tropical fruits, pouring sweet wine, and nobles dancing to the bard’s songs and music. There were torches and candles, and there was a golden glow to it all, while his wife alone gleamed silver.
Naera had changed out of her gown covered in horse shit and wet mud, and into a dress of white and grey accents, with diamonds as jewels, though the shine always evaded her, and braids in half her hair. She looked like a bride—ethereal, enchanting, enticing, with her bared neck and smooth skin—oh, he was actively resisting the urge to just consume her.
Daemon saw the way the men stared at her—it was the way the women stared at him, only but that ladies were trained to hide their lust and men were far too privileged to feel the need to shield theirs. He would repay them one day, but tubis daor—not today, when he sat beside his niece, his Valyrian Bride of pure descent, his beautiful lady wife who had defeated him just hours prior.
It made him burn, in a way not at all unpleasant—not at all unwanted, for he knew what would come after the droll of the banquet. He’d consume her completely, and make her his.
Right.
Their plan.
Fuck.
Daemon held her hand under the table, leaning towards Naera as she conversed with her father, and he whispered, “What of our…Naera?”
She turned her head towards him too fast, and he felt the burn of her silver-gold hair brushing against his face too fast, but she smiled at the end of it, as a wedded woman would on the banquet of her union, and said, “Is the boy drinking?”
Daemon passed a glance towards the end of the table. Aegon sat pouring a near endless stream of wine down his throat—Dornish Red, as Naera had specified to the kitchens, and a very special kind indeed that was a lot stronger than it seemed at a taste. Elysabeth Tyrell sat beside him, joking and smiling and bantering as a young lady is expected to do. Perfect.
“Yes,” he smiled fondly, turning back to Naera.
“Well, we must wait, then,” Naera winked, carefree, but not careless, with pride and freedom, and he held her hand tighter.
“Happy with ourselves, are we?” Daemon teased her victory. “You may not always win, Naera,” and he kissed her cheek, innocent to those who crowded the banquet hall, but it set something aflame within Naera. She clutched his hand, now sweaty, and sighed a calming breath onto herself.
“Are you suggesting that you went easy, kepus? I think not,” and she ran a finger down the healing cut across his cheek. She took a mouthful of sour Dornish wine, and leaned her shoulders just a sliver towards him. Daemon wrapped his arm around her tighter, and let his breath flutter across her neck.
Naera shivered, cheeks flushing.
Daemon began, “I shall not lie—”
“What, are you too honourable for it?” Naera jabbed with a laugh, “Lies get you very far, Daemon. Lies made me a rich woman, in a walled city across the seas.” There was pride in her voice and none of the honour that spilled out of a northerner when you stabbed them. He was entranced by it, by her brazen hubris over being dishonourable.
“Where?” Volantis, perhaps? Where those descended from Valyrians lived within obsidian walls, and she had declared them dislikeable, thus she knew them with certainty.
“One day,” she repeated his words, grinning, smiling, laughing in all but those wine-stained lips. Ah, those lips, and he was leaning forth to grant himself a chaste peck, just a taste of her smooth, supple skin, of her delightful self.
“Princess Naera, Prince Daemon,” a strong Dornish accent drew them away from their thoughts. It was a boy, young, younger than Aemond, with caramel brown skin and wavy hair. He was dressed in embroidered red and silver, to honour the family the best he could, but the obligation of the situation was as clear as possible. They had come only for Naera, and not for House Targaryen.
“Prince Qyle,” Naera greeted the member of the Dornish company who had chosen to attend the wedding. Prince Qyle was the firstborn son of Prince Qoren Martell, as well as his second heir, should he need one, following Princess Aliandra. Given when she had departed from Dorne, she had not met the young boy at all.
“My father, Prince Qoren, sends his congratulations on your marriage,” the young boy, the prince, spoke aloud to the music and chatter of the feast. “He…he asked me tell you that he has…” Qyle was unable to voice the words, for they made him uncomfortable, nearly ashamed, even.
Silence fell on the King’s table as Viserys turned to the blossoming hesitation in the Dornish prince.
“Yes?” Naera leaned forward, smiling as a visiting adult would to a shy little baby, encouragingly, and sipped some more wine.
“Prince Qoren has kept on his rehearse of the lance with vigour, is what he asked me to relay to you.” The nervousness in Prince Qyle’s face drained him as Naera threw her head back with a delighted laugh—euphonious, delicate, like a blooming flower in the midst of spring that is laced with morning dew and sparkles beneath the dawn sun—perfection.
He smiled at her, at the boy who chuckled also, and she responded, “Tell him for me, Prince Qyle…that if he can name the Houses of the Vale whilst honing his skill with the spears, I shall be rather impressed, indeed.” Naera grinned at her old good brother’s son, no, at her old would-have-been good brother’s son. Her good brother now was— “Oh, your grace, my dear good brother,” and Daemon held his laughter, “I believe I must send a most beautiful spear to Dorne with the group as a present, and, of course, a list of the Houses of the Vale—”
“Thank you, my princess,” and Qyle excused himself with a smile, on to question whether he would have such a friendship with his own good siblings when he had some. If Alicent Hightower and Laenor Velaryon were anyone to go by, Daemon would bargain that Naera was a special case indeed. She was friendly and brave, and beautiful and daring, and cunning as she was wise—perfect.
Naera leaned back into his arms, watching the dancers bow and circle and spin in delight. The alcohol had taken hold on, for it was obvious she had lost some clarity in her actions and her thoughts.
“Do you wish to dance?” Daemon asked when the child prince left them to their wine and dine.
“Can you dance?” Naera referred to the horrendous stab wound his leg had suffered at her behest. Daemon wrapped an arm around her shoulders again—perhaps, just to burn the minds of whoever desired her as his own—and leaned close to her neck again.
“Do you believe me this weak? Angoda iksan, ābrazyrys,” I am offended, wife, and Naera couldn’t suppress the blush that overtook her at his words. She felt a breeze of the coldest winter brush past her face, in that they made goosebumps scatter across all her skin.
She stood up, taking Daemon by the hand, “Pār, ivestragī īlva lilagon, valzyrys,” Then, let us dance, husband, and Daemon shuddered at the words—delightful, an irenic, tristful endeavour that calmed his beating heart but set it ablaze all the same. He stood suppressing a yelp, hiding a hiss, if only to not let her win once again—there would be a lifetime for that, for he’d never leave her go.
Daemon held her hand and wondered why hers were always colder than his. He watched her spin around her chair, and she dragged him along, towards the open spaces crowded with nobles and guests, who had all paused frozen at their arrival. A few of them backed away as they approached, and others joined the crowd to share a dance with the day’s beauty. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, at Elysabeth Tyrell leading Aegon to the floor himself, at the silly, dazed smile on his face, enchanted.
The bards began a slow, shrill tune, one he hadn’t heard before, and he took Naera’s cold hand again, holding her waist with the other. She rested her hand on his arm, an inch past his shoulder—correct. He wondered who had had the pleasure of teaching her the dances.
Naera swayed a step with the music, eyes calmly closed in peace, and with the clutter of her shoes against the marble floors, she began her dance. The tune grew faster, and he dragged his lady wife to follow the dance he just knew how to perform. She moved with the tranquillity of a seasoned dancer, as though she had been dancing her entire life. She swirled and twirled and spun like a cat—agile, slender, and elegant. Like her sword-fighting, Daemon realised.
She danced with the sword as she did with him, pivoting at just the correct moments, bending and dipping low in response to his own movements which appeared stiff in comparison. He followed her tugs for a change, ignoring the stabbing pains in his knee, and he wished his wound did not bleed once again, for he could not stop now. He could only aid, help, and be the consort to her free musings.
He gazed, and gazed, and thought, and thought, of the gold and the silver that twinkled in her purple eyes, and he asked, with his own identical eyes, he told, as well as he could, you are beautiful, and Daemon clenched her waist close, leaning close, closer and closest, to watch her eyes flicker and darken, to feel her flesh warm beneath him, burning.
Naera gasped small, shuddering breaths, her lips parted in a broken smile, her lips, which were painted the perfect shade between rouge and rosewood, with not a smudge out of place and not a whisper out of sound. Perfect. She pivoted her weight on a single foot, her chest rising and falling with tumultuous breathing, her chest, her bodice, her jewel and her lace, adorning her waist and her rounded breasts—Zyhon litse ābra—his fair woman, and his heart shuddered, his blood rushed to pleasant places at the thoughts.
“Ñuha gevie ābra,” he whispered close to her ears, and Daemon felt his face warm too far, he felt his hands sweat profusely as they held hers, he saw the shimmer in her eyes, and he knew, my beautiful woman.
Naera averted her eyes, her pale cheeks red, redder and reddest with the rush of blood, and perhaps, he hoped, lust, pressing her lips into a thin line, wetting them, making them shine, and his Silver Knight twirled away in sync with the song, and fell back in his arms with ardour, as the music came to standing still. She curtsied as a woman is expected, and he bowed in respect to his lady wife.
Daemon rested his hands on her shoulders, and let them drag up, up, up her delicate neck which he would scar himself, and the ivory skin, and cupped her cheeks—her burning face, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Naera’s. Her face was tender, as were her lips—gentle, soft and welcoming, unlike everything she had been just hours ago. Oh, just hours ago when she had defeated him with more ease than the Hightower’s cunt had all those years ago. Perfect. She was perfect.
“I wish the royal couple all the fortune of this world,” they turned to face a man in indigo garb, silks and satin, with dark, curly hair ending at his ears, and a face with a twisted nose. The man smiled, as expected, and bowed a fraction as a display of allegiance.
Daemon let his hands drop, and Naera responded, “Thank you, my Lord…” but it was obvious that she couldn’t recognise the man. Daemon couldn’t, either.
“Akka, davra atthirar, Khaleesi,” He understood the words, or rather, he heard them, but could not determine their meaning.
“What did you call me?” Naera asked, her voice barely a whimper over the music that had already encompassed the room again. He saw her shudder, her hands shook, and her jaw trembled.
The man smiled, dark, “Khaleesi, ven’r hash,” and the Dothraki words rolled off the man’s tongue in a way more natural than his lips ever seemed. Daemon could not understand a word, but the tone, the tenure was hostile. Threatening.
Naera spoke the words with fluency, might, fight, with power, and the harsh words spoken by Naera’s lips seemed the same as the finest Valyrian poetry to Daemon. He sensed panic, however, in the way Naera clutched the white lace of her gown, her breathing bated, her eyes set on the lord who had just arrived.
“Naera?” Daemon watched the noble lord cautiously, unable to recognise any crests or emblems in his features, cursing himself for never learning the languages of the east. Dothraki, she spoke the language of the Dothraki.
“Sek,” the man agreed, speaking slow and drawling, yes, “Vosma yer addrivat jin khal Roq’ko—Haji yer hash jin Khaleesi,” Daemon recognised the word again—Khaleesi—a Queen of the Dothraki. Naera squeezed a handful of her gown, wrinkling the fabric irrevocably. She was afraid, the first time since Wisestone’s disappearance, he noticed. She was afraid.
“Here,” the man smiled, as though no fear reached his face, no fright sweated his skin, and he spoke once again in the common tongue, “A gift for the princess of the Seven Kingdoms,” and the man, the noble lord, led them to the doors without, to the cold corridors leading up to the rooms. The guards were missing, Daemon noted, as a pitch-black chest was handed to Naera.
Naera fiddled with the steel clasps cautiously, perhaps only because her hands trembled uncontrollably. Daemon let his warm hand cover hers, and she sighed at his actions. She did not face him, but her gratitude was taken nonetheless. She cracked open the onyx chest, throwing back the covers, and Daemon’s blood ran cold.
It was a face—a face he had never seen, and he thought back to her drunken squalor the other night when she had recalled the tale of a man who wished to hack her face off. No.
No, but caution must colour every action in King’s Landing, and Naera held down Daemon’s hand, for she knew how he’d react. She was right to do it, for Daemon did not take to it well—he eyed the thin, parchment and silk-like mask with sun-dyed skin, and lips, and closed eyes, and dark hair, and structure. It was a face, but just a carving of it, as though someone had taken great care to flay a man of his face and preserve it also.
Naera did not move, barely breathed. She only gazed, and gazed, and gazed, and closed the chest with a thud. The man did not speak. He did not smile. He stood there, motionless, watching, waiting.
Naera spoke first, adopting another tongue he had never heard before, and spat out a dozen words too fast for him to register. Then, she turned to him, the chest clattering on the floor, and she held his hands, leaned close, and said, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot nārhēdegon bisa, Daemon,” I need you to forget this, Daemon.
“Naera, skoros…” what?
“Daor, kepus, rȳbagon,” No, uncle, listen, and her face had paled beyond health, her eyes were no longer pools of dark lust, instead only shallow splatters of fear. He glanced at the man—the man who had feared her, ignoble, lanky, weak, and yet he threatened her as so. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot dōrī ȳdragon hen bisa, dōrī pendagon hen ziry, sesīr…” I need you to never speak of this, never think of it, even… “Dōrī ivestragon mire issaros ken skoros ao ūndan.” Never tell any person of what you saw.
Never speak of this, that a false lord had called her queen and gifted her a face of a man, and she had cowered in fear, never think of it, as though he was the strongest man alive—as though he could resist the thoughts, never tell any person of what you saw, and he would do it all. For her, it was little to fulfil.
“Kostagon gaomā bona syt nyke, kepus?” Can you do that for me, uncle? Her voice was trodden and strangled, as though her heart had jumped up to her throat, as though it threatened to lurch out of her, as though endless dread churned within her. Fear, for him? A fear he had not witnessed in her before. A fear that came out of a life well lived when the terrors of a childhood tale no longer bothered, for the greatest evils have been seen and felt and lived. What has she seen? What has she done, that destroyed her? And with calm, and decisiveness, Daemon accepted. He'd know it all, soon enough.
“Issa, ābrazȳrys,” Yes, wife. He nodded, slow, gazing cautiously at her sweat-laden face, at her trembling, cold fingers.
The man was gone. The chest remained.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “One day,” she quoted him, relief washing through her, calming her, warming her hands and cooling her mind at the same time, “I shall tell you every tale.” A promise.
She sent the chest back to her solar, paired with the express order to leave it closed, and she returned to the corridor outside the banquet hall, holding Daemon’s hands, fear drained thus.
“Naera, I…” he had a question—just one, and surely, she would answer him. “Who was he?” He asked, harmless, for he could not be faulted for forgetting the name of a lord.
“No one,” Naera answered quickly, shaking her head, interrupting any thoughts he may have had, “One day, kepus, you must believe me, it was no one,” and the way she said the words retained the ominous absolution to them he recalled from those nights past. Faces, no one, flaying?
Hark, footsteps, clicking and clacking of timber heels against the marble. Elysabeth Tyrell approached them with a sour face. Her rose-coloured gown was stained with a spill of red wine by the side, though the patterning hardly striked hard enough to scandal.
She stopped before them, grasping Naera by the forearm, she leaned close to them, and said, with an annoyance beyond words, “The boy’s asleep.” Defeated, they were, it seemed.
Naera sighed, her shoulders slacking, face dulling, “Thank you for trying…I…” she shook her head, the panic and fear had left her dizzy. Daemon held her shoulders with care. Naera turned to smile, bleak, but something told him that half a glass of wine worth its gold would chase away these thoughts well enough.
“Oh,” Elysabeth smirked, brown curls waving, “It was a daft plan, by all means,” and Daemon flinched at her bluntness. “Come up with something better when you’re finished gazing lovingly at each other, will you?” Yet, the Rose’s glance was sinful and suggestive, passing a blame most carelessly owned by them both. They had been far too distracted to think of a better scheme.
Naera sighed through her nose, biting her lower lip, blushing, and he would be a liar if he claimed that he did not also. Naera chuckled, “Thank you, nonetheless,” of the fun you have lost, which you would have lived by after Aegon was slapped in the face by his whore of a mother.
“Oh,” Elysabeth laughed in glee, and when her eyes dropped to where their hands lay tightly clasped, she spoke with a deviant tenure, “I most certainly intend to have my fun, still, Naera,” and with a look of intemperate evil, she pulled at Daemon’s arm which was closer to her, and turned to the hall, “I believe it is time for the bedding!”
Notes:
SO, I think I forgot to mention this earlier, but since the pov of this chapter is sort of Daemon's side, I did not fill in the translations for the Dothraki statements. They'll eventually discuss it, so you don't need to worry.
Leave comments, yes, I have fun reading them. (Feed my vanity, dearest reader)
The lines in Valyrian and Dothraki were translated using online translators, but, if you spot any mistake, feel free to correct me in the comments. And, do leave comments. I need them.
Chapter 12: Perfection*
Summary:
A strangely intense and out-of-context wedding night
Notes:
guys I tried. I really, REALLY tried
WARNINGS
NSFW Content
Other warnings are incest, uncle-niece incest, smut, purity culture, creampie, cunnilingus, Daemon is his own warning, etc.Fell into three hours' trance writing this ( https://open.spotify.com/album/6IsNOcqDWih1ZWc4RLuVaF?si=wNNkSFW-TxipJr49FN5zOA by Peter Gundry. All right for the music go to him, just as all rights for the original works of ASoIaF and background for Dance of Dragons, etc go to GRRM and others involved in the production of Game of Thrones )
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Age.
It is the count of name-days one has lived through. It is the number of grey hairs in one’s locks, the clutches of wrinkles on one’s face, the estimation of how hardened the skin of their hands has become. It is the endless count of how many trials one has survived, how many pains one has suffered, and how many joys one has been denied. It is the sum of a person’s life, boiled down and reduced to a single number.
Age.
It is the time that has passed, the decade, the century, the millennia of power and might one has flourished. It is a modicum of history, a way to divide and a way to tell, when ruled that dictator, and when shone that emperor. It is the time a dynasty has prospered, a place has grown, or remained still, or a mix of both.
Valyria.
It was a place of wealth--great, dark, deep, unimaginable wealth. It was a place of gold, obsidian stone, and entire cities forged by fire. It was the place of dragons, of great, horrendous jaws and sharp teeth, of the ripples of scales and the fleshes of wings, and the crescent moons carved into every dragon’s egg. It was the place of engraved iron and steel, the heaven of rubies and blood, and of fires that never ended. It was a land borne and broken and shrouded in darkness. It was the place of fire and blood.
Valyria was Old.
It was old, in its ancient customs, in its blood sorcery passed down from child to babe since the dawn of time. It was old, in its draped flags and thousand-year-aged dragons, in its steel anklets and collars that wrapped around the necks of the fairest maidens, down the hands of the palest ivory skin, down the braided hairs of the worthiest—anklets, necklaces, crowns of iron and rubies and steel, morphed and twisted, etched and shaped to resemble the scales, eyes, wings and jaws of dragons.
It was a land of fire, of blood, of dragons, and of gold, and steel, and stone, and slaves. It was the land of volcanic flames that towered above the tallest buildings, beneath the skies where winged creatures borne of fire and darkness stretched their domain. It was the land where lava poured beside streets of onyx, where topless towers higher than giants were built every day, where the blood of Old Valyria resided—the noblest, the truest, the dragon lords of Essos.
The age of Valyria had been long, it had been grand, it had been forged with the pains of slaves and the braveries of the dragons. It had been lived in the luxury of the Freehold, in the wines and the delicacies, in the fashions and fabrics that were woven and coloured to resemble the hides of dragons, to resemble the eyes of their beasts, to resemble the fire of their beings.
Valyria was gone.
It had been decades, centuries, since the deeds of their own burned them, and since the Fourteen Flames burned too hot and consumed the legacy of centuries old. It had been decades, since the cursed waters of the Smoking Seas ran dark and bloody near the peninsula that once was, since the echoes of the Doom of Old Valyria had begun haunting any who dared venture too far there. It had been years, and years, and years, since the gods of Old Valyria were forgotten, since the might of the old flames were extinguished, since the Freehold collapsed, and the world descended, and the magic of the world died away.
The Valyrians were gone.
The Valyrians, the proud dragon lords who flew above their slaves and the Ghiscari, who mounted the ugliest of beasts and burned any who dared question them, who had raised a land from ash and stone to blood and fire, had died. The Valyrians, who had borne the blood of their magics, who had morphed the flesh and bone of a thousand beasts, had witnessed the births of babes and monstrosities, had witnessed the age of the dragon, and the age of blood magic, and had revelled and grown in its might, were no more.
The Valyrians, the very same people who had yearned for their purity to remain as clear as water, who had wed brother to sister, to preserve the sorcery in their blood, were no more. We are the blood of the dragon, they had claimed at every turn, as bride and groom circled flames and exchanged blood, swore fealty in soul and body, in their dragons and their kin—they were gone, burned by the very same fire that ran through their veins.
The Targaryens survived.
They sailed, and they conquered, and they lived. They ruled, and they fought, and they rode their dragons. The Targaryens survived, but the ways of Old Valyria did not. The lands of the west demanded changes in their rulers, demanded that the old gods be forgotten and the old ways stopped. The lands of the west broke their culture, crumbled it, and put the flames out. They rid the world of the might, the beauty, the oldness and tradition of Valyria.
If Daemon Targaryen could fulfil a single wish of his, irrevocably, completely and indefinitely, it would be to bring back the heights of Valyria, the statutes of its power, the lights of its divinity, and the age of the dragons. It would be to bring back the world where none could dare challenge the dragon lords, where none would dare fathom the complexity of theirs, where none questioned their traditions, and their ways, and their beliefs.
He would bring back the age of the dragon, the blood of old Valyria, the might, the power, the sorcery, the perfection of it all. He would usher in that age of history, where his desires would not be insulted, where his House’s prestige would not be tarnished, where his blood would reign supreme, once, and for all.
One day, he would witness the return of it all, whether by his hand, or not, but he would see the glory, and he would see mastery over all that is seen and known, he would hold the potency of a million dragons, and he would hold his blood, his wife, his niece, his Naera, closer than ever.
Old Valyria was gone, its beauty, its age—the age of the dragons—were gone. The Valyrians were gone, for all they were worth. House Targaryen remained. The Blood of the Dragon—the Blood of Old Valyria, imbued with fire, tempered in the depths of the fourteen flames, remained. He was the blood of the dragon, and so was she. His ancestry was gone, but his present remained. His dragons remained. His House remained. His Naera remained, and if he had another wish to spare, if he had another choice, another gift from the gods, he would have her feel the same.
He would have Naera Targaryen, the Silver Knight of Westeros, the rider of Wisestone, the Blood of the Dragon, yearn for her homeland as she yearned for her freedom and her travel. He would have her yearn as such for the greatness of her past, for the future grace and power of her blood. He would have her yearn for it all, for yearning for her heritage, meant yearning for him. They were the blood of the dragon, and he wished to the Gods of Old Valyria, for he knew them to be the only ones still true, that she would burn as bright as he did, as he always had, for the prestige of their selves, for the regality of their blood, for the success of their kin.
He would make her see—he would make her see the beauty of Valyria, he would read to her, he would tell her every tale there is to tell, he would take her there itself, the Doom be damned, if his Naera understood at the end of it. He would make her see the power of their blood.
But, tubis daor. Not today.
It did not have to be today. There would be a day for everything, a time for everything. This was not the time for a journey to the east, the winds in their faces, the world beneath them spinning past, faster than they could see. This was the time for her—she, who was the queen of some land he did not know, she, who brought power he could never understand, she, who would sing the songs of old magic one day to him, and she, who was perfection personified—this was the time for her worship.
Daemon’s chest hurt, like a clawing, shuddering pain trapped within his heart that broke out, burning, eating, and growing with every breath. He could hear the whistles of his own breathing, going in, and out, and in, and out, and in, and out, faster, and faster, and faster yet, and his hands twitched, almost entirely out of his control, and they moved and squeezed and trembled, out of place, out of touch, out of turn.
Naera stood before him, still dressed, for whoever would dare touch her for their tradition? They couldn’t fathom her beauty in their little minds, Daemon knew, and they shouldn’t. She would kill them in their thoughts, suffocate them in their dreams, and leech away their souls with her perfection if they saw her as she was.
They did not deserve her.
He did.
Naera blinked, blinked and blinked, silver and ivory closing and opening, shielding and showing the lavender, and violet, and purple of her eyes. Her nose stood still, as did her chest, as did her lips, and her hands, and her feet, and her whole self, as though she held her breath, holding, holding, holding for too long, as though she had forgotten to let it go.
She watched Daemon, his hair that grew far too fast and already clustered below his ears and his eyes that dazed at hers through the distance, at the lines on his face where his brows met his nose, where his lips curled into the shadow of a frown, where his jaw clenched shut, where the browned scar of her cut streaked across his cheek, where his eyes narrowed just a fraction, black and blown with thirst and hunger, just to gaze at her with more clarity. Naera tracked the curves and falls of his garb, the dangles of the thin steel chain which held together his cloak, at the clasp of that very chain which was engraved into a miniature of Caraxes, and she let her eyes wander, to the smooth dark silks of his shirt, to the intricate, old, labyrinthine curves and fills in silver and red along his sleeves, below his neck, and on, and on it went, following a pattern reminding of her ancient rituals and sacrifices, of his mind and just him.
She did not know what she was to do. She did not know what she wanted to do, other than a vague, kindling urge to run her hand down the scar on his cheek, to smile as he hissed in pain, to groan as he pulled away her hand and held it in his own. She felt at a loss, lost in all but corporeality, other than the shapeless desire to wind a finger around the dragon-linked chain, and unlock the clasp, and watch the fabric crumple with elegance to the floor. Elegance. That’s the spirit.
That is what she wanted.
“Daemon,” her voice sounded weak, unused, but it went heard too well. Daemon took a step, and another, and another, until his shaking hands held her waist, over the bejewelled dress she had worn to the feast, and they moved up, and down, and up again, as though to map and learn every curve and dip of her form. He did it with simplicity, with practice, with confidence and elegance, and it made Naera gasp and shudder.
“Naera,” yet his voice sounded just as brilliant as his actions felt, deep, musky, aged and experienced, and lived, and pure. “Naera,” and he spoke her name differently, as though he wasn’t trying to lie, as though it was complete, when she knew that it was not. Her name was wrong—it was hollow and broken, incomplete, and yet, he bespoke it with an elegance that prevailed over its flaws. He made it sound finished.
“Daemon,” she let her eyes flutter close at the feeling of his hands, large, warm and wonderful, tracing higher and higher to hold her clothed chest, to feel her rounded breasts beneath all those layers, and she sighed out, in relief, in pleasure, in delight, or something else, she did not know.
“Naera,” he repeated her name, but his tone grew sinful, blasphemous, daring and daunting all the same in a way that crept up and down her neck, her mind, and down to where she felt hot and wet and awake. He said it again, slow, decadent and rich, like one’d name a dish of the finest meats, like one’d term a wine most sweet and pleasurable, like one'd confess one’s darkest desires onto a paramour. Filthy, and lovely.
“I…” and Naera broke the trance, broke their symphony of names and his touches, and her eyes blinked open. She found him staring at her still, at her eyes, at the fine lines of obsidian which streaked her pupils, at the depth and endless darkness of her irises, and she could only shudder, she could only gasp, and wish a sob, but it was not the time. There would be a time for tears—there would be a time to console over how deep and endless his desire ran, how strangely he made her feel. There would be a time for it, but tubis daor—not today, not when she felt as if a dragon had breathed fire unto her soul and set her mind ablaze.
“Let me,” Daemon told her, without ever really asking, as she’d refuse now was a thought beyond his conception, and she agreed. She couldn’t stop now. She wouldn’t stop now.
With a look she would only call hunger, and a stature sinking with crave, he brushed his lips to hers, slow, gentle, breaking and returning, and almost sweet, and certainly gentle, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t hold the fire within. He pulled his hands up, to hold her burning cheeks, to coax open her mouth and to drink in her taste of sour wine and cherries, and to let their tongues dance.
Lust.
Her chest rose, and fell, rose, and fell again, faster, and faster, until she panted, gasping, breathless, and he pulled away, watched the glow of magenta in her blown pupils glimmer and twinkle, and thin further, and further until he saw just a ring of clear lilac again. She blinked away the last of her hesitation, the last of her crazed and held breaths, and she laughed, out of place, out of turn, like a stammer of rain in a desert long known for its barren lands. Unneeded, but delightful, and destructive.
Daemon growled, and he trailed kisses down her lips, down her chin, to the dip of her throat, and to her neck—her smooth, supple neck, and he sucked, and bit and he kissed, and kissed and kissed, and it wasn’t enough—nothing would be enough. She tasted of sweat and sweetness and metal, and she smelled of bitter inks and old parchments and flowers, and he would drain her of every last drop of taste, and he would go thirsty still.
Naera trailed a hand down his chest, past the weaves and threads of his shirt and his dark cloak, past the girth of his muscles, and up, up, until she reached his collar, and the steel chain glistered in the candlelight. She tightened two fingers around it, and tugged at it, strong, shocking, breaking the clasp off its place, and the ruffling of fabric graced her ears, his cloak falling to the ground in curves and folds and twists. She trailed her hands up, to his chest, to his neck, and chased his lips with hers.
When she gasped for breath again, he pulled off her, taking her hand, taking her waist, and walking her back, back, and further down to his beds. He leaned his forehead against hers, noses touching, breaths mingling, and he pressed her down, gentle, kind, precious, against the mattress. Naera laid back, her hands running across the white sheets, the texture just an agitating burn, a different kind of dread settling within her.
He wouldn’t care, she knew—no one cared. It was an age-old tradition, and her dear uncle knew better than to depend on its fragility. Daemon would not care that she’s no maiden, but she felt wrong, and guilty, of a crime never committed. Daemon saw her fear, saw her hesitation drain back into her eyes, saw her grow stiffer and colder, and he felt agony.
“No.” He refused, taking her hands off the sheets, taking her fear in his heart, and he leaned down, close to her, warm breaths fanning across his face, and he told her, again, “Ñuhon iksā,” you are mine, but with somehow no malice, no enslavement, no cruelty in his words, only pride, only lust, only sin of a wonderful kind, “I do not care about your past,” for one day, he shall know it all, and then repeat his words again, and repeat every action of his, again, and again, and again, until she forgot those crimes, forgot those others.
Naera sighed into his mouth, his lips moulding against hers, dry, then wet, then hungry, and then famished. She hummed something fazed, something not meant to be understood, but only taken at the face value as agreement. He ran his fingers down the crests and jewels along her dress, down to the lace-ridden hips, and lower, and lower.
Daemon kissed her hands, her fingers, her lips, and dragged himself down to the marble floors of his chambers. He hooked his hands under her knees, under her white and grey skirts, and he fell back, to the floors, on his knees. He dragged her to the edge, and he felt the laces and satins hum beneath his touch. He peeled a layer off, letting it fall in bunch at her waist, and another, and another, until he finally saw his reward. His bride, and her long legs, smooth, though scarred in some places, but delicate, and soft in the right places, and his. He dragged down whatever small clothes she wore, ignored her shudders, and drank in her anticipation which only intoxicated him further. Delightful.
Daemon pulled apart her thighs, parting her legs, and settled them on his shoulders. He dragged his calloused hands down her legs, leaning down to delight in her smell—iron, flowers, and just everything nice, and he couldn’t help his smile, his smirk, and the joy that befell him. His trousers felt tight, tighter, and too much, but he relented.
“Gevives,” he only said. Beauty. Naera shuddered again, chest rising up, and falling down, painfully tight, scaringly tight within her corset. Daemon dived forth, his smirk never besmirched, and he tasted her.
Naera mewled with careless abandon, moaned out praises, desperate, and her hands directed his hair, knowing, tugging, gripping, sighing at its spider silk texture, and she broke into another moan, and another, as he closed his lips over her clit, and he sucked with a force unneeded. Daemon let his tongue trail up, down, and then into her cunt, tasting her sweet, flowery, metallic self, that was warm, hot, hotter than a flame, and so much more delicious, that he could only drink her in, lick after lick, moan after moan.
Her legs tried flaying free, but he held them tighter, as Daemon squeezed a finger through her velvet folds, through her tight, dripping cunt, and he heard Naera go louder, faster, moving her hips to aid in his movements, and she screamed as unlike as could be, to a whore, or another woman, for she moaned with a deeper ruse to her voice, a different kind of frayed innocence, an unknown shade of lust, that was all held and loved and done in a single word. Perfection.
He felt her tighten, felt her hands tighten in his hair, heard her moans grow higher and higher in pitch, and as does a scale about to crescendo, she would too. He sped himself up, pushing in another finger to brush against her tender walls, while his lips returned to her clutch of nerves, and he counted the thrusts of his fingers, the swipes of his tongue, one, two, three, and oh, she broke her legs free, and pulled his face into her legs, and there, a rush of wetness, a cacophony of whines and moans, and pleads and praises, and a word repeated through it all.
Daemon.
“That’s it,” he shushed, and hummed, and the reverberations of his voice sent tingles through her cunt, through her weakening legs, through her mind. Her feet fell slack, and Daemon crawled back up the mattress, slow, silent, like a preying cat, or a hungry beast. Like a dragon, Naera supposed, as her eyes felt tired and heavy, but her breathing, and her gasping kept her awake.
“Daemon,” she praised another time, pleaded, chanted, and he kissed her lips, making her taste himself. Daemon pulled her up by the shoulders, made her sit despite the heaviness in her shoulders, rocking back, and forth, and back, and forth, gently, in a rhythm she let him form, foreheads touching. A smile lingered on his lips, a devilish sort of smile which faded very quickly into a smirk, and she laughed through her nose at it.
“Naera,” he called her name again, kindly, gently, and again, but softer, darker. She faced his eyes again, saw the urges and the desires, and he lifted her up onto his lap. She felt the flurry of fabric around her legs, and she moaned at the drag of his trousers against her bare cunt as he continued rocking, slow, gentle, calculated, counted.
Daemon threw his face into her chest, into the jewels embedded with the silks, breathing the smell of wine and metal that seemed different every second breath. Not enough, and he reached a hand behind, tugging at the bindings for her gown, skilfully, nimbly, until the fabric loosened, and he dragged it down to her waist. Naera pulled away her arms, freeing herself from the sleeves.
Daemon wrapped a finger around the locks of her silver hair that fell upon her face, twirled the bunch and cast it away, smirking, smiling, yearning, but with a calmness that ran short with every inch of skin she revealed. Naera reached behind herself, no thoughts, no hesitation, and pulled at the cinch of her corset, loosening it enough.
Daemon sighed halfway, and his face trailed lines, his nose brushed past the curves and skin and flesh of her neck, and every breath of his sent her moaning, every shift in his stature making her gasp in sync. He unhooked the front of her corset, one at a time, torturously slow, two, three, four, and his resolve had all but collapsed, as he rocked her hips against his, dragged her wet cunt across his legs, and she moaned, light, breathy, at the edge of pleasure. Perfect. Five, and he snatched the corset with haste, and tossed it somewhere away. The clink of glass and shatter of bottles made it clear that she would not be very appeased to wear it again.
“Gevie,” Beautiful, and her breasts were rounded and full, and her skin was smooth and soft, and her waist dipped like a thundering tide, and rose again, with sharp angles, near the hips. He felt his cock push painfully against his pants, but he ignored it. There would be a time for everything. He took a mouthful of her flesh, of her delightful skin, of her gorgeous breasts, and he wound his tongue around her in circles, holding her back still as Naera moved her cunt against the fabric of his trousers, now drenched, and she moaned at his every touch, whined at every flick of her nipples and sighed at every squeeze of her skin.
She dragged herself across him once, twice, and again, but her time was up, and she clutched his garb in desperation, her face dropping to his shoulders, and he held her, rocked her, moved her, until she came back to sense.
Daemon felt her wet slick course through the fabric of his trousers, his legs damp where she sat atop them, and he felt his skin sweat, and heat, and ache.
“Kepus,” she addressed for the first time that evening, winded, puffing, wheezing in turn, and felt his resistance crumble.
Daemon groaned, in a way Naera could only register as starved, and he caught her lips again, harsher, stronger, dissident and strident, and he took her down, leaned on her, breathed on her as would a lion to his deer—as would a dragon to his sheep—as would a predator to its prey, and it burned her, it boiled her, it made her wish to tear into a thousand pieces, all at once.
“Nuha gevie abrazyrys,” my beautiful bride, and he was tearing away his breeches, throwing off his shirt, pulling the remainder of her dress off her waist, and down, down, down her legs and off to clutter somewhere else. Daemon ran his hand down his cock, finally out and free, wet with the slick his fingers had dealt with, and he watched, and gazed, and gazed, at her molten gold and silver locks that lay spread beneath her head, at the red bruises littered across her rounded breasts, and her cunt—beautiful, tiny and ready for him. His Valyrian bride.
Naera felt him raise her legs, and she did him the courtesy of wrapping them around him, and he smirked, and he burned, and he was hers, until the end of their days—he was hers.
He held his cock, and brushed the tip against her wet cunt, waiting, watching, tarrying, but no more, and he pushed in, inch, after inch, in, and in, and gods, he groaned at the warmth, at the thundering, boiling, brewing heat, at the tightness, at the way she squeezed him without trying.
“How are you this fucking tight?” Daemon groaned out, head leaning down, breathing her scent, her sultry aromas, and he feared his ability to last. Naera held her eyes shut, letting out sounds less than dignified as his cock stretched her beyond words, and made her ache, and hurt, and moan, and sigh.
“Shhh…” she spoke, a sprinkle of bravado, a spoonful of bravery, and far too much exhaustion mingled with her heat and her desire, “Dīnagon, kepus,” Move, uncle, and he bore deeper into her at her words, leaning down, eye to eye, darkened eyes blown with mischief, with taunt, with rebellion, and her smirk nearly matched his own.
He held her hips tight enough to bruise, and he obeyed. With a shudder, he pulled out half his way, and slammed into her heat, groaning at the way she sucked him in again, and she threw her head back with a scream, and wheezing, voiceless, Naera moaned.
He pulled back again, and thrusted into her, again, and again, and again, and felt her squeeze him tighter, and tighter, and harsher, as though to suck the life out of him, and oh, he loved it. She arched her back, held by her elbows.
Daemon groaned, pitch high for him, and roared out, gritty, brash, abrasive and brilliant, “Look at you, my lovely lady wife,” and he crept a hand down to her cunt, to her clit, and brushed a thumb across it. “Taking your kepa’s cock, oh, you do love it, don’t you, my whorish little bride…” His Valyrian Bride, who moaned at every turn and squeezed his cock too well, with too much vigour, with too much beauty for him to hold back.
Daemon crushed into her with a wheeze, sliding in, and out, and then again, and spitting absolute filth down her ears, “I should have stolen you away to Dragonstone the minute we kissed—oh, but how fiery you were, my little knight, my little bride, with your resistance…” Fun while it lasted, Naera would have jabbed, was she not near failing at her words the very moment. Her mind was blurred, with the pains of his harshness and the pleasure of his making, and gods, he really did know what she wanted.
“I…” Naera broke her words, nothing sounding at all, as her eyes clenched shut, and her core tightened, her release dangling oh, so near, and she knew he’d be devious. She knew that one day, he’d deny her the pleasure for hours on end, but tubis daor—not today, for his own restraint had crumbled with the pleasures he gave her, and his thrusts were growing sloppy, untimed, out of rhythm and out of place, and he knew how close she was, he knew what it would take for her to tumble off the edge for good.
Daemon circled her clit with his finger, and she roared in ecstasy, tightening around him, fluids gushing, pressure rushing, and he collapsed over her, and he said, “There, my good girl—I should fill you with my seed, make you round and full with child,” and Daemon gasped, with a loud groan, and a bruising grip of her body, spilling himself in one, two, three spurts of warm seed.
He could hear the beating of her heart—frantic, uneven, and her mindless gasping, wheezing and the symphony of her body as it curled around her, arms tightening, legs wrapping, and there, with a final breath, it was over.
She was his, and he was hers.
Notes:
I don't know why or what guys. I TRIED.
Chapter 13: Brilliant*
Summary:
Naera has a vision. Unrealistic erotica. An uncomfortable family breakfast.
Notes:
WARNINGS
smut, incest, dom/sub dynamics (very minor?), cunnilingus, creampie, daemon is his own warning, etc. YOU GET IT
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Long, flowing golden hair, tossing in the wind, in the darkness, in the light. Twin braids, that crept from a brow and behind. A face most carefully made, with the right shades, and the correct lights, with a long nose and a beauty all in all, with the most splendid expressions ever seen. Curls and spins and winds rolled down her shoulders, below a crested necklace of pure gold.
Her chin was held high, her eyes narrowed gracefully, her lips curved in a smirk only described as superior, stained with wine.
Pride.
Then, lower, and lower, and she wore satins and silks of the finest merchants. There was red, and gold, and a southern-styled gown, with sinking sleeves and bared shoulders, and flurries of curves and height to it all. There was gold, jewels, and intricacy in her.
Wealth.
A crown, of iron and gold, crested with blood, adorned with ash and rubies, winding through the hair of dark suns. The woman was dressed in red, with a crown of gold. Banners hung behind her—banners of velvet, with an adorned lion roaring through.
Regal.
“Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister?” A Dornish accent, aged and experienced, mocking and untethered. A Martell's voice.
Lannister.
House Lannister.
Golden lions.
The Queen?
No.
House Lannister. Golden Lions. The Usurper Queen.
Usurper. A Usurper King?
A running stag, running through fires and despairs, and blood and grime and fallen worlds. Ours is the fury.
Baratheon. Lord of Storm’s End. Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. The Usurper King. The Sack of King’s Landing. A Targaryen Bastard.
A child’s cries, screeches, a woman’s wails, a towering mountain, and the ringing of steel blades being drawn, and silence.
The Fall of the Dragon. The End of their reign, destroyed by their own blood.
No.
The Dragon does not answer the Lion. The Dragon does not answer the Stag.
The Dragon burns them all alike.
Fire. The screech of a Dragon, the flapping of wings, great, dark, horrendous wings. One, two, three—obsidian and red, green and bronze, gold and cream. There shall be flames. There shall be blood. There shall be the age of dragons, returned, with a great, wakening light.
Dracarys.
Red stone, red foundations, and flags of red and gold and lions, all burned, and all fell.
There.
The Conqueror—silver hair, braids, and braids, and braids, and the neighing of a thousand horses, and the singular stepping of ten thousand marching soldiers, and on, and on.
There.
The Age of the Dragon.
Flags the colour of ash, with luminescent crests of blood-red dragons, being drawn over the ruins of the palace that once was. A throne made of swords, melted and moulded to never grant any sort of comfort, any sort of support. A King must never sit easy. A Queen must never sit easy, and yet, the Dragon Queen sat atop it with a grace unseen, and a state of completion unknown. A Queen must never sit easy, and yet, the Targaryen Conqueror sat atop the Iron Throne as though she was borne to do it. Indeed, she was. She was the blood of the dragon, and all knelt before her—wolves, eagles, stags, and lions, and even the very sun, the rose, and all that mattered. Even darkness, even death, ever devastation knelt before the conqueror.
Darkness knelt before the Conqueror.
No.
Darkness knelt before Azor Ahai, the forsaken warrior who tempered his own will in the blood and death of his lover. The warrior who ended the long night, the darkest winter, the coldest eternity.
The Conqueror was Azor Ahai.
Naera opened her eyes with a start.
She saw light, white and yellow and green, and a sky the colour of the sea. It was boundless, rolling on, and on, and on, forever, and then some more, behind the edges of the grassy hills. Grass, green and fresh and fragrant, rolled for miles, and acres in every direction, beneath the boundless skies.
Naera sat in a dress the colour of clouds, one that was loose and light. She was staring up at the skies, blue, blue, and blue, and her eyes made funny images of small translucent circles running through and past the skies. A hand reached forth, curled a strand of her silver hair and brushed it away.
Daemon sat behind her, holding her, kissing her, breathing her. His hands were wrapped solidly around her waist, his head carefully placed on her shoulder, and every breath of his taking send shivers down her spine.
“Are you awake yet?” He seemed to ask, hands drawling up, and down her front, her stomach, her breasts. Naera felt lethargic, as though someone had sedated her, tired her, and lazed her away.
"Hmm?” And she let him venture lower with his hands, crawling down to the hem of her dress and slowly, tantalizingly slow, dragging it up to her knees. His hands settled on her thighs, running small circles on her skin that made her throw back her head and sigh. One of his heavy palms crept back up, catching hold of her breast.
“You haven’t answered my question, Naera,” and through his dulcet voice, she felt heat, burning and boiling and toiling, build up from her core. Daemon pressed a kiss to her neck, and his hands found her cunt. Naera moaned, whimpered, really, and he drank it away as though it was his elixir. He set a single finger within her, revelling at how wet she was already, and breathed against her neck, again, in a way that made her wish to jump out of her skin and devour him all the same.
“What question?” And the sun burned warm along her face, her skin, her bones, but Daemon’s touch felt warmer, hotter and more refined than the sun. She heard him chuckle, a low, rumbling sound that travelled down her chest in waves.
“Are you awake?” She felt warm, warmer, and warmest, and Daemon kept on his actions. He curled one, or two fingers within her, circling her clit with his thumb, arduously slow, but it had all the same impact. Naera still thundered out a wheeze and a moan, but her eyes felt heavier and heavier. He repeated his words, the tune only adding to her ecstasy. He really did have a brilliant voice.
Wait.
“What d’you mean awake?” Naera felt cold, cold sheets, cold blankets, cold air, all over her, all around her. She sat up, fighting through the pain and heaviness in her limbs, to witness the light and airiness of chambers which were very certainly not hers. The sheets weren’t hers, there weren’t enough papers for these to be her quarters at all, and it was—oh, Daemon sat next to her, gazing at her with impertinence. Oh, and Naera cursed her first thought as having been carnal. His hair glowed in the morning light, and his eyes, and his—He had a brilliant voice, among many other brilliant things.
“There you go,” and his voice made her core warm up all over again, “You’re awake.” Daemon leaned forward, past the mess of silver hair, to press a kiss on her cheek, and her lips. Mistake, for the simple action made her clutch onto his neck, hot, heavy and reflexive, with a soul-crushing kiss. He did not refuse, of course—how could he refuse his dear niece? –and held her shoulders, driving her back onto the mattress. “Awake and eager,” he taunted against her lips, hands running across her bare body with blistering passion.
Naera wanted to taunt back, something along the lines of can’t say I’m the only one eager, or can you blame me? Yet, the words did not come that easily when her mind felt dazed with lust. Lust, for Daemon Targaryen. How in the world had it gotten here?
Daemon held her hands away from her, pinning them above her head, and his eyes spoke to hers his desires, his urges, all boiled down to promises. One day, I will bind your wrists and take you, and Naera cursed the shudder in her breath at his silent oath.
“Stay still for me.” His words had warning, and a deep, gruesome undertone to his words that made her want to obey, just this once. She let her arms go slack, hands grasped tight somewhere above her head, and she blared silent for his actions. She watched him, the mischief leaking out of his eyes, a haunted sort of eagerness in the lines on his forehead, the smile on his lips, the darkness of his eyes. Brilliant, he was, in more ways than she could count.
Daemon leaned close down, kissing her once again, this time soft, slow and temperate, and his hands dragged lower, and lower, and lower, nose dragging past the curve of her neck, and down, and down to the rise and fall of her breasts. He spared a kiss there but did not linger, and the thrill, the waves, the boil of anticipation in her heart did nothing to assuage her of the heat she felt.
Finally, his hands reached her thighs, pulling them apart, and he settled between them as he had the night before, though this time there was more comfort in his stature—the ability to leer, linger and lie in wait. God, she would both hate and love this—she would both hate and love him.
“Ah,” his grin made her cower, for no reasons defined, “Looks as though my Visenya has a lot of urges in her sleep,” and she felt the need to clarify, to defend herself, to tell him that it was the first time—the only time, and it had been after their night. Yet, what was the point? Somewhere in her mind, lingering, crawling and festering was the knowledge that it would not be the last time she dreamt that way of him.
Daemon ran a finger down her folds, through the slick wetness of hers, and she moaned breathily. He brought his finger up, and her legs twitched and shook, something of a spasm overtaking them.
“Careful, now,” and his warning resonated in her mind. Ah.
He repeated his actions, up, down, and up again, and she held her breath to keep herself from moving. Stay still, and he won’t deny you your pleasure. Daemon let his tongue run up her soaked cunt, muttering another comment about its taste which she could hardly register over the urge to drag his head in. Every careful breath of his collided with her clit in a way not at all unpleasurable, and she strained at the control.
“Good girl,” he praised her, cloyingly sweet, sickening, sugaring and brilliant. Daemon crept his tongue into her cunt, and a finger, and another, and Naera couldn’t help the shake of her hips to meet him in his way. He did not stop, however, as she had dreaded for so long, and only held her thighs with a stronger grace, and it went, his tongue, curling, winding and drinking her in. Naera broke away a hand, brushing it through his hair, revelling in its feel, and she tugged him closer, and closer to where she needed him.
Then, as a match stick does go out, as do a thousand candles in the wind, blowing, cooling, while darkness settled over it all, Daemon retreated, his eyes finding her pleading gaze, and Naera knew that she was at fault. Oh, but is it fault, if it felt as grand?
Daemon left her thighs, her aches and her needs, and he crept higher, taking her hands and holding them with a crushing grasp above her head. He stopped at her face, littering kisses everywhere but her lips, and she knew him—she knew his urges, his wants, his needs, to humiliate, to dominate, to make her give in—and she did not hate it at all.
“I am sorry,” Naera whispered, laying slack for his measure, for his leisure, for his pleasure, and he did not miss the glint of acceptance in her eyes.
“Are you, now?” He held her up, dragging, lingering and smirking, “Good girls don’t make such mistakes, dearest Naera,” and she shivered at his words. Daemon flipped her onto her stomach, running her hands down the smooth expanses of her back, acres and acres of ivory, scarred and healed and faded, and his. He heard her gasping breaths beneath, saw the pooling of slick by her cunt, and oh, she was perfection.
Daemon pulled up her knees, kneeling behind her leaking cunt, and watched, and watched, as she combated the urge to touch herself. He’d made her do it, one day, but not today. Or, not now, at least. He freed his cock, fully aching from the sight, and spread a hand around her ass. One day, but not today. There would be time—there would be endless time for their endeavours. Not today.
“Well,” he ran his hands up her back, through the smooth, saturnine texture of her skin, above the scars and wounds long healed and done, to her locks of dry, wispy silver hair that lay scattered around her neck. He caught hold of a bunch, wound his fingers around the locks slowly, carefully, lovingly, and tugged at it, harsh, painful and stiff.
Naera cursed the sensations, the hastening fairy-like tingles which ran through her back, down her body, through her cunt, at the endowment of pain and ache. She felt him lean close to her neck, whispering words she couldn’t decipher, though she trusted them to be nothing short of salacious.
He leaned back up, playing with her folds, slow, quiet and torturous, but oh, it was brilliant. He was brilliant. With no warnings, no indication and certainly no mercy, Daemon thrust in his cock, in, in, until he had fit himself into her heat by no means other than brute force.
Naera buried her face in the sheets, eyes closed, grunting at the stretch, at the pain, at the delight. She must’ve heard him sing a praise or two or three, about how tight she was, or how well she took him in, but they went unheard, his words went unconceived, but the rumble and thrum of his voice along her body send her reeling for more.
Daemon held her hips with bruising force, as though she did not already have bruises all over, and pulled out nearly all the way, before slamming into her with a grasping panic. Naera clustered as much of the sheets as she could, body writhing in pain, in pleasure, and some cursed approximation of their sum and Daemon went on, again, and again, and again, and Naera cried out a moan.
“Now, was that so hard?” Daemon mocked with hurried breaths, “Was is hard to just stay still for your lord husband?” But oh, she liked this more, he knew. He knew her, and her needs, and her attitude—she wanted roughness out of him, power, brutality, even, though not always—he’d figure her out eventually.
Naera whined out a cry, a moan, a whimper, at the feeling of his cock stretching her walls farther than before, grazing her womb, leaving her weak, wanting and wary for the next thrust. Daemon tugged at her hair again, harsher this time, and his movements lost rhythm as he groaned, leaning on her back. Naera whined when he tugged at her again, and there was a thrust particularly powerful, one that made her see stars.
He felt her tighten around him, close to her end, and he told her, “There you go, come for me, my—” and she took his words to heed, clenching around him in ways unfelt, gasping, wheezing, whining and moaning, mind blurred, but his name made it through. Daemon.
Hearing her chant his name in ecstasy, he followed suit, "My lovely princess," and he resisted the urge to call her his whore, "take my seed, yes? Take your kepa's seed, and we can begin our brood," and Naera did not know why she hissed out a heavy moan at the thought of being round, and full of child—full of him. Giving her a few powerful thrusts, Daemon held her hips tight against him, burying himself as far within her as he could. He filled her with himself, thick, hot, heavy seed filling her womb, holding her warmth, and Naera breathed in the sensation with a shadowing glee.
Naera’s knees collapsed, and she was thankful that he retained enough sense to collapse beside her, and not over her. Her lungs felt deflated, and she flipped onto her back, heart hammering in her chest, searching for a clean breath. She felt his seed ooze out of her in drips and streams, and her cunt clenched around the remnants without her will. She stuttered out a moan, and a gasp, at the tip-tip-trickling of it out of her.
Oh.
Daemon pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, warm and sweaty. He looked over her rising and falling chest, her full and rounded breasts, and her neck, red and purple with marks of his giving, but he’d do it all over again. He'd fill her with himself a thousand times if need be, until she was rounded with his kin, oh, until she was indisputably his.
“Morning, your grace,” Naera greeted her father, as she took a seat beside him. He looked weaker than the previous night, heavier, and less humane. His maesters had certainly failed again. She wondered if she should offer help.
“Ah, daughter,” but he smiled all the same when he saw her, and nothing mattered past that. He also did not mention anything past that, possibly to avert her from calling her by the name good-brother, or perhaps to avert himself from thinking about whatever surely happened following the feast the previous night. Oh, he did not want to think, but the remnants of red along her neck, behind her silver hair, told him enough.
He also learned far too much about their relations, as Daemon took a seat beside her—Laenor’s seat, by all means, but the Velaryon was too occupied by his children to care much. He leaned close to her, lips moving in near-silent whispers, tongue lashing in ways resembling their mother tongue, and no one could miss the way Naera blushed.
“Morning, good-father,” Daemon greeted also, much to his brother’s dismay. Laenor, on the other hand, gutted out half a laugh before catching himself. Viserys did not spare his good son a glare. Naera pressed her lips into a very thin line, chanting something along the lines of don’t, don’t, don’t, in her mind.
Thankfully, the towers do know very well how all joy can be destroyed. “When shall you be departing for Dragonstone, princess?” Alicent Hightower asked, but the glimmer in her eyes could easily be taken for hope, expectation and aspiration. She wanted them out of her way.
Naera smiled, “I believe we shall remain in King’s Landing for a while longer, yes?” We need to…you know. Daemon knew. The downfall of the Hightowers, but with a better plan. He’d take it more seriously this time. He had what he needed now.
“Yes,” he agreed absently, “We have much to do in the Capital.” Though, his words raised more questions than answers. Aemond looked the most perturbed, but the way his single eye followed Daemon’s words and actions could settle for some semblance of aspiration. The boy wanted to be the mirror image of his uncle—strong, unbothered, unpredictable and dangerous.
Naera sensed his predicament—questions were dangerous things, so she added, “I’ve gathered up far too many papers and correspondence. It shall take quite some time to go through it all.” Her manuscripts, her journals, her letters and Wisestone. It would be a tempestuous time, indeed.
“Shall I allot you a squire, to help you through?” There was no malice in the Green Queen’s words, but Naera couldn’t settle with a squire.
“Not unless you can find me one adept with Valyrian,” and she knew that that’d stump her also. Not many in Westeros were familiar with the language at all.
“And her horrid penmanship,” Daemon added, and though his words were playful, they weren’t wrong. Naera glanced at him, ready to mock something of his, but how could she? Her writing wasn’t the finest in the seven kingdoms, after all.
“Perhaps Grand Maester Mellos, then,” and the thought of the old, wrinkly mediator of the Small Council reading through her writings made Naera frown. She refused.
“I shall see to it myself, your grace,” and that needed to be the end of it. She must have had two score letters piled up, and she needed to send her scripts to the Citadel for storage also. It would be arduous and long, but it was nothing new.
“Nonsense,” her father croaked, drinking a cup full of cold water to revise his voice, “Aemond can do it.” Aemond can do it, and Alicent’s face darkened. Aemond himself looked apprehensive, ready to go prattling on about how he’s a prince, not a common knight’s squire, but the panic in his eyes as all at the table considered the proposal prevented him from speaking. “He’s a smart boy, he’ll learn something from you,” and that was not how anyone saw it at all. He was a boy, a young prince, not a pondering young man about to serve a princess.
“I do not think that would be appropriate,” Naera dismissed it already, not missing the way Aemond’s single eye calmed at her words. She’d be fine on her own—there was much to be done. Though, the memories of how Dornish princes are so often sent by their parents to serve the lower houses as a manner of ageing and learning did flicker past. The world was not Dorne, however, much to her regret.
“I’ll help you,” Daemon decided in the spirit of compromise.
“You will do not such thing, my Prince.” Naera stated with a smile. She’d never get anything done with Daemon breathing down her neck, making her burn with desire. There, another round of far too many questions due to her words, and she clarified, “It’ll drive you insane, kepus, it’s dreary work,” not fit for a soldier such as you.
He seemed to laugh, all in those pale lilac eyes that never seemed to leave her movements, “Is that a challenge?” He wanted to play a duel, not one of the swords, but one of the wills, but he had an advantage—he always had an advantage when it came to her, it seemed.
“Do you want it to be?” Naera did not attempt to stop the smile that overtook her—teasing, fighting, winning, and losing all the same.
“It’s settled, then,” he had grasped an early victory, “I shall be your squire, princess.”
Notes:
Is this foreshadowing? I wish I knew.
Chapter 14: Solar
Summary:
Naera shifts her solar and Daemon reads an unsettling note. Aemond Targaryen is taught somewhat of a lesson by his half-sister.
Notes:
I AM BACK YES I AM BACK
WARNINGS:
very suggestive themes but no explicit smut, breeding kink-ish, etc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crinkling, crisping, crushing, crumbling papers that had yellowed with age, stained with wine and teas and all manners of dirt, lay scattered across the floors. Sharpened, refined, precise blades, arrows and hilts, engraved with patterns unlike ever seen sat beside the papers. The stench of ink, processed, crushed, herbed and made, bought and sold for a petty silver coin, but treasured as higher than life itself, was sharp and alcoholic. She was a strange person, Daemon decided, though he had known that fact without any semblance of doubt.
There was always noise, whether it be her dull humming, often out of tune, or the flipping of pages, the scratching of quills, the splatters of ink against aged and polished woods and cedars, or simply the crackle and whispers of the flames that burned in her rooms forever. There was never silence in her solar, and it made reason that she sought it out in the Godswood. He did not understand why Naera refused to just put out the flames.
Daemon had demanded her shift to his quarters, partially for they were certainly grander and more spacious, and that he would never make proper use of his solar regardless. It was efficient to simply have her there, closer to him, working, reading, writing, living, breathing, and he could breathe off her in the meanwhile.
Naera had laughed in his face when he had first suggested it, and the sprinkling, fleeting, sparkling laughter had made Daemon’s heart pang strangely. It was a convulsion, of no consequence, but he was not accustomed to strange, off-handed sensations. They came, and went, and came again, with a pattern out of his discernment. Perhaps, Naera would know—she seemed to know a lot more than him in subjects related to—right, everything.
He had convinced her to change her quarters, but the hauling of papers and documents had left the palace staff exasperated. He had loved watching her settle in, finding little nooks and crannies to store her substance, her knowledge, and her work, and he had been content to watch, from the edges. The servants had been less glad.
He watched her then, also, wrapped in a dress of black and golden flowers, one that ended a few inches past her knees, as though she was a young girl not yet of age—childish, naïve and vulnerable. Oh, he often wished that she wouldn’t tempt him in these ways, but just as his lady wife couldn’t change the hot temper of her blood, she couldn’t change her very charm. She wasn’t bound by the infinite rules others had set for themselves—she was rogue. She was perfect.
Naera sent away the maids and helpers one, after another, taking it upon herself to haul up the house banners as curtains. He wondered why she felt the urge to use them as curtains—sentimentality, her own way of honouring her blood, or perhaps they simply blocked out sufficient light. He did not know. He’d ask her, one day.
Daemon took steps forward, wordlessly taking the banners from her struggling arms to secure them over the windows, until the rooms were dim—dim, but not dark. Naera had made sure that nothing was ever engulfed in darkness. There was the hearth that she had started, never to be put out, and the candles she had set up, also never to be blown out. She wanted light, endless light, brightening, wakening, guiding, showing and protecting, but without the intrusive world staring into it.
Daemon took her hands in his, pulling her against him, hands toying with the sleek edges of her dress. He leaned down, the skin of his forehead grazing hers, and smiled—in eye, and in lip. He had no words, he knew, just gazes, and touches, and curiosities.
Naera smiled back with bitterness, hesitation, confusion, and an urge to stop their dance of blooming affection. She wanted to resist, he could feel it, but she wouldn’t—and that mattered more than her inability to refuse him. She loved it all too much.
“Why the House banners?” He found the words.
Naera smirked back, eyes flying down, and while he didn’t meet the line of her gaze, he felt a shrill jerk through his body—a spark of lightning, running down, down and back up, exploding in his chest. He held her closer.
“They remind me what it’s all for,” the pain, the suffering, the dinner time glances, the judgements, the schemes. It was for House Targaryen—for the blood of the dragon, and Daemon felt it again, like a rippling tidal wave that blew over him, disastrous and collapsing, breaking, shattering—a sea of boiling blood, and it was all fine, for her skin felt warm as ever against his. It was all fine.
Daemon held her waist, leaning closer, frown falling, eyes darkening, heart hastening. For the blood of Old Valyria. He felt the urge, then, growing, blowing, inflating within him, as his hands ran down her waist—flat, but not quite, as it had been for a very long time. He felt the urge to see it rounded, to see her breasts grow large and full of milk, leaking hot, wet, complete, to see her walk with a belly full of child, as happily as she does with a sword or a tome. He felt the urge to breed.
She sensed it, of course she did—she was perfect, that way, and she clocked him down early, “I need to see Laenor on his departure, kepus.” Her words did nothing to assuage him of his urges—kepus, it was only a reminder, but her refusal to take her sister’s name did not pass unnoticed by Daemon. She wanted Rhaenyra out of his head—away, far, far away, across Blackwater Bay, and she wanted it to resume sometime later. He let her pass with a kiss to the lips, rather obscenely staring at the way her hips moved in that dress, slinging to, and fro, and back again, and oh, he felt his cock twitch in the confines of his pants.
Later, he reminded himself. With a heavy breath, Daemon turned to leave the room, passing a final glance at the papers she had brought—the very he’d have to help her with, if only as a ploy to learn more of her, to feel her breathing against him every noon, to have her doze away on a lonely night and carry her to their bed, warm and soft and weak from the day’s exploits, and perhaps as she still slept, he’d fall asleep also. Perhaps, he’d fuck her senseless also, or he’d leave her cold, wanting, swollen and dripping, and watch her beg. Perhaps, he’d take her in her very solar.
There were piles of letters, and he took a step towards the scrolls and wax seals—unintended, in a way, as a musing, an offhand thought, which he couldn’t quite source. There, he saw, in the midst of the parchments, a lone paper, sealed with a cursory wax, crested in flame.
No. He broke the seal without thinking, fingers rushing to open the bound letter. He walked towards the hearth, towards its light, and read them carefully, the fancifully written words with the loops and flourishes he had grown to recognise.
My Love, it was written, in blood-red ink, I have seen that you find pleasure in your days, and the words calmed his heart just a fraction, mind drifting to Naera’s grasps and moans and pleasures. Yes, she had found pleasure in him—pleasure beyond imagining.
I have also seen that it is not you who reads this now. Daemon’s blood ran cold. He gritted his teeth, jaw aching from the bite, and his hands gripped the page hard enough to tear, Know that you shall get what is due, in fruit, or in poison, my Rogue Prince, and know that you must never rid her of her light and warmness, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
How did she know? How could she see him? How could she have known, that he’d raise this very letter, read it this very moment, that he’d read it alone, without Naera?
Those words, again, and it made him feel as though one had poured ice onto his veins, cooling, tempering, freezing, killing. He tossed the page into the flames, hearing only the crackle, watching the orange rip and char and burn to ash, those writings which had opened his eyes to a truth he did not understand.
He did not know what was the dance of Melisandre of Asshai, but he saw her portrait, the very Naera had once painted and hung opposite her desk. It was a work of art, by all means, with a masterful blend of colours and shadows and pale lights, and the Lady looked as beautiful as her penmanship—old, tragically refined, resembling something of faded spices and a warm fire, and yet, she was dull and dark and traditional and plain.
She came nowhere near the perfection of his niece.
“They left without bidding farewell,” and she pouted in her voice, the door closing behind her with a tremble and a shudder. Daemon whipped his head to face her, forcing a smile, as Naera walked towards him, all the joy and play draining from her face.
“What’s wrong?” Of course, she saw through him immediately, through his probably sweaty face, his twitching lips that were forced into a smile, and his clenched fists which didn’t hug her waist as closely as they had just moments prior. Her voice was gentle, coaxing, out a desire in him to be honest, but he knew that he couldn’t—it’d end them, to remind her of the priestess.
“Nothing,” and she saw his lie, in the grimness that befell her eyes—oh, she was an open book, and he’d never run out of pages. Naera was hesitant, unable to state the obvious, unable to confront him on his lies. They weren’t there, yet, where she could be sure that he wouldn’t take her negatively.
Daemon wanted to blow those thoughts off her head, as one would do sand off leather. He wanted to reassure her of his honesty, though he knew she’d only sense its lack thereof, and he wanted to kiss her. Oh, he really wanted to kiss her. He pulled her to him.
She melted instantly, arms thrown around his neck, fingers through his hair, unable to suspend the giggle that escaped her throat. Delicious. Daemon carried her by the waist, heaving her until she sat on her desk, lips moulding, forging in the fires of their breathings, melting, holding, reforming, and oh, he wished to devour her in pieces. He wished to do all those sinful, carnal, decadent things to her, to watch her walk rounded and full of his babe, to watch her heave and ache for their creation, and to fill her to her womb’s brim until she fulfilled his desire—until the desire became hers.
Swords were fickle things. Aemond Targaryen knew that. They needed to be built with care, with patience, moulded to the wielder in every way conceivable. A proper sword would feel second nature to hold, to swing, to slice and to kill with. An improper sword would require improvisation—a dangerous dance of trials and risks.
There were two great swords in his dynasty. The first was Blackfyre, the sword once held by Aegon, the Conqueror, which would one day be held by his brother, the namesake. It was a sword worthy of its holder—a symbol of strength and power, held only by the ruler of the seven kingdoms.
The second was Dark Sister, the sword forged for the hand of Visenya. It was held by his uncle, Daemon, and Aemond knew, somewhere in the instinct and fire that filled him whenever he set his eye upon the Rogue Prince, that he’d wield the sword himself, one day. It would be his—as would the repute it held, as the chosen weapon of the mightiest warrior in the seven kingdoms—a loose canon, a dangerous soldier, sworn to none other than the king himself. He’d be Visenya, rider of Vhagar, with her keen senses and brash intelligence which she had once blared bright in striking her own brother to show him that he was incompetent without her protection, and he'd be Daemon, in his wars and his victories, and the fear he aroused wherever he treaded and ventured. He’d be the best of them both, only faster, stronger, better in every way that mattered.
He was One-Eye, but he would prove that the loss of his sight was nothing against the might of his dragon. He would prove that his single eye was better than five of any other man’s.
Aegon was not bothered by his predicament—of course, he wasn’t. His brother was moping still about the way their father had treated him on the day he claimed Vhagar. None shall question Rhaenyra’s claim, and yet, his cousins were bastards. Everyone knew, none better than the Princess herself.
“Too easy, Ser Criston,” Aegon smirked, silver golden waves blowing past his shoulders, “I can handle these in my sleep,” he referred to the training models, and he was right. He could handle them in his sleep. They weren’t alive.
“Well, my prince,” Ser Cole drew a dulled blade, “Try another hit at me.” Aemond’s mind fell back, to the days when Jaecerys and Lucerys still lived with them, and Lord Strong’s son had argued against Ser Cole not teaching the bastards with the same vigour as he did Aemond and Aegon. It was obvious why it was done—the bastards were hopeless children. It would be a waste of time to train them anyways. Oh, the day was certainly rather similar, for Aemond could see his father watching from above, accompanied by his Lord Hand, watching his sons train, assessing, learning, deciding what was to be the fate of each.
There, clipped and combed curls of pure dawn and silver, encompassed within a pretty hairdo which only she could wear with the grace she showed, Helaena. She walked past the training arena, sparing a glance at Aegon, catching earfuls of whatever filth he muttered to Ser Cole. It did not matter. Aegon did not matter.
Helaena mattered.
Aemond watched her stop in her tracks, a ring-bound handkerchief held close to her chest, and he worried that the needles embedded within would hurt her. She did tend to have her head up in the air. She always wondered, and wandered in mind, saying words which added up to nothing, panicking, jittering, uncanny and unfocused, and beautifully valyrian.
Aemond watched his sister, himself absent in mind, and he only vaguely sensed his uncle barging into his brother’s duel, much to all’s dismay. He turned his eye to Daemon, dropping Dark Sister to fetch Ser Cole’s dulled blade, ready to humiliate Aegon in the name of training him. He could bring himself to be more bothered—to care more, but oh, Helaena had knelt down to the floors, tracking down a slug or an ant or something else small and uncanny.
“There he is,” he turned to his half-sister, and her bellowing silver hair, who had decided to stop beside him, of all places, on the edge of the small arena, watching with intent and furrowed brow, as her husband—their uncle, duelled Aegon. Though, it was hardly a duel, with how quickly Aegon had lost his breath. His fuzzy, furrowed, messy hair dropped and washed past his eye, blurring his vision, impeding his abilities—he was a fool, Aemond realised in some ways, as when his eye was caught by a passing kitchen maid. On some edge, he had expected Daemon to follow the maid’s way also, but he didn’t.
No, his uncle’s eyes drifted to his wife, and to him, and Aemond watched the Rogue Prince smirk, as a child would with the words watch what I can do , before slamming his blade against Aegon’s back, redrawing his attention to the duel.
Naera sighed, loud, and the intention for all to hear of her disdain for her husband was evident. She was a loud woman—brash, abrasive, daring and different, as Daemon, as Visenya, as many had claimed, as how Aemond would one day be.
His eye turned back to Helaena, who was now watching the match also, and he witnessed her twitches and shakes as blades clashed against each other, shrill and loud, again, and again, as the veins on Ser Criston’s forehead threatened to blow. He wanted to defend the young prince, but he had no authority to, when it was so very, very obvious that the King was not against it. Viserys watched from above, smiling, proud, though Aemond couldn’t tell if it was of his brother or his son.
“You gaze at her from afar,” and he flinched at Naera’s sudden words. Her face was moulded into an expression of neutrality, of musing, of blankness, but she questioned, “Why?”
“I don’t.” Aemond denied it profusely, refusing to stare back at his half-sister, who had turned her head in inquiry.
“You don’t need to lie to me, brother,” and there was some form of sincerity in her words, as though she understood even half of his yearning, his troubles, his predicament. Brother, and he wondered if she was to be Aegon’s Visenya, the brave and near invincible warrior and defender, rather than him.
“She’s…” he wished to scowl at the pain in his voice, as Aegon had his sword flung out of his hand with another careless error, “She’s betrothed to Aegon. It is his duty to wed her.” He did not accept the claims she had placed upon him. He did not confess his mind.
Aemond watched, as Daemon taunted, hurled insult, after insult, at his brother, demanding that he pick up his sword and prove his worth. He watched his uncle, his sleek hair and warrior’s build—unpredictable, unfathomable, undefeated.
“Do you think it is duty that binds Daemon?” It was the way she spoke the word duty—laden and ingrained with disgust and disdain, and half a lifetime of hurt and riddance, all summed into a word.
“Is it not?” Is it not duty that binds the greatest men?
“No.” She stated with confidence beyond words and tones, “It is pleasure, desire—it is dreams, that bind him.” Pleasure, desire, dreams, and Aegon could only gaze back at his sister, across the arena, and he found her staring back, smiling, blushing and shying, awkward, and she turned on her heel and left.
“We must fulfil our duties.” It is duty that matters, for House Targaryen, for Valyria, for whatever destiny had been written for them all. Is it not duty that terms a person’s life, as his father had chanted to his children all their lives? Is it not obligation that frames the structure of one’s life?
Naera chuckled dry, without humour, mocking, as often did Daemon himself, “I was meant to be the first Targaryen Princess of Dorne,” and she reminisced in bitterness, “I was groomed for it, grown for it. I lived for it, and…” Ser Cole drew his sword, interrupting the match as Daemon grew far too brutal with his nephew, “It was taken from me.” She breathed out a sigh, and Aemond stared up, only to find that Viserys had left already. “Then, my duty became to return to this place and be sold to some other noble lord. I didn’t.” There was a finality to her last words, something of pride, of achievement. I didn’t. “Do you know why?”
Aemond narrowed his eye.
“Because I realised…I am a dragon.” She turned to face him, eyes burning with something he couldn’t understand. “I did not sit in a cage. I do not lie in wait. I see what I want, what I desire,” and he understood her words. Helaena. “And I take it.” Take it. Take it. Take it.
I take it.
You are a dragon. You do not sit in a cage. You do not lie in wait. You do not bow and accept whatever has been spoken. You are a dragon. You take what you want.
“With fire and blood.” He finished her words.
“With fire and blood.” She smiled. Take what you want. “That’s quite enough,” she spoke louder, as Daemon raised his sword against Ser Cole. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my squire, Ser Criston,” and Daemon scoffed before he approached her with a smirk.
“Squire.” He stated, teasing, eyes narrowed to play, to fool, to joy in his wife, his Valyrian bride who would strengthen their bloodline. "Is that all I am now?"
“You demanded it, kepus,” she reminded him, a smile twitching on her face, “Should’ve known that you were all talk, Rogue Prince,” she jabbed with an ardour, a familiarity, a connection one would hold to one’s own sibling, to the lost half of one’s soul.
A bond he did not share with Helaena.
Yet.
“You’ll regret that, now,” Daemon spoke quieter, taking her hand, as they walked towards their chambers.
Aemond stared back at his brother, huffing an angry breath at the Aegon. He really was a fool. He did not deserve her.
His hand was heavy on her shoulder, holding her close to her, skin to skin, as they walked through the halls of the keep towards their quarters. Daemon was smiling, grinning and smirking in that way he always did, and something made Naera confident that it wasn’t papers and letters he was eager to card through.
“How did it go with the boy?” He asked, quietly, fiddling with a lock of her silver hair as they rounded the corner to their chambers, gaining three strange glances from three different maids and messengers.
“Wonderfully.” Naera smiled, smooth lips stretching, and collapsing back as Daemon held her waist this time, closer, and closer, despite the heat of the day, sweaty from the duel and aroused.
It reignited that pit of fire in her core, tending the warm flames to flare out of control, but oh, she couldn’t afford so. She needed to work. She needed to send off her manuscripts, for there was so much more to do, to see, to write. There was a whole life left to live.
When he closed the door behind them, and lunged at her for a kiss, Naera stepped back, agile, graceful, and it was a mistake, for her methods of evasion only fed firewood onto his soul. He loved her fire.
“Letters, Daemon,” she reminded him, seriously, dry, cold, and the very opposite of what she’d surely be by nightfall.
“I don’t care about letters,” but it looked as though he’d ruin her then and there, wrap her found his fingers and make her beg, and grovel, and scream out for all to hear. It was all so very, very open in his eyes.
“I do,” she reminded herself, more than she told him. This was her work. This was her life. He needed to respect it all.
He scowled, eyes rolling, but she folded her arms, adamant, and surely, to him, obstinate, upon her decision. There was a pleasure in her work, in revising all that remained of her past.
“Fine.” He joined her in the solar, amidst the papers and manuscripts and countless inks and the stacks of letters and scrolls that towered over any he had received in his entire life. He sat at the desk, eyes focused on the hourglass she had hauled over with the rest of her life.
He flipped it over, watching the blondish sand sliver and shiver down, one, after another, counting the time of minutes passing, slow, slower, and slowing down, but not stopping. “One hour, Naera.” A promise.
"Alright." She just wouldn't tell him that the hourglass was for three.
Notes:
tell me what you think
Chapter 15: Dreamer
Summary:
Naera discovers something strange about Helaena.
Notes:
Some sword-fighting, some visions, not proper gruesome stuff.
Chapter Text
Princess Naera Targaryen, during the first year of her marriage, was seemingly very occupied. She is said to have worked from dawn to dusk on concluding her affairs in a rush, often enlisting the aid of her husband and uncle, Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen. Despite this, she had taken adequate time to grow as needed to familiarize herself with her half-brother, and nephew-by-law, Prince Aemond, as well as her half-sister, and niece-by-law, Princess Helaena. By several accounts, and none better than the letters sent by Ser Redmond of the Kingsguard to his family, the Princess had begun training Prince Aemond at his request, and had persuaded him against typical knightly brawls, and aligned him closer to the same grace and poise she herself fought with.
Her relationship with Princess Helaena, however, is under much dispute, as by certain accounts, the princess had begun speaking to the young girl about topics none other present could verify or even make sense of. It is well known in history that Princess Helaena, daughter of King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of his Name, with Queen Alicent of the House Hightower of Oldtown, was a strange child. She is recorded by the Palace Maester as having been mentally deficient, and collaborating and interesting herself overly in insect life and off-turn musings. Thus, it is strange that Princess Naera, who had until previously made it practically known well and wide that she had no wish of learning anything of her half-siblings, would grow as close to them as she did, in as little time as she had.
It is also imperative to note that the Princess was firmly standing in support of the Blacks in the civil war, that is the faction of court supporting the claim of her sister, Princess Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, as the rightful heir to the throne. Another notable member of the Blacks is, of course, her husband, Prince Daemon, and the couple did execute an instrumental role in the war that was to come. For her to fraternize with her half-siblings, the Greens, was observed as strange, and at the time, even indicated a potential political defection, as often suspected by Princess Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone, who was not present in King's Landing at the time of these affairs. As indicated by copies of letters retained by Grand Maester Mellos of the Red Keep, Princess Naera had argued against the heir on this subject by stating, very clearly, that her decisions were not to be doubted, as her support lay with the pure branch of the family at all times.
Whether she had considered a defection during those formative years, as her father, King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, had his health progressively depreciate, is moot, for historically, as indicated by all her actions related to the war itself, it is clear that her loyalties lay with her sister, at least when the Dragons danced and died.
The Days before the Dance:
A Comprehensive History of the events preceding the Dance of Dragons
by Grand Maester Glyspar of the Reach
“I pulverised them all,” and Naera knew that she would keep silent at Aegon’s claims. Civility, yes, as she had once pledged. She would not question it. She would not point out the lack of height of his feats. She would not speak.
“Ser Criston believes that I shall be ready for tourneys soon.” Oh, but the little prince would all but fall off his horse before he even struck lances, and that was the bitter old truth.
Daemon had taken no such claims of civility, and snorted at his nephew’s words. Oh, by the old gods and the new, at least he did not snag in a comment with it. That would be a headache.
Naera moved around the peas on her plate. Her appetite seemed to be falling, day after day, for wine, for food, even for water. She felt as though she was a plant meant for a windowsill left outside in the sun and rain, in the open nourishment of the world. She didn’t love it.
She glanced across the table, where her half-sister fiddled with her fork also, muttering strange phrases under her breath. She had never really paid attention to her, who was Naera's, she supposed, niece by law, or would it be good niece? She did not know. Helaena had always seemed a little off, out of it, lost, as though her mind was tuned to a different frequency altogether. There were times she behaved in earnest, and those times only grew with the prayers and lessons Alicent had subjected her to in order to ‘prepare’ her for marriage. She was a victim of society.
Naera almost pitied the girl.
“Now,” Viserys coughed out to his son, “Daemon was only ten and six when he took part in his first tourney,” though his point, his crux was forgotten as he gasped for breaths and searched for water. His hair had all but fallen off, just a few palsied strands left to veil his rounded head. Naera wondered if his illness could be helped.
“Wasn’t our dear sister younger, father?” Aemond called out from across the table, catching half the family off guard, and all eyes turned to him. “I believe Naera partook in her first tourney before she came of age.” Their eyes were a flock of birds, halting at a tree, and then whooshing to the next.
Naera felt watched, and it was not pleasant. She shook off their curiosities, “Five and ten, I believe.” She did not believe—it had been five and ten. It had been just a dozen nights before…Naera shook those thoughts away.
Aemond had no reason to know this much of her—Daemon did not know this far into her past, and Naera was left curious as to why he did. His one eye did not leave her, not for very long, but his gaze was hardly malicious—it was almost earnest, admiring, hopeful. She did not know what to make of it.
“I believe Aemond shall be the youngest in the family after all,” Alicent tried, and tried, and failed. She tried for what, none any longer knew, for not every opportunity needed to be used as a demonstration of pride. “All is left for the gods to see.”
“The raven does not walk.” Naera flipped her head to Helaena, only to find the little girl plunging a knife into chicken’s meat. The raven does not walk, but she could not just be referring to the bird she ate. Ravens did walk, they had feet, and oh, Naera caught herself thinking too far.
Aemond stared at her, watching intently, almost smiling at her naivete, but not quite. She’d might as well play along.
Naera smiled at the child, “Which raven?” It was silly, really, to indulge her imagination only.
Helaena looked up, her face so very, very innocent and young, and whispered, “The one with three eyes.” The one with three eyes. The three-eyed raven. The three-eyed crow.
No.
Naera froze.
Raven.
Fire and Blood.
Naera felt chilled, as though one had poured ice down her veins, her bones grew frigid, her teeth all but chattering, legs shaking, but all that was seen was the rise of gooseflesh all across her skin.
Bloodraven.
Aemond watched her with intent, questioning her reaction, her widening eyes, her paling skin, her frightened state, at his sister’s words. All were too consumed by their days’ troubles—none paid mind to it at all, how the Silver Knight had been caught fearful of a little girl’s musings.
“Of the old Gods,” Helaena added, and Naera felt cold, colder than she ever had, as the biting, freezing, burning cold settled around her, on her, within her, everywhere, with no end to it. There, there, there, trees, with faces grained in, and from the dark, hollow eyes rained blood, crimson, burning, warming—the old gods of the north, and it was cold, so very, very cold. She could feel her skin dry and freeze and ship off in pieces and clumps, cracking, shattering, breaking.
The same tree, but more, for past the branches and twigs and decay, beneath the snow and ice that crested it, entangled in vines and bales and all that lay there, was a figure with silver hair, pouring down, and the palest skin of decaying porcelain, and through his decaying, torn, broken body, with bones and nerves and hairs all clumped and tangles, pierced roots and thorns, strangling, tying, tearing it all tight, and amidst the gruesome mess, snapped open an eye of fire and of amethyst.
“Naera?” She fell back in her seat. The cold wasn’t there. The winds weren’t there. The weirwoods weren’t there. She turned to face Daemon, his eyebrows raised, questioning, but not silent. “Are you alright?” And she hated his tone—grimy, despicable, patronizing. Are you alright? As though a question by him could make her realise that she wasn’t—as though a statement from him could permit her to confess that she wasn’t.
“Quite fine,” and she hated her own tone also, ireful, disrespectful, contempt ridden. She felt guilt, for she knew that his intentions had surely been loving, but she could hardly separate his devotion from his desire to control her.
“You look a little pale, dear,” and Alicent did fare concern rather well on her features, not quite as hateful as Naera had justified her to have become. She was almost motherly, once in a while. She supposed Alicent was a mother—and thus had the gentleness people expected of her.
Ha.
Naera stood, eyes falling on Helaena, who stared down at her plate, shy, timid, as though speaking her mind was something to be regretted. “I believe I shall retire, then,” her mind settling on a goal of sorts to speak to her sister again, someday soon.
“I’ve sent for the maester.” Daemon walked into her—their—bed chambers.
“Did you get into another tavern brawl with a Kingsguard, or did you just trip while walking?” Naera set the letter to her side, reaching for the next. Another request for her attendance at Qarth. She crumpled the page up and threw it in with the rest. That was seven—five more, she’d expect, if things were still in order back in the Walled City. If not, she might need to attend after all.
“You’re ill.” He stated it as though it was obvious.
“Not any more ill than I’ve ever been, kepus,” and she stopped herself from tossing in a statement of how considerate his care was. He didn’t need his pride to grow larger than it already had.
“Naera,” and he was growing annoyed, she noticed, and looked up at him, at his crossed arms and anxious face. He was worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she shook her head. “It’s just…she’s a strange child,” Naera decided, laying back in bed, tossing the papers she had carried to her side.
“Hm?” Daemon was tired, eyes nearly shut for the night, “Yes, strange girl…” he trailed off, not really projecting any thoughts on it.
“Yes, but strange, do you understand her?” Naera did not seem tired, or ill—she was stranger, Daemon decided. She was hooked on her half-sister—the future Green Queen, for all they know, and she was stunted by her words. The raven does not walk. Of course, ravens don’t walk.
“Naera, the girl isn’t right in the head.” He concluded easily, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to somehow coax her to sleep, but she did not relent. Naera sat still beside his head, mind up in the air, thinking, wondering, theorizing—it was a waste of her efforts.
He sighed, “What is so strange?” He’d indulge her.
“Don’t you—” she stopped herself, he didn’t need to know, “Nothing, you are right.” She closed her eyes in respite, calming whatever cursed curiosity mingled in her thoughts. “Rest.” She pulled the blankets over her head, settling beside him, three candles still burning bright beside her. She never let him put them all out for a second. He had stopped questioning it, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
“Perhaps, she’s a dreamer,” he tried to console his wife, although she felt no grief or sorrow irrespective.
Naera shuffled the sheets off, sitting up, leaning close to his face. Her eyes gleamed in the light and darkness, but oh, she feared something in his words.
“Daenys, you mean.” Daenys the Dreamer, she who foresaw the Doom of Valyria and saved the Targaryens from its horrors. Daemon hummed, yanking her down to lie on his chest, and he carded his fingers through her hair, perhaps only to calm her down, to drill her into a dazed sleep.
“Viserys was always fascinated with Daenys,” he recalled, “Always said that he’d be a dreamer like Daenys, or like Aegon. Once,” Daemon chuckled in reminiscence, “He got very drunk, went on about how Aegon was a dreamer also—foresaw the end of Westeros, a long night that never ends, and then he tripped down a staircase.” Fun days, before his brother had grown to resent him for who he was—before his first exile, he supposed.
A Dreamer. Naera did not speak as he recounted further tales of his young days, for her mind stuck to what she had seen—what she had heard. If Helaena could prophesize—would it mean that there would one day be a creature such as that? A long night—no.
“The long night, kepus,” she corrected, “The winter that shall never end.” He knew the tale, surely, every nursery tale north of the Riverlands referred to the Longest Winter, a thousand years ago, when kings froze in their palaces and mothers murdered their children as acts of mercy, but there was more—in the East, there was more to the tale, be it to the Bloodstone Emperor of Yi Ti, or the legends of the Shadowlands themselves. “The long night ends with a prince of light charging against the darkness. The prince who was promised,” the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains, to whom even darkness knelt, whom even the night feared. “When the red star bleeds,” and she heard her words echo within her mind, hollow, cold, luxurious and old, but distant and faded. Melisandre. “Azor Ahai, borne amidst salt and smoke, who shall wake dragons from stone. It is an old tale from Asshai, in the religion of the Lord of Light, that such a warrior shall return.”
Daemon wheezed out a breath, “When shall that be?”
“Ten years? A thousand? After a very long summer, it is known.” Me nem nesa, it is known, and she knows—that it shall be her, the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains. The Princess who was Promised. The Last Targaryen, no, the very Last Dragon, and hers shall be the blood of Old Valyria.
“We shall all be long gone by then,” he mumbled against her head.
“Indeed,” Naera turned her head to watch the flames dance around the candles. “We shall.”
“Is that all you’ve got?” Then followed a string of debilitating insults in High Valyrian, and Naera was almost persuaded to laugh at Daemon’s treatment of Aegon. It wasn’t as though it’d help him. He had gone too far.
Ser Criston had excused himself from the affairs, claiming something along the lines of guard rotations, but he simply did not wish to be present as Daemon treated his nephew—the Green Queen’s son, in the way that was his god-given right as an asshole uncle.
Naera only watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, counting the seconds until she could drag him back to reading her correspondence. It had become easier with some help, and she wasn’t convinced to grant him respite from his chosen duties.
Ser Redmond glanced at her from the edges of his eyes, staring down the dagger at her waist, the resilience on her face. He had not enjoyed getting stabbed by Valyrian Steel. He glanced, off and on, between blades and metals, as he tried his whole best at training her other brother. Failing.
“Would you train me, Princess?” Aemond reached out a dulled blade towards her.
“I believe Ser Redmond has been assigned to train you, my Prince.” Naera glanced across at Redmond, smiling, frustrated, hesitating, shameful, for he had barely stood a chance against her ever.
“Ser Redmond is weak.” Ah, there, he said it. “You are not.” He sounded almost pleased to say that, as though praising her pleasured him, earnestly, with pride.
“Very well,” and she took the blade in her hand, heavy, but tolerable. “Come,” and he charged at her, swords clashing, and he grunted, gasped, and gave away his attack. Again, and she dragged her blade up above him, dodging his attempts with ease, jumping, bending, surprising.
“Now,” Naera stopped him with a raise of her hand, and Aemond could only take a breather, watching with intrigue as his half-sister spun and twisted the blade in the air, perfectly balanced, perfectly silent. “You can either be a Westerosi knight,” armour clinking, steel blades clashing, orderly, strong and secure, “You can be loud, and proud,” she pulled the blade behind herself, tossing it up in the air, and it soared down in an arc, the whipping of the blade against the wind the only music of its making, and she caught it by the ragged hilt, silent, graceful, careful, quiet, calculated, experienced. “Or, you can be quiet,” and she took a light step forward, blade striking across his face before he could see. She hadn’t broken his skin, barely grazed it, even, “and deadly.”
He was reminded, of a beast which hardly roared, it only soared, high in the skies, preying, hunting, lying in wait, silent.
“Like Vhagar.”
“Like Vhagar.” Naera smiled, fixing her braid against conflicting with her vision. “Again.”
He did try again, holding his breath, eye-watering from the effort, and again, and again. He tried for the entire evening, her work long forgotten, and they both missed Daemon watching from the edges alongside a scowling Aegon.
“Who taught you how to fight?” Aemond asked her later, arms sore, and breath still swollen while she seemed to have barely exerted herself—there was grace, a leering, lingering, lasting calmness, as though the fire had gone out from her soul-the fire of her blood had extinguished, leaving behind a carcass of grace and equity.
“There was a battle master in Sunspear, an Eastern Sellsword,” she had never even learned his name, Naera realised, “He knew all the ways, from Braavos, from the Grass Sea, from Yi Ti, and the knightly ways of whatever lay North of Dorne.”
“Everything, then.” He sounded gladder than she had ever heard him, almost hopeful, as though she could teach him all those ways also.
“Yes,” she would indulge him, perhaps, but as they walked, he stopped, watching somewhere deep in the corridors, where knelt his sister, a centipede in her hand. Helaena muttered things furiously at her septa, who only looked around for assistance, frustrated with her girl’s behaviours.
Muttering furiously, she stopped with the words, loud and clear, “There is a beast beneath the boards.” There is a beast beneath the boards.
Beast—Dragon. Boards—wooden boards? Floors? The Earth?
“Aemond,” she caught his attention, “Has anything Helaena ever said come true?” She swallowed, dry, grating, as he pondered upon her words. Naera feared her words, what they could mean, what the answer could represent—a truth most dangerous.
Aemond only stared back at Helaena, who had set the centipede down on the window sill to fetch another, much longer, letting it crawl up her hand as she spoke more, faster, mind rushing, lips failing to follow.
He fought for words, remembering too much, and all too soon, whatever she had said, whatever had occurred, trying to find that little overlap which Naera questioned, scrutinised and examined. After their births, the sullen look in his mother’s eyes whenever she saw Rhaenyra, the pain, the anguish, and the bugs, the fear, the needlework, the dullness of Helaena’s entire life, and more, and more, the mutterings, the whispers, every word, every breath, every musing of Helaena’s—Laena Velaryon, and oh, he remembered the day when the Strong boys and Aegon had handed him a pig, and what his dearest sister had said.
He'll have to close an eye.
“Yes.”
Naera drew in a cold, long breath, something of fatigue catching up with her, a dull ache in her back, lingering, growing, spreading across her shoulders, her neck, daring to lap at her head.
“What was it?”
Aemond turned back to Naera, a hand flying up to his eyepatch. Oh.
No.
“That I’ll have to close an eye.” Then, there was the urge to justify it—to repeat the claim he so forcefully had bestowed upon the Greens. An eye for a dragon. He got more than he gave, and he gained the mightiest beast of them all. He gained Vhagar, the last great dragon.
“What else?” Naera asked, tune moulded into a whisper. “What else did she say?” What else did she prophesize?
“Spools of black, spools of green, and…” he shook his head, trance broken, her whispers in his mind quietening, “There is a beast beneath the boards.”
There is a beast beneath the boards.
Spools of black, spools of green—The Blacks, and the Greens, the dresses, the colours, the threads. Rhaenyra and Aegon—Rhaenyra and Alicent, rather, the Black Princess and the Green Queen. Spools of black. Spools of green.
There is a beast beneath the boards?
“Thank you, my Prince,” Naera was already taking large, calm, confused steps towards Helaena’s quarters.
Chapter 16: From my blood
Summary:
Naera speaks to Helaena and makes a shocking discovery.
Notes:
I finally came up with a plot??? Should go search for a beta reader next. Any volunteers?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Daemon was exhausted, for however duped and weak his nephew may be, he was still a boy who knew how to fight and heaving the blade against Aegon had not been fun for very long. He had loved watching Naera fight—it reminded him of their wedding day, for she fought with the same grace, the same poise, and haste, as she did him, even then, in the arena, as she trained young Aemond.
Aemond had developed an attachment to Naera, it was obvious, with the way he asked her to train, with the way he took an interest in her life, in her past, in her ways and battles and teachings. He saw her as a figure of mentorship, and it was quite rightfully so. She was perfect.
He had snuck back into her—their—solar. Perhaps, he’d get started on the letters before her, make her happy, or at least half trust his attention span. She was happy.
The first was the usual—another from Qarth, and she had instructed him to toss any new ones into a pile by the side, and she’d respond later. He’d supposed that there would be twelve invitations, one from each of the Thirteen, and Naera would need to send twelve responses apologizing for her absence. The Qartheen are known for their politeness, after all. Ha. Daemon could even recall tales of soldiers from Qarth apologizing before stabbing their opponents in battle. The East was a strange place.
The second was from a trader of sapphires—or emeralds? He couldn’t tell. It said gems, and went on to write about Tarth—it isn’t known as the Sapphire Isle for jewels, however, and the writings themselves mentioned something about a dispute over sailing rights near Dragonstone, towards Dorne, in fact, and the only question he could raise to himself was why were they asking her, a knight, a princess who had spent most of her life in Dorne and Essos, and in this situation, no one? Why ask her?
There was too much he didn’t know about her, he knew. She felt like a mystery, shrouded in mist and fog, away, but so very, very close—explorable, but the hesitation never left. Valyria. An isle shrouded in mist, close, by sea, yet so far away. He smiled.
Next, he almost heard her order. Another on the sapphire trade—or rubies? He could hardly make sense of the words. He caught some words, though—Qoren Martell, Prince of Dorne was one of the phrases he registered.
He put the letter down, flipping through the rest, Dorne? Jewel trade? He wondered whether he should visit Rhaenyra at Dragonstone—No.
No, no, no.
Daemon took a deep, calming breath. He wasn’t doing this.
He turned his eyes back to the letters, flipping them over, watching the plain and extravagant wax seals, in red, in black, in gold, with seals of birds, walls, animals, and more, and more, and a dragon—it was from Rhaenyra, he knew, from the signings of Dragonstone, but he flipped to the next, and eagles, and fish, and flames, when he stopped. No. It was from Asshai, he knew immediately, by the three flames on the crest, by the blood-red wax, and the long, looping, swirling hand it was written in. Melisandre.
He broke the seal—she had never instructed him against it. Daemon knew before he even read the words that he’d burn this—she didn’t need to read this. She didn’t need to be reminded of what she may have lost, and needed to think of only that which she had gained.
My Love, Daemon’s skin crawled as he read the words, I await at Pentos, by the ports. I tarry for a ship bearing flags of suns and spears. I believe you’d know them well. Suns and spears—Sunspear, flags of House Martell, in Pentos? Naera would know them well.
Why was a Red Priestess seeking place on a Dornish ship at Pentos?
The Great Other whispers to me every night, telling me that the night is far, asking me to sleep. Have you been sleeping? It is death, to sleep, and dreams are all but glimpses of that which lies after. Cryptic, was what appeared to Daemon. The Great other, and he battered his thoughts over grasping at the string that led to that memory, from those sun-lit mornings when he’d be forced to read through tomes and scripts on cultures and ways, but he’d been forbidden texts on alternative religions by his father’s beloved Hand, Otto Highcunt, and ducked and hid and lied, and ran, and he’d stolen the book from the libraries.
Then, that very night, he had read every last rotting, yellowed page, with texts and scrawls the septons would call heretic, and his conclusion had been simpler—Boring, and an immense waste of time.
Daemon couldn’t help but smile at the memory—he’d tell her about that, soon, perhaps, and she’d either laugh or be offended.
Right. The Great Other: A figure in the Religion of the Red God, who is described as Light’s very antonym—a God of Darkness, almost, who preyed on priests and priestesses of the Light to get them to turn on their faith. That made sense, why Melisandre would be wary of him. Oh, and the night—the long night? She was a Red Priestess, Daemon stared up at the portrait of Melisandre which Naera had put up in an inconspicuous corner of the wall facing the desk. A Red Priestess of the Faith of Light—yes, it was the long night, as she had mentioned. Do not dream? Do not sleep? He shook his head.
Write to me here. I await your words and—and Daemon had already cast the pile of papers into the flames, watching the orange and yellow and red, red, and red, tear and burn and destroy the letter written by a woman just as red, red, and red. It smelled strange, then, like cloves and stale spices, stored away in glass jars, and fire, and ash, and bitter smoke, and red-hot iron down at the Street of Steel.
“This one has eighty rings,” Helaena told her, raising the centipede to eye level, “Each ring has four legs, that’s two hundred and forty rings in all,” and she brought the worm close to her eye, “The last ring is injured. It has only a single ring—that’s two hundred and thirty-seven rings, then.”
“Helaena,” Naera raised the girl’s chin to meet her face, calm, quiet, too calm, with no anticipation, no guessing, no panic, no wonder. Helaena. “Do you…” Naera pressed her lips into a line. What was she to say? Do you see dreams that come true? Do you see visions? Do you hear, speak, see the future? No.
“Is there anything you want to say?” Naera made sure her tone was true, honest, earnest, welcoming her half-sister to speak her mind in whole, to tell her every secret she had been forced to keep concealed by her pious young mother.
Helaena stared at her blankly. Her ebony freckles drooped as she frowned, and her eyes strayed, looking away, shy, hesitant, unable to speak. She set down the centipede, brushing her fingers down her silver-gold hair, settling it down over her shoulders, silent, tongue-tied.
“Anything, Helaena,” Naera sighed, “Anything at all, even the things…even the things you don’t say out loud. Tell me.” Naera took Helaena’s hands, trying to look past the green velvet cloak thrown over her shoulders. How weak must Alicent be, to involve her little daughter in a war of court? How little power must she hold, if her children are all she had?
It made Naera’s chest ache—the prospect of that exploitation, though she did not know why. It was nothing new—children were made to do things beyond their comprehension at a very young age, indeed, be they deeds of altruism, or deeds of abhorrence.
None could know the fruits of these decisions—one day, perhaps, for having worn green on the right days, Helaena shall be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. One day, just as likely, she’d be slain for her betrayal of King Viserys’ decision to put Rhaenyra on the throne.
Helaena’s teeth chattered, hands shaking, tightening, just as the thought of her death passed Naera’s mind. She hissed out, eyes wide, forced out the words as though speaking them pained her, “There is a beast beneath the boards.”
There is a beast beneath the boards.
“What is the beast? What boards?” Naera took Helaena’s shaking face in her hands, her trembling, shoulders against her chest, and she felt sore, and heavy throughout, but repeated herself, “Helaena, tell me. You must tell me.”
“The boards—the boards!” She tapped her shoes against the floor, again, and again, slamming her feet against them, panicked, jittered, out of control, and she clutched onto Naera, arms and all, repeating the words, there is a beast beneath the boards.
“What beast, Helaena?” Naera looked around in her sister’s chambers, catching the sight of a member of the Kingsguard peeking within, trying to see, trying to discern whether Helaena had been harmed. Helaena took a deep breath, untangling herself from the grasp of Naera’s, and took her hands instead.
“Chains of iron, chains of steel, but a Breaker shall come from the skies’ heed.”
Chains. Breaker. Breaker of Chains.
“From my blood, come the prince who was promised, and his shall be a song of ice and fire.”
The Prince who was promised.
“Azor Ahai, the bringer of light…”
His shall be the song of ice, and fire.
Ice, cold, north, night—The Long Night, the end of summer, the dawn of darkness, the era of death, and of sadness.
Fire, warmth, Valyria, day—the Dragons, the wings, the scales, the fire and the blood of Old Valyria, shall end the night. It shall be the end to the Long Night, the bringing of an endless summer, to an era to which the sun shall never set. A breaker of chains shall be the usher of light. Azor Ahai.
From my blood—from the blood of Old Valyria, from the blood of fire, from the blood of dreams.
For what is the power of dragons against the power of prophecy? Naera heard Viserys’ voice echo in her mind, in the silence of her psyche. Then, there was more—she heard her father’s voice utter the words of dread and truth, slow and uncertain, reading, in a script so very, very ancient. From my blood come the prince who was promised, and his shall be the song of ice and fire.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew of the long night, of the terrors, horrors and death that would follow, and he told no one.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms did not tell anyone of the end of their reign.
Naera sat silent at her desk, absent, missing, dreaming with open eyes. She held a quill, which dripped obsidian ink, droplet, after splatter, tainting the fresh parchment. She had no words. She only had thoughts. Too many thoughts.
It was starting to fit, in a way, Daemon’s words about Viserys, her dreams, and Helaena’s visions. They fit, but it was fragile, barely held together, with no truth, no support, no reason for those facts to exist at all. There was no reason as to why Naera knew, as to why she saw. It was agony, to pile encounter, after encounter, fragment, after fragment of thought together, for it to all fall apart again, and again, and again.
It was as though she was trying to build a palace on a floor of endless, shifting, sinking sand.
Viserys knew about the long night, Aegon knew about the long knight, about the prince—or princess—who was promised, about the fact that he shall be of Targaryen blood, that it shall be she who wakes dragons out of stone, and leads the world of men against the Long Night.
It would be right, perfect, almost too perfect, for the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains, to be this person. She had united the Dothraki, she had become the single Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, she had already thrown apart darkness and ill fate from the lives of millions of slaves, she had already wakened dragons—or she would, rather, if any of her sights were to be trusted at all.
Then again, prince who was promised, for Westeros shall hardly accept a Queen—unless—Unless Rhaenyra set the example, unless Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, won the war that had already started, against Aegon, against the Hightowers, against all who dissuaded her claim, and set the precedence for a woman in power—for a Targaryen in rule. Then, perhaps, one day, the world shall welcome the Dragon Queen of the East into the lands of the West, her birthplace, her heritage, her land, her throne.
Oh, that must be it. That is why these sights have plagued her, then? To send her the message to fight for Rhaenyra, to argue for her, to bleed and die for her claim, for one day, it shall pay in kind? Would the Gods play such a long game?
Would R’hllor entrust so very, very much to just a warrior who had wandered the lands of the east in hedonistic pleasures, seeking nothing better than freedom? Were the Gods this cruel?
Naera, Daemon called, stringing the quill off of her hand, but she could hardly care. It was so loud in her mind, the thoughts, the whispers, the musings—From my blood, the blood of the dragon, a breaker of chains, a prince who was promised, I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki, and the sight of the Targaryen prince, dead—killed by a crown of gold, killed by heat, by warmth, by fire, it echoed, resonated, spread to every memory, until all that remained was the swirling, circling pour of gold, golden, gold, hot, fused, and pouring down, and down, and down, and then screams of pain, of agony, of burn, and then silence.
A crown for a king.
It was night—but it had just been morning, and just a second before that, it had been night—where had the time gone? There were only the thoughts, the horrors, the possibilities, and Naera just sat still, unbothered, thinking, wondering, piecing it together for it to all fall apart again.
From my blood—or had it been Helaena’s blood? Would she win the war? Would the Greens sit atop the throne? Or, was it general? From my blood, the blood of the dragon, the House of Targaryen, there shall come a solider of light? She did not know—she could only think, and think, and think, and wonder, if it was all a lie, or if she was too far into the depths of this cruelty of the Gods.
The Gods—The God—R’hllor. The cruelty of R’hllor?
Ha.
The cruelty of Melisandre, she meant.
It had been days, weeks, too long, since her love had written to her, had reminded her of her existence, and Naera had been weak—she had forgotten her intentions. She had forgotten the red, and the old, and the excellence of the old Red Woman. She had let those thoughts slip off her mind, as does a naïve child running down a frozen river, slipped, fallen, fallen down in, through the cracks in the ice, down, down, down, into the endless cold waters, left to freeze, left to forget of the warmth within their home.
Those thoughts, those memories, of fuel and ash, of red stains and fabrics, of cold, ashen stone and abandoned homes, and the brewing, boiling, ugly green river, and the corpses that lined its banks—Naera had let those thoughts slip off her mind, those thoughts which had grounded her, reminded her, kept her purpose strong, and given her the dream to live through it all, to return there someday. She had dreamt of returning to her arms someday, to her sinister smiles, and her malicious minds, but she was pious—so very, very devoted, for the faith of Light had been carved unto her soul since the day she was sold as a slave. Melony?
Melisandre.
Her lady love, her hope, her fire and blood, had all been replaced by—Ha—by greens and blacks and games and facades. The piety of her days and faith had been replaced with the brandished and decorated Alicent, whose smiles were as fake as her mind, as frail as her resolve, as dumbfounded as her claims, with her golden amulets and jewels of the Seven-Pointed Star, and her hopes to commit all to the Seven Gods, to change the dragons into pure, kneeling, praying, weak sheep.
R’hllor was different.
R’hllor did not demand a forfeit of power for salvation—R’hllor gave power, for we must be the ones who seek our own ends, who seek our own pleasures, who seek our own written destinies, and fulfil them, live them, finish them, and die with them. R’hllor gave freedom—freedom of thought, of mind, and even of actions—the freedom to love, to hate, to curse and bless, and fuck and die, so long as we did his bidding when the time came.
Melisandre had spent all her days doing her bidding, and if those glances of the Red Woman holding a beacon of fire in the midst of a white winter hold any truth to them, her wait shall last a lot longer indeed. Centuries, she shall live, waiting, working, praying, watching the flames, and it would be fine, for she would have freedom beyond that. She would have the power of a Shadowbinder, and the destiny of a Kingmaker, all at the behest and belligerence of R’hllor—the one true god, for even when all shall fade and freeze and die, when even the Drowned God shall perish, and the Seven shall effervesce, there shall be light, and the light must never end, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
No.
No, the Red God was not cruel—he was kind, but he was fair, and he was just. You reap what you sow, and Naera had hardly sown an orchard of apples—no, she had sowed sin and suffering of the most gruesome kinds, or a garden of flycatchers that rip the throats of any warm-blooded being who trespassed, with vines laden with thorns and soaked in blood, twisting, grinding, gritting, growing and her bidding shall be darker than any of it, indeed.
Naera wore red, she noticed only then, and though her hands were stained with ink of every shade, her eyes lingered on the streaks of red. Blood. She wondered if it was blood that tainted her hands—she certainly had years of grime and soot and blood on them, even if none could see it. Red eyes, red lips, red hair, red woman.
Melisandre’s portrait hung across her desk again, lost among others—yellowed maps, and sketches, and a portrait of Viserys also, though she could hardly care to look at her father’s face, on the day his succession was determined. The portrait had Rhaenys in it, lingering in the back, her face grim, but determinate—she knew the way of the world, and even if she despised it, she accepted it. The Queen who never was.
No.
The Queen who was wronged. The Queen whose throne was taken from her, just for the sake of her womanhood. It was funny, surely, to Rhaenys, how he who stole her very throne—and Viserys did steal her throne, for he could have relinquished his claim in her favour at my moment—chose to name his own daughter his successor, set to be the first queen of the seven kingdoms, despite having pure borne sons. It must be very, very funny to her, indeed.
Viserys. How much had he lied? How much had he hidden from the world which should know of its coming end? He could have told someone—just the family, just his blood, anyone, but he hadn’t. He had kept it to himself. It was foolish—for what if the night came as a flash flood? What if they were overthrown and executed tomorrow? Who would bear the weight of that truth then?
No one.
It would be forgotten. The truth of the world, the very vision upon which Aegon built Westeros, would be forgotten and faded, and when the night finally came, when perhaps an oblivious Baratheon, or a scoundrel Lannister sat on the Iron Throne, what would come to pass? What would be the fate of the Kingdoms?
Death, destruction, collapse and sorrow, and misery, and devastation, and cold, freezing, gruesome nights which will tear away the heat and warmth from all that lives.
The end of Light. The end of everything, all set in motion by a foolish decision of her father’s.
Notes:
Question for the day is:
If I were to, hypothetically, one day in the far, far future (and I do mean--far, far future, write sequels to this fic (I've already decided on a stopping point somewhere close by, as I won't be available for some time soon), what are some things you'd like to see in that sequel? It could be a place (I will try to incorporate official info and lore while taking some creative liberties), a person, or a particular trope/plotline/etc.
Let me know :)
Chapter 17: Lord of Light
Summary:
Naera sees another vision and tells Daemon.
Notes:
WARNINGS
kissing (?), incest, etc.
Chapter Text
Naera felt tired, fatigued, even, as a dull, throbbing ache worked its way through her entire body, in her shoulders, in her back, in her neck, her head, her hands, feet, and even within, to every last crevice between her bones, every inch of skin and muscle and her—it ached.
From the moment her eyes snapped open every morning, still hazy from the dreams forgotten, as Daemon coaxed her from sleep to dine with the family—oh, she could see his concern, as she flipped over and demanded another hour or two, insistent, or as she fell to sleep before supper, or dozed off during noons—to the cold nights which felt too warm for her then, there was only tire and haze and aches. She did not understand the cause, or even, she barely considered it as a problem at all, until things got very difficult.
Daemon noticed—it would be strange if he had not noticed, really—but said nothing. His disapproval of her behaviour and her decision to ignore this lethargy did not go unnoticed by anyone. He’d glare, through his lashes, from above the rim of his wineglass as they grew to dine alone every other night, from the corner of his eye as they laid together in bed—she’d given up all bite, he noticed, and fell asleep far too soon after the exertion—and his glares were gorgeous. They didn’t threaten her, they were too brandished and practised for that, but the glimmer of anger in his eyes did evoke a strangeness within her that she could not account for. She liked it.
He also accommodated for her with more care, as her laze and tire took deeper hold of her. He’d catch her as she fell asleep in the solar, and rather solicitously carry her to bed, and he’d let a tender hand work its way through her hair, down her back, through her whole body. He was rather nice.
He’d even taken her to meet Caraxes. The Bloodwyrm had taken to Naera quite easily, almost too easily, as though she had something of Daemon’s—his attention, yes, but perhaps more—but she had spent every second in the dragon’s presence counting the fleeting moments until she could flee. She did not wish to think of dragons, or blood, or wyrmlings. The first brought her mind to Wisestone, who she couldn’t tolerate to picture, possibly lost, probably far, far away from her. The last two brought her thoughts of her dreams, of three old dragon eggs tempered in flame and blood, until a minuscule dent in one grew into a complete crack, and another, and another, growing, joining, expanding, and a wyrmling screeched from within. The Breaker of Chains’ dragons, Naera knew immediately.
She didn’t love those thoughts.
Golden, yellow, burning saccharine flames. It was all so, very, very golden and yellow, with depths of sand brown and abyssal darkness. There were stairs, one could count them with ease, each carved out of a single block of stone, each shaped and refined and carefully carved by the labours of slaves.
Chandeliers hung from above, great circular arrangements of hanging circlets within and below larger circles, all alit with golden light, and there were torches, set beside the yellow stone walls, and the light made it all look golden and rich, and warm, and worthy.
There were people—two higher up the stairs, but not high enough to stand level with the empty apex—the throne of sorts, which echoed emptily. Advisors. One was short, dressed in expensive garbs, groomed with rich care to make some betterment of his ugly, scarred little face, still standing with a stature of privilege. The other was taller, but bald and pale with a roundish face, wrapped in formal, common clothes, with a sour expression hardly shielded from those who stood in the room.
Then, there was a man, standing below all those stairs, at the very ground perhaps, speaking words in an old language. He wore red, but a darker shade, and spoke Valyrian. A Red Priest. Behind him, stood the most beautiful of them all—dressed in red, with a pulsing ruby at her throat, with pale skin and dark hair, splendidly red, red and red. Every part of her was red—red eyes, red clothes, red soul.
The man began, “Jehikary Kinvaro iorat, Eglio Vokto hen Rijibliot Volantihot, Drivo Perzo, Sylvio Ono, Dohaeriro Elio Aeksio Ono syt.” You stand in the presence of Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, the First Servant of the Lord of Light. He took a dozen steps back and then departed, and the woman—Kinvara—stepped forth, holding her skirt high to ascend the stairs. Beautiful, elegant, ancient in her etiquette.
“Va Mirin…je…jioran,” the dwarf began, to Mereen you…I-welcome. “That’s about the extent of my Valyrian.” He sounded confident with his words in the common tongue, as though his speech was his best spear. He looked back at the frowning tall bald man, who did not drop the frown etched on his face as Kinvara stopped half a flight of steps before them, hands held gentle, shoulders back, head held high, confident and secure.
“Thank you for travelling all this way. I know from personal experience how uncomfortable the journey can be.” The dwarf shot a glance at his companion, complaining, almost. “The truth is…we need your help. We’d hope that we could somehow persuade you to—”
“You don’t need to persuade me,” Kinvara spoke with calm, quiet, peace and experience, “I came to help,” and she began the way up the flight of stairs again, never stopping her words, “Daenerys Stormborne is the one who was promised.” The one who was promised—the princess—who was promised. Her name was Daenerys Stormborne. The Breaker of Chains had a beautiful name. “From the fire she was reborn to remake the world.” She spoke the word remake in a different tone—in a melody of truth, of hope, of expectation, and belief, as though even if all senses failed Kinvara, she’d hold onto the truth that there would come a promised one who would remake the world.
She stopped her steps, waiting for a response from the duo of advisors. The dwarf spoke, “Yes.” Yes.
“She has freed the slaves from their chains and crucified the masters for their sins.” Pride, respect, hope, a person speaking of their idol—a young boy chanting of Aegon, or a young girl singing songs of Visenya.
“She did, indeed.”
“Her dragons are fire made flesh—a gift from the Lord of Light, but you’ve heard all of this before, haven’t you? On the long bridge of Volantis.”
The dwarf was caught off-guard—silent, at a loss of words, at a loss of his greatest power.
“The dragons will purify non-believers by the thousands, burning their sins and flesh away.” The red ruby at Kinvara’s throat pulsed and thrummed in sync with her words.
“Ideally, we’d avoid purifying too many non-believers,” he answered in a song of diplomacy and mediation, of compromise. He did not know that the Lord of Light does not bargain. “The mother of dragons has followers of many different faiths.” The bald man nodded in agreement.
Kinvara looked insulted, just a blemish of annoyance colouring her eloquent voice, “You want your queen to be worshipped and obeyed,” she stated it as a fact, as though laying out all evidence and words before delivering the final blows on an argument, “and while she’s gone, you want her advisors to be worshipped and obeyed.”
“I’d settle for obeyed.”
“I will summon my most eloquent priests. They will spread the word. ‘Daenerys has been sent to lead the people against the darkness, in this war, and then in the great war still to come.’” An agreement had been reached, then. A faithful priestess employing her most trusted priests and most chartered speakers, in exchange for the end to the long night at the hands of the Queen. It was hardly an exchange.
The short man was happy, delighted to have had that gone easily, “That sounds most excellent—”
The bald man wasn’t happy. He took a step forth, and began, “A man named Stannis Baratheon was anointed as the chosen one by one of your priestesses.” Contempt, distrust and hate. He held a grudge, and that was as clear as water, against the faith of Light. Why? “He, too, had a glorious destiny. He attacked King’s Landging and was soundly defeated by the man standing beside me.” Kinvara remained silent, watching the dwarf from the corner of her eye, but she wasn’t stumped. She wasn’t speechless. She wasn’t caught dead without defence. She was wiser than that—and older. “Last I’d heard, he’d been defeated again, this time at Winterfell, and this time, for good.” Anger.
The swarf tried to mediate, to lessen the damage the words would have surely done, “We’d be most grateful, for any support you could provide the queen.”
The other wasn’t having it, and he tilted his round head to the side, eyes narrowed, face contorted into an imitation of disgust and condescension, “I suppose it’s hard, for a fanatic, to admit a mistake, but isn’t that the whole point of being a fanatic? You’re always right,” he mocked, “Everything is the Lord’s will.”
The High Priestess smiled, red, red and red, and the gold and bronze hexagonal patterns around her neck, at the neckline of her dress, all shook and clinked and glimmered as though they were pieces of a puzzle, strung and stuck together with pains and efforts, across ages.
“Everything is the lord’s will,” her voice mumbled in clear, dulcet tones, the kind that would whisper chants in a temple that never closed its door, “but, men and women make mistakes, even honest servants of the lord.”
“And you, an honest servant of the lord, why should I trust you to know any more than the priestess who counselled Stannis?” The tall advisor questioned, and it was valid.
“My friend has a healthy scepticism of religion, but we are all loyal supporters of the queen—” the short advisor tried, edging panic, trying to make his friend see that the red temple was their only way of support.
“Everyone is what they are, and where they are, for a reason. Terrible things happen for a reason.” Kinvara ascended the steps again, stopping just a stair or two below the two, and spoke, “Think what happened to you, Lord Varys, when you were a child. If not for your mutilation at the hand of a second-rate sorcerer, you wouldn’t be here, helping the lord’s chosen bring his light into the world.” The bald man—Varys—grew fearful, his eyes constricted, his face paled even further, and his mind went back to that day, or night, or twilight when it had surely happened.
“Knowledge has made you powerful,” Kinvara continued, almost forceful in her speech, but with an air of ominous shadow to protect her, “but there’s still so much you don’t know.” She shook her head at that, short, delicate movements to aid and abet her words that echoed the fragile hatred of Varys’. A hatred of religion, and a hatred of ignorance—polar opposites, but balanced.
“Do you remember what you heard that night, when the sorcerer tossed your parts in the fire?” Varys frowned further at her words, trying to reason, trying to devalue her words that were nothing but the thundering, hammering, endless truth, “You heard a voice call out from the flames, do you remember?” She stepped even closer, threatening, warning, the teaching of the might of her lord and his power, “Should I tell you what the voice said?” Her words reverberated power, for she held that knowledge. She held knowledge, and that was power, to Varys, to any person worth their life. Knowledge of people, knowledge of power, knowledge of the world, of gods, of the future, was the most extraordinary power that could exist.
What is the power of dragons, against the power of prophecy?
“Should I tell you the name of the one who spoke?” She waited, silent, clutching Varys’ forearm, with the sparks of a smile dancing on her face, but also a frown of hatred, from the weight of that truth, against the discrimination he had shown her, against those who did not believe.
Varys trembled, confused, irate, unable to make sense of how she knew, how much she knew, and why she knew. He shook his head, a paltry act, but it made Kinvara drop her ugly frown and smile, with teeth, with threats and warnings and limitations.
“We serve the same queen.” And you shall serve the same god also, she did not say, “If you are her true friend, you have nothing to fear from me.” But, the fear in Varys was solidified, cooled and hardened and shaped to last forever. There was fear of her, of Kinvara, of the sorcerer who had wronged him all those turns ago, of what they both represented—a world of which none held knowledge, and a being who all must worship. He had finally felt the fear of the Lord of Light.
Knowledge has made you powerful.
Naera’s eyes snapped open.
Knowledge has made you powerful. What is the power of dragons against that of prophecy? Was that the answer? Knowledge, of the future, of the events which she could only presume, were those which preceded the Long Night, was meant to make her powerful?
Kinvara. Oh, R’hllor, she would live long. Naera remembered something of that face, of those carefully shaped eyebrows and button nose, and the pale, pale, skin wrapped in red and gold and flames and elegance. She had visited the Red Temple in Volantis, watched her watching her from the edges, observing, questioning in all but words, learning. She shall learn for long, for her ruby looked nothing short of ancient in her dream.
Naera turned to the candles by her bedside, three in number, which she made sure to light before dusk. Knowledge has made you powerful—but what power does this knowledge give her? The only will she could find was to meet Kinvara again, tell her all she knew, meet Melisandre, and do the same, again, and again, and again, until she had informed every person of their role in the Lord’s game.
She couldn’t. The time wasn’t right. The stars hadn’t aligned for her to journey east, not until Rhaenyra’s succession was secured. She needed to wait—Aemond’s ploy was coming to an end. He would demand his wishes soon enough, and perhaps, that would be enough. Perhaps, Alicent would refuse to marry Helaena to him, and that would cause enough strife for the Greens to collapse. Their claims were fragile either way.
Through the windows, Naera could see moonlight, and a grimy night sky, with burning stars, sprinkled throughout. Daemon lay beside her, his breaths and warmth tickling her skin, soothing her aches, making her sigh in some twisted pleasures. His arms were entangled around her waist and hips, his face curled into her neck. When had he become so comfortable? When had they crossed the precipice of her no longer running from him?
Daemon’s silver-white hair, sleek, soft and shiny, gleamed and shone with its tell-tale lustre in the darkness, like molten silver being poured down a smith’s crucible. Naera ran a hand through the lengths, starting at the roots and trailing till the ends, lost in the same thoughts. When had she become this person? When had she fallen into his bed without another thought, without another concern for that which she had lost? What had he done to her?
He had coaxed her into a bite, and another, and another, until he had grown into a habit, and that habit had grown into a standard. Daemon was an addiction, destroying her, whilst keeping her in one piece, and she did not know how she must quit, but Naera knew that she must.
There was danger near—a war that would come, a prophecy, a bidding in her future, which she had waited for. I have been fighting far longer than you, Melisandre’s words echoed in her mind. What would be the actions, the time, the reward for her actions, Naera wondered. A cold, lonely death, away from light, away from warmth, or perhaps, immortality, a life of blood and fire, away from the night, away from death.
She would not live to see any of it.
“What are you thinking about?” Naera jerked at his voice, caught off-guard. She had woken him.
“Nothing.” It was a brazen lie, and she knew that he knew it also. “Ēdrugon.” Sleep. Naera let go of his hair, making a move to close her eyes also.
“Ydra doar pirtir naejot issa, Naera,” don’t lie to me, his voice sent reverberations across her chest, “Investragon issa skoros ao sagon otāpagon bē.” Tell me what you’re thinking about, he sat up, pulling her against his chest, mimicking her old actions by tangling and smoothing down her hair. Naera sighed at the feeling, at the relief of those pains which she could never solve. He solved the problems. He left her dewy-skinned and moist and weak.
Naera sighed, though it sounded ever so close to a moan, “I dreamt something strange, that is all.” Yes. These were dreams. Unreliable, untraceable, unreal dreams. They were fleeting thoughts and glimpses—nothing more.
“What did my wife dream of?” But he asked with such ardour, despite his sleepy state. He asked it persuasively, hands wandering down her sides, stroking, touching, feeling her waist, her hips, her breasts, her hands, and he breathed against her neck, hot, boiling puffs of air that grazed and stuck and lingered.
“People,” her back felt heavy, her shoulders, her eyes, and her head, and Daemon did it again. He trailed a hand down her leg and bunched her sleeping dress up to her waist, and he ran his hands up, and down her thighs with familiarity, practice and temperance. “Talking people, gīmigon daor, kepus,” I don’t know, uncle. She didn’t know any of it. “Varys, Kinvara, were their names, and a dwarf.” Kinvara. What were her titles again? “Ah, Kinvara, High Priestess of Volantis, the Light of Wisdom, mirros, mirros,” something, something, there was something more—ah, first servant of the Lord.
“What were they talking about?” He kissed her cheek, and then her chin, warm, real, present—nothing like those fleeting visions which faded within seconds. Naera sighed, vocal, but lost for words, and she felt hot, sultry, boiling, passional, broiling. Daemon trailed a finger up from her knee, past the skin, the hair, and the fabrics, up, up, up, until he toyed with her cunt.
“What were they talking about, Naera?” What were they talking about? What were they talking about? The Breaker of Chains, of course. Their Queen—the…no, what had been her name?
Naera shut her eyes, body tensing as she struggled to recall. No. She had the name of the Breaker—or rather, she had had the name of the breaker—Varys, no. Kinvara, certainly not. Stannis, no? No. He had been another. What was her name—the silver-haired conqueror who was absent from the stone room lit in gold? What was the name of the queen who would have sat at the top of those endless stairs?
“D-Dae—” no, “Daemon, I—”
Daemon chuckled, “Talking about me?” He kissed her lips, silencing her words, breath-stealing, fire lighting, burning, never stopping, never cooling, when he held her, when every touch and every word of his burned her, scorched her soul, made ashes and ruin of her resistance.
“No, nyke rūnagon se brozī daor,” I cannot remember the name, Naera sighed, “It was some Queen, I-I cannot remember in the slightest.” She had been so close—just a name, two words, perhaps even one, for she knew the Breaker of Chains to belong to the House of Targaryen. The House of the Dragon. The Blood of Valyria—old Valyria, ancient, magical, gruesome, with tradition and it was them.
They were tradition. They were the Blood of Old Valyria, dragons made human, gods made flesh, magically made real, blood kept pure. He was an old soul, his mind still living in the days of blood sorcery and night wizardry. The Red Priestesses—Kinvara, Melisandre, Eraia, and on, and on they went, people she had known to have lived for longer than should be possible—were old, were tradition, were sorcery and darkness and mystery, but so was Valyria.
If he was who he claimed to be, if he was the last Targaryen to truly, properly care of their heritage and live by them, he would be the one—perhaps, the only one, to understand. He must understand. He will understand.
“Daemon,” she turned, out of his grasp, out of his hold, and returned, and she leaned very, very close to him, noses touching, bodies entangling. She watched his eyes, blown with lust, heavy with sleep but waking up, waking, rising, opening, widening, but still lustful, and eager. She watched his face, in the shadowy golden lights, the hard lines, the ragged, beaten and trained face that was prone to rage, but also delicacy, of pleasure, of calm, serenity, etiquette, refinement. He was a prince, in every meaning of the word, and it made her heart hurt, made her heart throb and explode and oh, what had he done to her?
“Naera,” he kissed her, like an avalanche heading down on a lone wanderer, like a tidal wave hitting a blind, senseless child playing on the beach, heavy, endless, overwhelming every part of her, from her head that dizzied, through her twisting body, all the way down to her curling toes.
Focus.
“Daemon,” she broke their kiss, cursing her gasping lungs. He will understand. He will understand. He will understand. “Daemon, ñuha Valyria dārilaros, ñuha kepus, ñuha valzȳrys, ānograr ānograro,” my Valyrian prince, my uncle, my husband, the blood of my blood, “Istia rȳbagon naejot skoros vestran.” You must listen to what I say. He will understand.
“From my blood,” she echoed Viserys’ words, those words which had once been spoken—spoken to someone. He had told someone, someone, most important to Westeros, to the world, to the Targaryen line. “…come the prince who was promised…”
The words, and the memory, of it all, returned. He remembered, Azor Ahai, Aegon, and Viserys’ words. Prophecy. Dreamer. What? His forehead scrunched, the lines solidifying, and he frowned, that frown, which threatened all but her.
“It is written, kepus, on Aegon’s dagger, or Blackfyre, or somewhere. From my blood come the prince who was promised and his shall be the song of ice and fire.” Naera gasped for words—there was so much to say. He had told only Rhaenyra that Aegon had foreseen the end of life, that they were mere instruments, that Viserys was a fool to do it, that she saw the one who was chosen, the one who was promised, that she was perhaps even a dreamer, or more likely just a knight in the game of cyvasse between R’hllor and the Other.
“I’m listening,” he nodded, encouraging, trying.
“Viserys told you that Aegon had been a dreamer. He was true to his word. Aegon foresaw the end of life and light, and he passed the truth to his descendants. Azor Ahai shall be our descendant.” No, no, no but that wasn’t it. There was more. There was so much more. “I—” She was out of breath again, the panic rising, the adrenaline rushing down her veins. He will understand, surely.
“How do you know?” He held the sides of her head, calming her, grounding her, in the dim light in those late hours of the night.
“I-I…” hesitancy, and the urge to shake her head and dismiss her past words, to claim that it was all nothing.
No. She’d come too far.
“The Lord of Light showed me.” The Lord of Light, the Red God, R'hllor, the god of the shadowlands. In the midst
“The Lord of light?” Disbelief, confusion, frustration, even, but Naera had a way. She had a way to prove it to him, that her mind was not lost in delusions, that she had seen it all, and that she will see it again. She could steal Blackfyre, or the dagger, or question Rhaenyra. She could—no. This wasn’t it. This wasn’t absolute, empirical proof.
“I can show you.”
Chapter 18: A Lack of Understanding
Summary:
Naera is unable to convince Daemon and it leads to a spat.
Notes:
WARNINGS:
Domestic Violence, Strangulation, Marital Issues (It's a fight, guys, you get it.)Ok
OKAY
I'm not happy with this. It is messy and was edited four times and I'm still dissatisfied, but MEH. Let it be.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There are often times in one’s life, when against all odds, against all consequences, one chooses to trust someone else. There are times when one chooses to hope, despite their clarity of mind that it shall be regretted. That is the nature of man, in a way—to hope, despite the lack of it, to think the best and expect the most when they should know, by all their life and all they have gone through, that none can be trusted and that hope is a lie.
When Naera had been young, and sent to Dorne, she had trusted in her father to bring her back, she had hoped that her sister would insist upon her return, and she had been wrong. She had believed that the little girl who became Queen, Alicent the Cunt, who despised her, disrespected her, hated her, for no reason other than that she still loved her old mother—her own mother—and had had her sent away, would be exposed. She had hoped, believed and trusted, that she’d be ousted, thrown away as she should be, and they’d bring her home. She had been so, so very wrong.
Instead, her family, her own blood had barely written to her, hardly cared for her after she left, and that hope, and that trust, had failed and collapsed.
She had learned a new way of trust, and a new way of hope. It was the Dornish Way, to live life as though every day was the last, to dream, to drink, to find all pleasure, and there shall always be pleasure in knowledge, in learning, in doing whatever one’s heart desired. She had learned to trust Raiden Martell, and grown to hope for a future together that had already been written and sealed in stone and parchment. She had believed in a future where she’d be free to do as she wished, to learn and explore, to be herself, without judgement, and to love her prince.
Then, all at once, it had gone. It took no longer than a fortnight, at most, for her dream, her fantasy, her hopes and beliefs, to be burned and extinguished, and for the ashes to be brushed aside and forgotten.
When Naera had been old—just old enough to understand her way of life, and that she must never return to King’s Landing, that she must never return to the place which took away hope, gave it again, only to remain silent as it was taken again—she had trusted in someone who could never fail her. She had learned to put her hope and beliefs into herself.
She had been the only one to never fail herself. Through the tricks and deceptions in Slaver’s Bay, the times in Braavos, the deeds in Qarth, the fucking Shadowlands—Naera Targaryen had never failed herself.
Then, she had been vulnerable.
Help Rhaenyra, she had thought, she is your sister. She is her family. She was having her birthright contested because of a silly error which should mean nothing. She had decided to stay, to tolerate, but then? What had happened? She had forgotten the loss. She had forgotten the pain. She had let herself trust Daemon.
Naera wanted to laugh.
He didn’t understand.
Dreams didn’t make us kings, Naera. Dreams did.
He’s—he didn’t understand. He will never understand. He isn’t her. He isn’t the older than age, the mysterious, the ethereal yet demonic presence that the Red Priestesses are—he isn’t Melisandre, he isn’t Kinvara. He will never understand.
He isn’t the man she had trusted him to be.
Look into the flames, she had pleaded, and he hadn’t.
He had a closed mind, with no curiosity, no wonder, no acknowledgement of something greater than him. He was a fool, perhaps worse than Viserys even, for despite the King’s inaction, his fault, and his naivety, he was wise enough to know better than Naera. There was a reason Viserys only told Rhaenyra about the Conqueror’s dream, about the song of ice, and of fire, and the Long Night that was real, the distant winter which shall carry absolute darkness from the far, far north. He had never told Daemon, because he had known his brother well enough to know his response.
Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did.
Except, they did. It was Aegon’s vision, his prophecy, and his dream, that guided the conquest. It was a prophecy, a dream, that saved the Targaryens from the Doom. That was why the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men—it was not the Valyrians who were. It was the Targaryens, and the Targaryens only, not because theirs was the blood of the dragon—the blood of the dragon burned in the fires of the Doom—it was because of the dreams in their line.
For what is the power of dragons against the power of prophecy?
Nothing.
“Don’t be like this, Daemon.” Naera still hoped, against all odds, against all truth. It was a mistake.
“Like what?”
Naera barely knew where to begin. She understood her father, now. She understood why he had kept Daemon away. It wasn’t because he was brash, abrasive, unpredictable or brutal—it was because he didn’t understand. He will not understand.
“Obstinate. Blind.” Don’t be like this.
“I’m being blind? You’re trusting your dreams. Dreams have no power. Dreams did not make us gods.” We aren’t gods, she wanted to say, but how could she? She couldn’t. She couldn’t speak her mind, her past, her thoughts, her knowledge. She was back to where she stared—in a political maze full of strangers, fighting for a cause which she would never be appreciated for. She was fighting for Rhaenyra, Naera reminded herself. She was fighting for her sister, and then she would leave.
That had been the plan, hadn’t it? Secure Rhaenyra’s rule, fulfil her bidding for the Lord of Light, and then leave. She was going to leave. She was going to run far, far away, to Yi Ti, to Asshai, to Qarth—where she would be known, respected, taken for her word, and never disrespected, never talked down to, never forced to bend to the will of her husband or her lying father. It had been her scheme, her hope—to run, to run, to run away from him, and his grasp, and his old, twisted ideals and wrong ways.
“Why would Viserys believe in such nonsense?” He asked her, as though the answer wasn’t obvious. How could he not understand? It was there, all there, as plain as milk, as clear as the blue skies. It wasn’t nonsense—it was the only truth that wasn’t nonsense.
“It is—it always has been the true duty of the King and heir to fight the Long Night. That was the conqueror’s dream. That is why the Targaryens rule.” That is why he conquered. Aegon did not invade solely for ambition. He invaded for security, for survival, to ensure that the world of men doesn’t end, for he knew that it shall be his descendants who will usher in the light. The Breaker of Chains shall be Azor Ahai.
“Alright,” he chucked without humour, without joy, “So Viserys knew and told Rhaenyra?” There was poison, venom, and hatred in his voice. Viserys told his heir.
Daemon didn’t see it until then, she supposed. The Rogue Prince had never been the heir to the Iron Throne. He had never held the weight, the responsibility, the pain that came with the promise of the Long Night. He never knew the truth of Westeros. He did not understand dreams. He did not understand the Targaryens, despite every claim and every action of his.
“Look into the flames?” He laughed again, mocking, angry, “You even speak like a fanatic.”
You speak like Varys, Naera wanted to say. Knowledge has made you powerful, but there is so much you still don’t know. There was not much, that he still did not understand—that he may never understand. Except, he knew nothing. Knowledge has not made him powerful. His ignorance, his pride, and his trust in brute force had made him weak.
Hah.
Viserys wasn’t weak, as all so often claimed. Sure, he couldn’t compete in a tourney or travel great lengths or wage a proper battle—her father was cautious, and he did not act, even when he should’ve, even if he needed to, but he wasn’t stupid. He was not weak. If anything, Daemon was weak—Rhaenyra was weak. They knew the truth but refused to put aside their petty beliefs. They refused to acknowledge the gravity of the Long Night.
“Knowledge is power,” Naera backed away, “The Targaryens would have never survived had it not been for Daenys and her knowledge. There is so much you don’t understand, but you can learn.” He could learn. He could understand, and after it was all done, he could seek her out, but Naera would leave. She wouldn’t stay, she wouldn’t tarry and train his thought and his mind—she would go to those who already knew.
“Oh, is that what your dearest Melisandre tells you?” No. Melisandre would never lower herself to speak to Daemon and his ignorance, after this, after his anger. She would never stand still and watch him, listen to him, as he defiled her faith, her truth, her life.
“Don’t.” He wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let him defile her name—she wouldn’t let him disrespect her, or R’hllor. She had shown her truth, pure proof of that which exists beyond men and women and crops and wine. She had shown her fire and blood. “Don’t you dare.” Her voice was livid, lower in tone and steady, and she saw the way his shoulders stiffened, and his jaw shifted. She frightened him.
It was windy, disastrously windy—a brewing storm, somewhere distant, somewhere South, blowing with the wind to the north, destroying, devastating. The windows hammered and clattered, glass panes shaking in their frames, and the flames in the room flickered, and went off in puffs of silver smoke.
It disconcerted him, alarmed and terrified. The windows were closed. The silver-white moonlight poured in clearer from the windows, bathing each crevice and surface in blotted light.
“I’d thought that you’d understand.” She concluded.
He snorted, probably ready to spit out vulgar swears and insults on how he understood enough about her. It was a ploy, clear as water, to build himself confidence, to gain ground when they both knew that she held the scene in her palm, to bend to her will, to cool or inflame.
It was a joke.
“I had hoped it.” She shook her head, “I now know that you never will.” He will not understand.
Ha.
Raiden would have understood.
He would have had an open mind, trained, prepared, intellectual, calm, and understanding. He had been perfect. Her life could have been perfect.
It was a cruel joke.
“I understand him now—Viserys. I understand why he never told you.” He understood his brother. Viserys even loved his brother, though she could not say that she loved Rhaenyra. Naera could say with surety that she did not love Daemon. She knew what it felt like—she had loved Raiden, she very much loved Melisandre, she loved her life, and she loved her freedom. It is too short of a life and too big of a world to let others limit you, Raiden would have said, perhaps.
Daemon was limiting her, wasn’t he? He was holding her back, dragging her in. He was a liability, a limitation, an obstacle.
Obstacles are meant to be overcome.
“You aren’t fit to rule, Daemon,” you were never his heir, she concluded. She didn’t say that she was. Rhaenyra was. She was meant to be queen; she was borne for it. She would always be the queen of the seven kingdoms. There was no fighting it. There was only supporting it.
She saw his action against his words. She saw the way his hands tightened, the way the veins in his forehead inflamed, the narrowing of his eyes, the anger growing, boiling, consuming him. He made toward, a hand raised, fast—but not fast enough, and Naera backed away, to watch him bite down on his teeth, as though that made him seem more intimidating.
She looked around, anything, anything. She wasn’t strong enough against him, not without a tool—Naera picked up a candelabra, plain and wooden, but old and sturdy. She clanked it against his hand, hard, and watched his palm recoil, aching.
He didn’t care. His fist clenched, his knuckles going white, and his lip curled, his face contorted by fury. His mouth opened, hand uncurling, and with a single slap of his hand, the candelabra was swung out of her hand, a hand closing around her neck.
He twisted sharply, her feet dangling above, unable to touch the floor, her throat cutting out air, her lungs gasping desperately for breath. Her hands grasped at his arms, fingers scraping at the skin on his hands, tearing it in places, flaking, bleeding, but not enough.
Naera wheezed for a breath, eyes closed, kicking, twisting, struggling, and her chest hurt, and her neck surely bruised where his fingers stabbed into her throat, a dull, laden ache beginning from the bridge to her nose growing upwards, and her head felt light, her sight blurred.
Ha.
A miscalculation. He'd kill her first.
“Gaomagon ziry,” Do it, she wheezed, forsaking her final hair to taunt, to paint the guilt so that it never fades. “Sepār Ossēnag-” Just ki-
He let her down, left her gasping, wheezing, coughing and heaving for air, and he drove her back, against a wall, against him, close—too close. Naera sighed, refusing to look him in the eye, afraid, though she knew not of what, not anymore, her throat aching, constricting, her heart hammering in her chest, dizzy, floating half a step above this corporeality.
“Ydra sylugon nyke bisa ñuhoso daor, ābrazȳrys.” Don't try me this way, wife, he gritted out, but she refused to look at him. She didn't open her eyes, didn't move, didn't breathe.
She only said, in a hollow, strained voice, “Nyke ȳdra renigon daor, ñuha dārilaros.” Don't touch me, my Prince. He backed away at her words, instinctive and unhelped.
He'd dare, Naera wanted to laugh. He'd dare harm her, strangle her, kill her, but his conscience stopped him. Her's wouldn't.
She'd make him suffer for this, her Valyrian husband, her uncle, the one who lit her flames, she'd make him burn also, not in pleasure, but in agony.
A poisoned blade, perhaps—nightshade, or something more deadly, something to make him hurt more, to make him feel more pain.
Manticore venom, or a snake’s?
A Viper’s.
The man’s infamous, and not just for poisoning his sword. Naera felt dizzy, words uttered in a reasoned panic resounding in her mind. She shook her head, hearing another older voice say, Oberyn has always been half mad.
She heard a voice speak, experienced, old, with a heavy Dornish accent and a drunken tilt to it. Oberyn, perhaps—Oberyn Martell, a man who shall live one day in the future, live with a reputation that invokes fear and panic and caution, but the voice was one of a hymn singer, dazing and beautiful, lilting her thoughts, and reminding her with too much clarity, of sun-lit eves in Sunspear, and her knees shook and
It is a big and beautiful world, even the words were Raiden’s, his beliefs, his language, his poetry of the realms. Most of us live and die in the same corner where we were born and never get to see any of it. I don’t want to be most of us. She wouldn’t be most of them—Oberyn Martell wouldn’t be most of them. They’d be different, and extravagant, free of responsibilities, free of duties—because theirs were done—free to live and thrive in the pleasure of this world.
“My brother would have told me if that was true, Naera.” His voice screamed an urge to beg and grovel for forgiveness, his eyes already set on the circle of purpling and marooning bruises around her neck. Brother. What was fraternity in the face of adversity? What was brotherhood, against a promise made to one’s crown, one’s throne, and one’s kingdoms? Nothing.
“Would he have?” Viserys would not be a fool—he was not a fool—to deny Daemon this knowledge. “The Conqueror’s dream, the very vision on which he forged Westeros, should never rest on your shoulders, I know now," and her feet prattled her away, the floors cool against her feet, shuddering, panicking, running in fear, in caution, "Viserys was right to never tell you. He was right to never make you his hand, or give you any position of power.” How many exiles had it been? Two? Three? It all made sense. Her father was better than she thought—he was stronger than she had taken him to be. He hadn’t sent away his blood, his kin, his own brother, for the sake of his faults and temperament. He had sent away the Rogue Prince for his flaws, yes, but not those on the surface, but those which scarred his soul, his spirit.
“You don’t understand duty. You don’t understand that sometimes, we are nothing but that what we must do.” Viserys had always chanted that. We are our duties. Yes, one was partially one’s duty. One must do what they are meant to, but that wasn’t all there was. There was more to life, more than Viserys ever tried to understand—but there wasn’t as much to it as Daemon fantasized there to be. One must fulfil one’s bidding, one’s works, one’s destiny, but Viserys’ way wasn’t right—life wasn’t just duty. Daemon’s way was also wrong—life wasn’t just pleasure. One needed to find the fine line in between, the balance of one’s own will and one’s written destiny. The perfect song, of free will and forced actions—it is to be forced to marry a person, not of your choosing, and decide what to make of it. She had decided to make the most of her Dornish prince plucked straight from a little girl’s bedtime tales, on her first try. Her Rogue Prince wasn’t that—he wasn’t a blessing, and she knew what she must do.
“We’re done, Daemon.” I will leave.
She needed to run, to leave, to disappear, and never return. She needed to end all that needed fixing in Westeros and never return. She needed to leave Daemon to Rhaenyra, to fuck, to manipulate or marry, or whatever they’d do. They were the same, both of them—creatures of fire. They were meant to be together, to burn together, to die together, and waste away their lives. She wasn’t them. She wasn’t fire made flesh, and dragon made human. Naera’s flame had gone out ages ago, with the loss of her love, and the witnessing of truth.
They said that Viserys wasn’t a true dragon, because he was calm, because he let his duties, and his fucking sheep population manipulate him, restrain him, control him. No.
Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, was a dragon. His flame had just gone out, under the weight and water of duty, of obligation, of living up to the image of Jaeherys, of proving that he deserved the throne of the Queen Who Never Was, of dealing with his fucking fool of a brother, and his adultery, and his closed mind, and his mindless craft of brutality, and his faulty vision of what it meant to be a dragon, what it meant to be Targaryen.
The Targaryens weren’t the dragon lords of Valyria—they were more than that, and thus, inherently different from them. Targaryen Kings were the failures of flame, they were dull, fighting fires, which burnt the hottest, but never destroyed. The Targaryens Kings were melting, destroying power, which remained unprovoked, controlled, and restrained, to bear the weight of the rule and the Iron Throne. A King must never sit easy, Aegon had said as he forged his monstrous throne in the fires of Balerion, and Tararyens would always sit easy, were they allowed to let their fires burn rampant. No, to rule, one must control the flames. That is why, perhaps, one day, even the Breaker of Chains shall suffer for her heritage, struggle and work to ensure that her harshness, her wish for fire and blood, was not taken for cruelty and malice, or madness. Perhaps, one day, the Breaker of Chains shall also suffer for being the Blood of the Dragon.
As for Naera, no. She was not Daemon, or Rhaenyra, any longer. There was no fire in her blood, for it had also gone out, under the truth and its weight. She didn’t belong with the blood of Old Valyria.
She belonged with the old, the red, the damned and infernal but ethereal fires of Asshai. She belonged with the wonder, the curiosity, the exploration of the world east, and even perhaps whatever lay west of this Westeros, or East of the Shadowlands. Her bidding would be complete, she’d see to it. She’d ensure that her duty to her family would be fulfilled, and then she’d run. She’d maybe sail off Oldtown and emerge at Stygai. Perhaps, she’ll wander down Sothoryos and reach the far, far North.
Naera turned, on her heel, sure of her decision, and she walked, and walked, and walked, ignoring his words, slamming the doors, stating nothing as the Kingsguard stationed outside his chambers jumped up at her appearance, no, she didn’t care—she never should have cared. She wasn’t his, and he wasn’t hers—he was nothing of her, to her, ever.
They were done.
Notes:
Bring on the insults, guys
Chapter 19: Second Sons
Summary:
Viserys has a talk with Daemon; There is a problem over the Blackwater
Chapter Text
“Daemon.”
“Brother.”
“What have you done?” His tone would continue his words, what have you done this time?
“Nothing.” There was no maiming, no defiling, nothing of his doing. Must he always be held accountable for everything?
Viserys threw his face in his hands, tired, despite the early hour, stabbing his fingers into his forehead. Daemon supposed that he did give Viserys a headache. A perpetual headache. Though, he was quite sure that he hadn’t done anything this time. He had barely involved himself at all, occupied instead with searching for his dear lady wife who seemed to have a sheer talent for avoiding him when she felt the need.
Ah. That was probably it. Word of their spat must have gotten to the ageing, tiring, toiling king. He wouldn’t put the maids and guards above gossip and rumour.
“Naera came to me this morning.” There. Daemon leaned back in his chair, fingers running along the rim of his chalice, round, and round, and round, pointless. It was silent, awkward, painful and strained, but silent—there was no breathing, no shuffling, no sounds from the city that never slept, only the low screeching of his finger dragging along the rim. Impatience.
“And?” What did my dear niece have to say? Did she come to complain? To confront? Did she tell the fucking King about his lashing out?
“She requested permission to journey.” No. She could evade him within the palace, sure, he had hardly seen her for a week, but he knew where she was, and what she was doing. Naera still spoke to Aemond, still worked on her letters, but her work was gone, her papers were gone, and the maids knew where she was, for they delivered her food, and correspondence, and everything necessary, but it was he who couldn’t locate her. He couldn’t let her run. He couldn’t let her leave.
“Journey? Where?”
Viserys sighed, and his face seemed to age a year with every word he spoke, wrinkles deepening, hair losing its sheerness, his entire form losing its strength.
“Oldtown, to work on her reports, then Highgarden, to pay a visit to the Tyrells, and then Dorne, I believe, and—oh, yes, Volantis, to meet an old friend, and then the North, to the Wall.” She had thought about it carefully, there was clarity. She’d finish off her work, then visit the two people whose welfares she properly cared for—Elysabeth Tyrell and Qoren Martell, then Volantis—Daemon couldn’t understand that part; Naera had only stated that she would prefer not to return there for she had made too many enemies—and the North, to the Wall, for her pointless dreams and prophecy. A long winter which came from the North, the Long Night.
Her priestess wasn’t in Volantis—she was in Pentos, and Daemon wondered why Pentos sounded awfully pained—familiar, but he had lost all colour because of the glaring portrait of Melisandre which hung in their solar. It wasn't a glaring portrait, it was actually one of humbleness, and conceit, and gentleness, and elegance—he saw a glaring woman, no one else.
“Before that, I heard from Lyonel, and half the Small Council that she’s been running from you. So, tell me, Brother, what have you done?” Lyonel, Mellos, probably Cole, then. He’d have words with them later.
“It is none of their business what goes on betwe—”
“It is my business—she’s my daughter!” Viserys banged his fist against the table, glasses ratting, the sounds echoing in the vast silence. “Now, I’m going to refuse her, and you are going to solve this.” Solve this? As though he could, as though Viserys was so very, very sure that it was a fault of his, and not possibly a mistake of hers. Daemon watched his brother, his composure which had lasted decades. Naera was wrong.
Viserys would have told him, not as a king, not for his duty, but only to share the burden. They were brothers. He had been his heir, before Rhaenyra, he had been his companion, his supporter, his guardian and his helper, the only man he had considered worthy of his second daughter, his Visenya Returned—Viserys would tell him.
“She won’t speak to me.” He didn’t want to, even if he searched, and he sought, and tried his best, he didn’t want to speak to her, not after what she had said. We’re done. You aren’t fit to be king—he wasn’t born to be King, but there was no denying that Viserys was weak. There was no denying that Daemon was better suited than he, but he'd never overstep him irrespectively. “You should talk to her.” Father to daughter, “Just don’t command her.” She won’t like that.
Ha. How did he know her well enough to say? Why did he care enough to mention it?
“Daemon,” Viserys sighed, “Do you know why I agreed to marry her off to you?” His daughter, his Visenya Returned, his Silver Knight, his scholar and his second child. He had never even known her, had sent her away to Dorne to rot with the lazed drunkards and had said nothing as she ran away to Essos. Daemon wondered why he felt anger at his brother’s words.
“One has heard rumours.” To weaken the claim of the Blacks, to destroy their unity, to have two of their strongest warriors drive each other insane. Lately, it seemed as though the Greens’ scheme had succeeded. Then, there was the question of rewarding him for his compliance and quietness, to restrain Naera from whatever she had been doing—those were the actual intentions, sure, but sure, not what Viserys had thought.
“One has not heard my reasons,” the King responded, “Do you remember what you always wanted to do?” All those years as boys, what had he always wanted to do?
“Wage war? Crush our enemies?” He had wanted to bring back the power of Old Valyria, to rule over the world with an Iron Fist, to be his brother’s most trusted general, to be the Hand of the King to Viserys.
Viserys rolled his eyes, “Apart from that.”
Daemon did not answer. There had been much he had wanted to do—he had wanted to remain as the Prince of Dragonstone, to make Westeros great, to secure the legacy of the dragon, to go down in history as a trusted king and general, but what did Viserys want him to say?
“Pentos, Daemon. You had always wanted to go east!” Wanted. It was in the past. The east seemed bleak, then, after so much had been lost. The prospect of power there, of living there, seemed blind. His place was here, in King’s Landing, beside his brother who would never allow him to get close enough, to help him rule, to hide his thousand faults and support his weak rule, to aid his inaction and return the Targaryens to their glory with the power of dragons. “When I sent her to Dorne, I was relieved. I’d thought that I was getting rid of a headache, wouldn’t have to worry about her life for years like with Rhaenyra.” That one had teeth, Daemon wanted to jest, but he couldn’t.
Why had Naera never had teeth? He barely remembered her from when she was young, before she had been sent away, though he had always spent more time and effort on the older. He only remembered a short child, who’d spend every day with her boring old septa, reading, reading, reading, who would barely spend time with the family, apart from Rhaenyra, and that too, sparingly, for Naera’s attention had always laid with her mother, Aemma Arryn, or Aemma Targaryen, or whatever she called herself—the true Queen before the Hightower cunt got her hands on his good sister’s crown. Yes, before that, Naera had been quiet, and calm, calculated, careful. She had been the little girl who wouldn’t speak to him—oh, that hadn’t changed at all—and would hide in a thousand different places, away from everyone except her books.
He had never thought of it, Daemon realised. He had never wondered about what she had done before Dorne, simply because he was deterred by what she had indeed done in Dorne.
“I sent her away to live her life, because she could. That was my only hope for her, second sons have all the fun, Daemon, and I watched her live for years the way I wanted you to live—to explore, to endeavour. That was your destiny, never mine, never Rhaenyra’s. Yours, and Naera’s, only.”
Second son—seconded, put aside, never known, never appreciated, never loved, never given power, or authority, or rule or command. Those had been the consequences Daemon had drawn from his situation, for always.
Yet, what Viserys spoke was true. Naera was also a second child. She was also put side to Dorne, never known by the Realm, never appreciated by the family or the seven kingdoms, never given power, or authority, or rule, or command, instead she had it taken away—from being the princess of the seven kingdoms, she became the princess of Dorne. Despite all of that, she had lived, she had enjoyed, despite being disinherited, despite losing her name and her life in Westeros, despite losing her very place in her own family, she had prospered in the east, and she had never faulted anyone for it.
Viserys continued, “She wrote to me, all that time. She’d always simplify her life, made it read as though it was nothing grand, but then, I started hearing rumours.” Fondness laced his voice, “I heard that there was a wandering Westerosi knight who freed slaves and smuggled herbs for their medicine. I heard that the same knight had been captured and enslaved countless times, but had threatened some folk, in a great walled port city, far, far east, and become one of their governors, and had secured wealth, power and prestige, and then wandered away on dragon back, again. I heard that the same knight had then gone all the way east, by sea, to the Shadow, and come back in one piece.” His face darkened, regret, and sorrow, replacing it. Daemon never saw fundamental similarities between Aemma and Naera, other than that they were both women, and one day, she’d also be a mother. They weren’t similar, not alike, but also not that far different. They would both be mothers.
Viserys said in a different tone, one of wonder, but also contempt, “Otto—” Daemon cringed at the mention of his old Hand, the ugly rotting face and cursed countenance of the scheming lizard coming to mind, “Lord Hightower had always hated these rumours, told me to disinherit her, to disown her, renounce her titles. How could I? She’s my daughter, and she’s young—she’s barely twenty-five namedays old, and yet, she has done more than you or I, or anyone else ever can, in our whole lifetimes. Oh,” Viserys laughed, hysterical, but so, so very, very proud, “She has three maesters at the Citadel studying her life and writings—three! I don’t think I’ll find a single one devoted to writing my biography,” and I’m the king.
Daemon couldn’t help his chuckle, and Viserys broke into laughter. When he quieted down, he told his brother, “If she wants to leave King’s Landing, you must go with her, see the world for what it is, enjoy it.” Enjoy being the second son, and live life, with her brilliance and adventure.
He couldn’t.
Why not?
“Her heart lies with another, Brother.” Daemon closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. Her heart lies with another. That was what none of them knew. That is what the Greens did not know—they thought her brute, they considered him ruthless, and they knew that when they clash, the world shall burn. They didn’t know that she had been ruined, not just her maidenhood, but her soul, her spirit, her mind, had been tarnished and consumed and transformed by some Red Priestess whom none knew or suspected.
Viserys clicked his tongue, “So it does," uncharacteristic, with no mention of duty, or honour, or respect, or destiny—only an inquiry, "but Daemon, my question only is, what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean he has refused to allow me leave?” Asking Viserys had been a formality, a show of goodwill to prevent conflict. Naera could see that she should have left without asking, consequences be damned. She couldn’t stay—the deal with her half-brother was coming to a close. He was speaking to Helaena, coaxing her, making her love him, courting her, and it was certainly for the better because even if the world doth collapse, she’d rather not have more blame on her image.
The squire seemed ready to kneel and pray for the Seven Gods to tear open a rift beneath his feet and drag him into the hells. “H-His grace…his grace has stated that now is not a good time for you to leave, princess.” Not a good time. There would never be a time such as this, the calm before the storm in the age of Targaryen.
“Tell his grace that it is imperative that I depart, actually, no—I shall speak to him myself.” Naera stood, dusting off her garments. She had settled into Rhaenyra’s quarters for the days, but she had not asked that they be cleaned. That wouldn’t be something advantageous when her hope was to conceal her place.
She walked past the stuttering squire, storming out of the room, every step taken with determination and anger. There was a lot of anger and urgency. She needed to leave. Another sight of Daemon would push her over the precipice of madness, she was sure—The Mad Princess doesn’t resonate very well, however. He had been knocking on every door, and she’d even consider his affections to be aligned somewhere close to guilt or regret, but then he’d lose his fragile temper again, and scream, and threaten, and make an absolute spectacle of himself.
Idiot.
The Small Council Chambers weren’t empty—she could hear the murmurs of Mellos and Strong, and the other one, whose name she could never recall. The knight stationed outside, Redmond, rushed inside at her word, asking for an audience on her behalf, and strangely enough, Viserys allowed it.
When Naera entered the Chamber, she felt the ire evaporate and effervesce. She couldn’t be like Daemon. Nothing would be achieved by screaming and demanding. She needed to ask, be logical, constrained, refined and orderly. She needed to be perfect.
“Naera,” Viserys didn’t look deterred. He looked the same with his thinning silver-gold hair and ovular head and purple eyes—busy, a little concerned and tired. “Good that you’re here, actually, sit.” Naera quirked an eyebrow. What?
She saw that Lyonel Strong had a letter in his hand, possibly that which was being discussed, then, before she interrupted, and it seemed to be a grave matter. Mellos was swiping through a book, against all odds, rushing through the pages of a treatise on naval law, and Lord Strong, on a second look, seemed very concerned and involved. Naera slowly slinked into her seat—an empty seat, not her seat, no.
“Princess, there has been a report of an incident near Dragonstone, in the Blackwater.” Lord Lyonel handed her the letter, continuing, “Two jewel merchants have clashed over sailing rights. Blood was shed, there has been raiding, massive loss of goods underwater, and more.”
“They’re seeking settlement of their disputes, I’d imagine,” Naera read quickly over the report. Seven women raped, some sixty sailors killed, and over nineteen ships docked full of jewels were lost in the water, among other losses.
“Yes, princess,” and Strong threw a strange glance at Viserys, who himself was staring at Naera, with a look battered between curiosity and wonder, and also a general ‘oh well, ‘tis life.’ “They’ve named you the arbiter.” Huh? No. No, no, no—if Naera had wanted to rule and look for solutions to issue after problem after political dispute, she’d have stayed in Qarth. If she had wanted to study laws for decades on end, she’d have gone to the Citadel. No.
“What?”
“Both parties claim to know you, uhm, they’ve asked to convene a meeting at Dragonstone at your earliest convenience.” Dragonstone. Earliest convenience. Would seven years do? “They are offering significant compensation in the form of trade agreements, princess.”
Trade agreements meant riches. Riches meant power. Power meant authority. She was just a political instrument, till the last hour. She should have refused, yes, but if—if she simply put up with it.
“If I agree, may I depart for Oldtown and the Reach afterwards? Or,” or, oh, yes, “Volantis, straight from Dragonstone.” If this could buy her some freedom—if this could buy her days in Essos, to perhaps even visit Asshai and retrieve her silver beast, she’d do it all.
He wanted to refuse, it was obvious, but then, a flicker—hope, expectation, and the joy that comes when one finds an answer to a long damned problem.
“Yes,” Viserys smiled, thin-lipped, “I’m sure Daemon would Volantis also.” Daemon. Daemon. Daemon. No.
“No. He’ll be remaining here, your grace.” He won’t hold her down. He won’t keep her with him. She won’t let him, even if she has to kill him. Hah. That was right. She’d kill him, and be free like she had sworn on her wedding day.
“No, Naera,” Viserys chastised, “I’m sure he’d love to accompany you.” He’d prefer it, certainly, if only to ensure that she returns. He would not love it. He’d hate every second in Volantis, he’d hate every person they meet, and he’d most certainly despise Kinvara. She would never with that fact. She never could.
“I won’t take long,” she reasoned, “I shall attempt a return within two fortnights.” She only needed to speak to Kinvara, to learn from her, to educate her on the truth that the priests and priestesses didn’t yet know. From Targaryen Blood, come the prince who was promised.
Viserys sighed, eyes closing for a second as he sought out the will to carry on the conversation that was quickly turning into an argument. “You will take Daemon with you, and that is final.”
She could refuse. She could refuse to mediate on the issue, could get on a ship to Dragonstone that was actually meant for Asshai. It would be so easy.
“Fine.” She’d find a way. She’d speak to Rhaenyra also, perhaps, and figure a path towards the East, forged in lies and deception, if need be. “Who are the traders?” Naera gestured for a cup of water. She had lost all appetite for wine, recently.
“Xoreo Sorraar Daxon, from Qarth, my princess,” Qarth. That explains why she was involved, then.
“From the Jewel district, I presume?” She’d have to visit someday soon, it seemed—if this wasn’t diffused. She had counted only eleven letters from the Thirteen. One was missing. Something was afoot.
“Ah…yes? It doesn’t say.” Viserys pushed another letter into her hands. Emerald trade. Jewel district, yes.
“The other?” She put down the letter, reaching for a sip of cold water. She felt parched, sudden and inexplicable.
“Lord Avidius, from Asshai by the Shadows,” Asshai by the Shadows. Avidius—the miner. “He trades—”
“Amber, yes, I’m aware,” Naera gutted down the cup of water. Asshai. Asshai. Asshai. Melisandre. Where were her letters? Where was she? “I met Avidius, once.” She remembered the day well. She had gotten lost in the near-endless fields of Ghost Grass, the milk-pale stalks taller than a horse and a man, stretching for miles in every direction, endless, and forever. He had found her, she remembered his golden gaze through his varnished red wooden mask, and the flaming, streaking, lapping inks on his face.
“He saved me, once,” from the shadows and the night, by handing her a light, and the glow of knowledge. He had told her that what she seeks is seven miles east—and he had told her where east was, for the shadows were merciless to the sun. What she seeks—if any words could describe the Red Woman, perhaps those would be it.
“Well, then this shall be easy.” Viserys sighed, turning to her, ready to command if she resisted—he expected resistance, even, “I need you to go to Dragonstone and meet this Avidius and…uh…”
“Xoreo, your grace.”
“Xoreo, yes. They claim to have written to you, as they both knew you, but on receiving no response—”
“I did not receive any letter from them, your grace.” She hadn’t. She had not received anything this serious at all—it had been the same, always, some advice, some commentary, some threats—nothing more.
“I need you to go and fix this.” We can’t have another war overseas, for even if it had been a victory, the war of the Stepstones had cost more than it was worth, and the capital suffered its costs to that very day.
Naera wanted to list the reasons why this was not of her concern—she had never received a letter and was not to be dragged into this at all, but she didn’t. She couldn’t say any of it, for she was aware of what his response would be. I am your king. She was aware of what her response would be. Then perhaps, you’d like to tell them of your truth. The truth—from my blood come the prince who was promised, Azor Ahai reborn, the one who shall bring light, and by inevitability, bring darkness before it. The end of life and the end of Westeros—the truth lay with him, but he wouldn’t tell. He wouldn’t tell, because of Daemon, and because of the way the world was. They’d never trust him, just as Daemon did not trust the power of prophecy.
“Alright, your grace.”
“And take Daemon with you to Dragonstone.”
“Yes, your grace.”
Chapter 20: Letters
Summary:
Naera visits her chambers in an attempt to find the traders' letters but learns something new. Rhaenyra makes a decision.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a storm, one that started small, but inflated and grew, and barrelled off Shipbreaker’s Bay, and wrecked and shattered all that lay in its winding, twisting path. Even in the Norther lands, far enough into the Crownlands, even over the Bay of Blackwater, there were winds, whistling, blighting and marring crops, ships, and homes.
Every door in the Red Keep was guarded shut, every shattered window replaced by wooden planks, but the storms whistled through even that, blowing off papers in every noble’s solar, and every fallen leaf in the gardens and woods.
The Sky was grey, announcing rain, thunder, and lightning. Naera was set to depart before the storm reached the Blackwater, that very eve, in fact, to arrive at Dragonstone and settle this dispute. She was almost eager to meet Avidius again, not as much to hold an audience with the Qartheen emerald seller. Yet, something irked her, incensed the tug of madness in her mind, exasperated her, antagonised her. She had never received a letter.
The maids noticed her aggravation—she had snapped at them whilst flipping through every last letter she had gathered in Rhaenyra’s quarters. Nothing. She needed to prove it, to let it be known that this wasn’t an error of hers—that she wasn’t to blame, even if none on the Small Council had really stated it in so many terms.
After doing through every last letter, she knew the only way to prove—she didn’t want to. She could wait it out, until he was away, sneak into the solar and go over all the gathered nonsense. It would be so easy. No, no, no, she needed to leave earlier. She’d have to do it.
Walking through the passages in the Red Keep was strange—everything was deserted, in wake of the storms, the open corridors assaulted by heavy winds, cold, wet and strong. Naera pulled the edges of her red and black cloak closer to her shoulders, silently thankful for her choice of dark trousers for the journey, but more glad for the silver blouse she had chosen. Never forget who you are.
Naera chuckled, her silver hair braided sternly behind her, Melisandre’s words coming back to her, the regality in you must never be hidden from me, hastening her steps, the gale piercing like needles against her face, every prickle freezing like snow. Every step felt off-tune, akin to a warning, an endless maddening harmony of discordancy and errors.
Her smile fell as she approached Daemon’s chambers.
Naera knocked before she entered her own quarters—her old quarters, she’d insist, but they were very much still in her name. She knew that he’d still be in, but she needed to ask him, to be sure that she had not committed a grievance against the Crown, against those women who were raped and those men who were slaughtered.
Daemon responded gruffly, in his usual way, unaffected, “Come.”
Naera opened the doors slowly, quietly, armouring herself, steeling her face, and building a façade. She will not be bothered. She will not think of that night, she will not speak of their spat. She will behave as though all was dandy.
Upon entering, she made straight for the solar, ignoring his surprise, and entered the room to find it in various stages of disarray and disorganisation. The stench of stale liquor was thick in the room, with an edge of fire and sharp brimstone. It smelled like Daemon, like Dragons. Another cruel joke, she supposed. Ha. Wisestone?
The read letters she had held onto were scattered across the room, her journals lay open, near the hearth, by the windows, on the desk, her old, old journals, and the newer ones, from her journeys, and from her time in King’s Landing. She glanced over at one of them, recognizing the words and inks from her days in the Shadowlands. He had been reading. He had been reading her journals
Civility—she wouldn’t say anything. She wouldn’t do anything. Naera only stated, “I didn’t know you read for passing time.” I thought you needed to be coerced. She walked past the piles of papers thrown haphazardly around, past the embers of the flame that was almost out, past the candles she had always demanded be lit—they still burned. They had been changed. Why? She threw another log into the flames, watching the fire flicker and lash out.
Daemon wasn’t afraid of the darkness. He believed himself to be above those silly, petty, human flaws.
No.
She put the thoughts aside. She had a purpose, a mission, and an agenda. She needed to leave.
“Did you—did you see any letters?” The urge to prove still lived. “From some jewel merchants? There’s a dispute over the Blackwater.” Naera took for herself a glass of water, gulping it down all at once. She seemed to be just thirsty as of late. She flipped through the letters—Astapor, Astapor, Yunkai, Pentos, the Reach, the Vale, Dorne? Ha. She’d have to open that later. Nothing from the Blackwater—nothing from Rhaenyra, even. It was strange.
She glanced up at the wall of paintings, still intact, apart from one. Melisandre’s portrait, the very work of art she had spent nights and days, perfecting, was missing. Her heart ached, and throbbed in her chest, lips pressed into a thin line. Red eyes, red lips, red woman. Where was her Red Woman? She looked around the room, spotting it resting against the mantle by the hearth, the painted side facing the wood, hidden away. Guilt.
What had he done?
“No.” Daemon clicked his tongue, “No, I didn’t see any letters.” What? Naera looked up, eyes narrowed at her husband. That was too many words for him, however strange it may sound. Hm? No. That was his standard response. He did not go above and beyond in his speech—his actions meant more to him, and he had done enough.
“What have you done?” She asked. There was no point in playing games, dangling and dancing around words and phrases and ideas. There wasn’t time, and she wished to spend none of it with him.
“Nothing—I didn’t see any letters.” Hesitation. He was a terrible liar. “Are you going to talk? What about th—”
“I don’t believe there is anything to say.” She had chanted her truth to him, and he had bashed her for it. She had told him all she had to say and he had faulted her for believing that he could be honest, and nice, and kind, and human, for just a moment.
She stood, trailing steps to the hearth that burnt vibrant and bright, watching the orange, the red, the yellow—the colours of the Martells, she supposed—flicker and change and morph into a thing of beauty. She watched the flames, on, and on, thinking and thinking. There were no letters—but letters had been sent.
Where had the letters gone?
There. In the flames, she saw. She saw paper, with writings, scrawling, small, rounded letters—a squire’s writing, in dark inks, and she saw words. Avidius. Amber. Dragonstone. Blackwater Bay. Naera Targaryen. Arbiter.
No.
She saw.
In the flames, in the lapping, dazing, burning light, she saw words and figures circle and morph, as she once had in the flames of Asshai. She saw the dark figure of a man, headless, or perhaps with a head of light hair—Daemon? She saw the paper, burning, browning, tearing from the edges, collapsing and crumbling onto dust and ash, left to be brushed away by a maidservant. She saw smoke, dark, ash-coloured smoke, blowing up, up, up chimneys and pipes and reaching the outside air.
He had burnt the letters.
Why?
R’hllor, show me why.
She watched eyes—red, red, and purple, closing, opening, circling, burning, blinking away and it was gone. She saw people—red, red and silver, circling, hands joined, and she saw bodies, naked and pure, white, ivory skin, pale as death, and a kiss on that skin of fire, and of blood. She saw more paper—it was paper, the same shade as any, but sealed in red wax with the emblem of the fire priests and priestesses, and she saw, within, in scrawling, looping, twisting hands was written a beauty, an oldness, a fear and a mystery. Darkness.
He had burnt Melisandre’s letters.
He was the one. He was the one who tried to keep her away, to send her down ages of agony and pain and confusion and worry over her state, over her being, over her action, or the lack thereof.
“What had it said?” She asked, turning to face her husband.
Daemon raised an eyebrow, and she saw through his own façade. Gestures give us away. She saw fear, and hesitation, like a child caught stealing a cookie, or a priest of the Faith of the Seven caught committing adultery. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
She saw with clarity, the way he sweated and fiddled with his collar, the way he refused to look her in the eye, the way he leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself, and the way the great Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the Rogue Prince, the former King of the Narrow Sea felt guilt and regret and shame. She wondered what life he must have led to never have felt it before, for any person who knew the worth of another would never commit such an action, she was sure.
“What?” He tried to defer, to claim innocence. Liar. Cheater. Deceiver. She turned back to the flame, watching the small, intricate latices she saw—hexagons—circling, spinning, expanding and contracting, and growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller, wavering and bending with the strokes of the flames. She saw things.
Finally, she saw things in fire, and not just in dreams. She saw things in fire, and not just in that of a dragon’s.
Finally, R’hllor had blessed her.
“The letters that you burnt, what had they said?” She wouldn’t play along. She’d resist, and run, and be done with him. She didn’t understand his fears. They were done, after what he said, after what he did.
“Naera, I…” How did she know? That was his question, only because he did not want to think of the answer. She knew. She knew the reality, she saw it in the flames. Look into the flames, she had told him. The Lord of Light showed me. The Lord of Light. Dreams. Burning letters. How did she know what he had done? No, no, no. She couldn’t have been right.
What is the power of dreams, against that of dragons? Nothing. It is nothing.
Dragons soar the sky. Dreams are only fantasies. Dragons are reality.
“Just answer the question.” He flinched at her voice. It had changed. It was calm, so, so very, very calm, unlike her, unlike anything that would be expected in such a place. The draughts and hurricanes hammered against homes and bricks and empty fields outside, shaking the very foundation of the lands. It was the calm before a storm, a dull blue fire burning hottest of them all, and if provoked, if shaken, would consume everything, and everyone.
Lightning struck. It was white, just for a second, and another, encompassing the dim solar in a flash of electric light, white and silver and grey, with a distant cry of skies breaking, heavens falling, hells rising.
It was the flame of a dragon—her dragon. Cold and dull, until the moment came, and when the last hour was upon them, he felt his heart shudder and shake, he felt his hands tremble and his voice break. He remembered their wedding day when she had defeated him with ease, with grace and poise and elegance and he remembered that other night, as he watched her gaze into the flames in the hearth, somehow aware of things she couldn’t possibly know, and it made him fear. What if she had been right? What if she had seen it all?
What if the end of the world of men was destined?
What if it was all true?
His instinct, his beliefs told him that it wasn’t so—they were dragons, not soothsayers. They were mighty conquerors, not dull-eyed storytellers. Yet, the facts lay before him. He remembered Helaena’s words, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread, and then was her, his beautiful, brilliant, wonderful, powerful Valyrian bride, who dreamt. She knew.
She knew, and she said nothing to him. She only stared at the fire, hands loose, shoulders were thrown back, ice and lightning, and fire—the ugliest fire. She was angry.
“I’m…Naera, I…” he forced his stuttering lips to bend to his mind, treading forward until he leaned down to watch the flicker of golden flames in her lilac eyes. She wouldn’t even look at him, he whispered, “I am sorry, I know that I—” that I fucked up, horribly, possibly irredeemably, for he had failed her before, and he shall probably do it again. He raised a hand, just to brush back the loose strands of silver-white hair that fell out of her near dozen braids clasped together, but he couldn’t.
Don’t touch me, she had said. He watched the ring of yellowed bruises on her neck, below the ash black cloak and silver blouse, all with high collars to cover the injury, but the damage was done.
“I don’t care.” Plainness laced her voice, simplicity, and a lack of argument, of hope, of resistance, “What did the letter say?” Naera watched the flame, circling, growing, shedding and glowing, and she saw so much, from her blessing, from the Lord of Light. He showed her dragons, obsidian and horrendous, with vast scaled wings and fleshy masses, and one was larger than any of them, with the greatest wings, and the farthest flights, and she saw it fly, quiet, leering, seething. Vhagar. She saw the beast fly, into clouds of storm and rain, dark and shadowy—as dark as night, and full of terrors also, and screeches echoed in her mind—distant, as though the sounds were distorted by a film of water, in a different realm, a different time.
“She awaits at Pentos.” Pentos. Pentos. Pentos. It shall be Volantis, to High Priestess Kinvara, and then to Pentos, to her Red Woman, to her love, and her delight, and her pleasures. “She—Lady Meli—”
“Don’t.” You do not deserve to speak her name. He said it wrong, Naera always thought, the way he spoke her name made it sound just as wrong as he spoke her name right.
“Naera, don’t—” There. He knew how to say her name, make it sound complete, in one piece. Daemon knew how to speak her name, and he did beautifully, with sensation, and appearance, and excellence and marvel.
It did not change the facts. It did not change what he had done, what he continued to do, with every word, and every glance of his that burned her, and made her wish to die, every day, always.
“She waits by the ports for a Dornish ship—A Martell ship, and she does not know when it shall arrive.”
A Dornish Ship. Pentos. Melisandre. The Long Night, the Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi, Targaryen Blood, Stannis, and that a red priestess shall support him, and be wrong to do it. Kinvara shall support the Breaker’s claim, and those who don’t believe shall burn in Light.
“I am sorry, Naera, I—” no, no, no, “I’ll do anything, anything—I am sorry.” Anything to regain her favour, to regain whatever trust she had put in him, to touch her again, he’d do anything.
“Very well,” she stepped away from the hearth, away from him, eyes snapping to the curtained windows. “Inform His grace that you shall not be accompanying me to Dragonstone.” She gathered whatever letters she could, pocketing the one from Dorne,
“Dragonstone?” He asked her, as she made for the door. We’re done, her words echoed in the silence, uttered days ago.
“To detangle the mess you created.”
Dearest Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra sat in her solar in Dragonstone—the princess’ solar, as they called it now, having put her boys to sleep.
“Laenor,” she called. Her father had written to her, strangely enough, it would be important. Laenor stuck his head into the room, eyebrows raised, and entered at her behest. “Viserys has written.”
“What is it?”
She inhaled, “Dearest Rhaenyra, you should expect two in the coming days—one, a Lord Avidius from Asshai by the Shadow, an amber merchant, and another…” she squinted, “Xoreo Sorraar Daxon, from the Walled City of Qarth, an emerald merchant. They had undergone a disagreement, and have requested Princess Naera as their arbiter.”
“Naera?” Laenor narrowed his eyes, lips left unparted as he recalled every interaction with his stony and silent good sister. Naera? Arbiter?
Rhaenyra attempted to refresh her mind, thinking back to those dozens of letters from her times in the East.
“She spent a long time in Qarth, from whatever I can recall.” She had ruled in Qarth for some time, if she recalled well, but had decided that it hardly suited her, and left. “And in Asshai, something with the fire priests and priestesses.” She had spent a long time in Asshai, so it made sense. She was educated and learned and perfectly adept in the Laws of the sea, and of the King, but it made no sense, still.
“Surely, she has relations with these people, but—” But.
Rhaenyra sighed, silent, reading through the next few sentences. They were details of the disagreement, the number of ships lost, what the Crown could gain, and on, and on. Unimportant. She only had a single question roaming her thoughts. It was a legal matter, and an imperial, or royal matter of exceeding importance. Sure, the King couldn’t waste his days on that, but shouldn’t it be her? The Princess of Dragonstone? The Heir to the throne who spent half her time going over palace maintenance on a little rock island off the Eastern coast?
It was a joke—her life was a joke.
“It should be you.” Laenor did always speak his mind when it came to this. “We shouldn’t have left King’s Landing, its her.” Her, her, always her. Alicent. She had succeeded, Rhaenyra supposed, in manipulating her father, turning him against her, to forget about her, undermine her, dismiss her.
She has poured honey down Viserys’ ears—and Viserys was a weak and old fool. He had succumbed to the lies and deception. Yet, she had turned to Dragonstone to take half the court with her, to ensure that her boys wouldn’t have to live with those ugly rumours.
Hah. Rumours. They just never stopped. The more mouths, the more talk, the proverb went. Ugly, disgusting rumours about the illegitimacy of her children, about Daemon, about the King’s failing health that all seemed to paint her in the dirt, and never the shining, pious, responsible Alicent, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, once, her friend, but hardly any longer.
She could never quite forget what had been uttered on the day Joffrey was born. Do keep trying, Ser Laenor. You’ll eventually get one that looks like you.
She was a cunt, and a wench, and whatever else she could be, but behind a face of gold, glimmer, innocence and chivalry, all her flaws faded into the shadows.
Then, there were the other rumours—that Naera had turned to Aemond and Helaena back in King’s Landing, that she had begun training her enemies, making them stronger, giving them more warriors. Her dear sister, who she had always taken to have been assigned the same punishment for her royal birth—a husband not of her choosing, a life not of her preference, but that was hardly it.
Oh, not Naera. Her life was brilliant. A Dornish Prince who she had grown to love—truly love, and not just befriend, like she had Laenor—and years of exploration, and wonder, and then Daemon. It was all a joke, wasn’t it?
“What will you do?”
Rhaenyra shook her head. She wouldn’t blame her sister, she wouldn’t hate her for something entirely out of her control, and she won’t do it. Naera had never wanted to stay, she had only come for her, to protect her claim, to work for her welfare, and that of the Blacks.
She turned her eyes back to the letter.
“Daemon won’t follow.” She smiled—that would be a relief, to just have Naera, her sister, her friend, and not him around her, a constant, blazing symbol of her grief.
Her joy did not last. “They’ve been facing problems. I trust you to solve them, Rhaenyra.” Ha. She tossed the letter down onto her desk. “Who does Viserys think I am?”
Her father was as oblivious as always, it seemed. Never understanding, never remembering, never knowing anything well enough. How could he expect Rhaenyra to work for their marriage, when her own was failing? How could he expect her to help Daemon, to help Naera, after what had happened, all those years ago?
“Rhaenyra, I…” I failed you, as his words always echoed. Laenor had failed her, as a husband, as a companion, and as the father of their children. He shall forever hold onto that guilt, of never being able to provide his best friend—his wife, the thing she needs the most. A true heir. It had been why they left King’s Landing in the first place, after Viserys’ command—the rumours, the chatter, the disgrace and disrespect she was forced to face every day.
“No. That had been our agreement.” He could fuck his fill of squire boys and enjoy his life, and she’d do the same with Harwin. Oh, had they only known the consequences of their deeds beforehand—they would have tried better, and worked harder to conceive. “You haven’t failed me, Laenor.” Her face darkened, thoughts returned to the dragonrider, the princess, oh, but she wasn't the first and weak with the second. “Naera has.”
She was helping the greens, her own sister, working for Alicent’s gain, probably already bent to her will. She had got Daemon—and that wasn’t enough; she needed power, and claim, her lost little sister, left wandering the East, fighting, learning, venturing, pleasuring, and she was left here—with contested heirs and draining authority.
“Rhaenyra…” Laenor looked away, his own heart heavy, his own fears solidified, cold, realised. The blood of the dragon ran thick, he knew, and the fire in Rhaenyra burned the hottest of them all.
“I think it’s time we returned to the politics.”
Notes:
I still struggle to write Rhaenyra, ik, but I think things are better next chapter? Tell me your thoughts, dear reader.
Chapter 21: Rhaenyra
Summary:
Naera arrives at Dragonstone, and something has changed about Rhaenyra.
Notes:
OK, I am very doubtful about this, because with respect to timeline, much of what Rhaenyra does in this chapter is sort of out of bounds, but ya.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Naera sat on a raft, alone—she had refused everyone else. Ser Redmond had tried following her, something about protecting a member of the royal house, and that the seas were never safe for a young lady, but she had been stern to put him down. You’re a Kingsguard, yes? Go, guard your King. The man was perfectly terrified of her and had not argued.
She had sailed alone before—on her way to Qarth, once, when Wisestone had decided that he loved his lair in Asshai by the Jade far too much to leave it behind, unaccompanied and unlived in. She hadn’t argued for long before yielding and had taken a ship. Then, on her way back to Westeros—she could have flown a direct way, but she hadn’t. Now, that had been mostly in order to anger the King, but the principle still stood.
Ha.
Wisestone. White scales, silver wings, coal black eyes and red flames—he was her, in every way, an absolute embodiment of everything she was, or ever would be—he was calm, complex, calculated, but then he did this, just flew off, without reason, without a singular arrow towards his whereabouts.
He wasn’t just her dragon—he was her friend, the only one to never leave her side, but it seemed as though he had disappointed her also.
She needed to visit Asshai. He was there, she just knew, by the rubies in his den, by the blood and fire of his being. He waited there, waited for the Red Woman, or perhaps even for her. There had been no responses—nothing from Aertha, Velaena, or even Eraia, and by far, none from Melisandre.
She had expected that time come, now that she knew where to send her ravens, she’d receive a response from her fire priestess—‘tis wasn’t so. She had been silent, in word, thought, and her very presence. There were no whispers, no rumours, no talk of a Red Priestess waiting by the Pentoshi Ports, however ordinary it may be.
The land to the east wasn’t like the west—there was more harmony, with no battles fought over faiths and certainly, no wars won over family. The land to the east was better than the west, in knowledge, in magic, in people and customs—ha. Even the Valyrian customs came from the East, and perhaps that was reason enough for the Westerosi to damn the world that wasn’t theirs.
Naera dragged her raft to the sandy beaches of Dragonstone, past the muddy waters closest to the isle, far enough into the sands that it wouldn’t float away. Naera gasped at the effort, her head growing a little dizzy. The dawn blue skies seemed to twist, clouds and all, down, down, down, into the equally blue seas, mixing into an ugly green.
No.
Naera closed her eyes, face twisting in surprise as the seawater brushed past her feet. Her head throbbed and pulsed, out of sync, out of count, and so did her heart—exhausted, she was.
No.
Sand.
Naera’s eyes snapped open, head raised high, eyes looking up at the sky. She was close. She stared at the sky, blue, pale, free, and at the seas, open, broiling, moving, never stopping, never trapped, never restrained. Free.
She couldn’t help the smile that befell her, as golden as the light that bathed the aged boulders and hazel sands. Her eyes smiled also—twinkling, sparking, dancing for the strange senses that dawned upon her mind. She was free—just a day or a week, and she was almost done. She would come back for Rhaenyra, as always, but she was only human—she was weak, she was a coward, really. She needed her pleasure, her love, her security.
Naera leaned down, damp hands tucking stray silver strands behind her ears, as another wave, stronger, faster and larger, collided against her knees. She leaned down nonetheless, one knee hitting the ground and another bent, her black cloak half submerged in the waters.
As the water cleared away, she laid her hand on the hazel and oat sands, wet and coarse, leaving a print of her hand behind. Salt. It felt rough, bristly, and unpleasant, in hand, but in heart, in soul, in mind, it was a quintessential joy.
We shall meet again, ‘tween sand and salt, when the sun falls below the seas? She looked back from where she came, at the endless waves of the Blackwater, at the seas, at the water, but saw something unexpected. Her eyes widened.
Ships. Ten, twenty, easily, but behind them, fading away in the mist and fog and distance, there were more and more, and more. Thousands of ships, and every single one of them bore sails as dark as coal, and ash, and the morning sun made them glow, for in the centre of each was a beast, red and glowing and horrendous, circling, sprawling lizardry creature, twisted and circled to burn—a three-headed dragon.
Naera turned back, towards the ancient stone keep built by the Targaryens during the time of Daenys, hundreds of years past, when even Balerion the Black Dread was but a measly wyrmling. She saw, as clear as the sand, salt, sky and sea, and stone, and the fleet of Targaryen ships anchored in the Blackwater, the Breaker of Chains.
She was dressed in obsidian, hair silver and white, absent, with a thousand thoughts surely running through her mind, as she made her way towards the stone stairs up to the Keep. She had returned, from Essos, from Mereen and Vaes Dothrak, or wherever she had gone. She had returned, with an army, a fleet, with power, and intent. She had returned with a dream.
A screech.
Naera’s head fell back, gaze scanning the skies, head hurting, lilac eyes narrowed, one, two, three dragons—one black, and red, and the largest of them all, leading the others, a winged shadow, and another, green and yellow, and another, white and gold—so very much like her own Wisestone—but they were young, barely adults, and yet, with scales as horrendous as known to man, and teeth as sharp as can be—they were like Aegon’s, sure, but not nearly as large, she knew.
Naera looked back at the Targaryen Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains, the Khaleesi of all the Dothraki. She knew who she was—the only question that still plagued her was what she was. A Targaryen, a woman, a dragonrider, but that wasn’t it. She was all those things—Rhaenys, Helaena, Aemma were all those things, and Visenya and Rhaenys, the wives of Aegon, were also all those things, but the Liberator wasn’t. She was more, somehow. There was something about her, in the way she spoke, the way she stood and walked and breathed, as though something inexplicable, untouchable, ineffable was woven into her, a part of her.
Naera looked, and stared, dazed, at her beauty, and power, and the very aura that surrounded her, earth-shattering with every step, with a silent song of dignity, one of regality, of elegance, of grace, and almost godhood echoing with every breath she took.
She was a Queen—the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Naera would almost believe that she had been birthed for that, and that purpose only. Based on sheer presence alone, she would almost believe that the Conqueror deserved her rule.
She saw others, Varys, Unsullied warriors, and another woman, dressed in dark leathers, another advisor, and the dwarf with the severed nose and horrendous scar—oh, but she did not miss the iron black pin on his lapel, shaped and moulded into a hand, with a finger outstretched. It was a pin she knew well—she had seen it donned by two men her whole life, it is the honour Daemon had yearned for all his life, but would never have. The dwarf was the Hand of the Queen.
They walked, making their way towards the stone staircases leading up to the ancestral palace of the Targaryens. Naera took steps to follow them, her vision showing no signs of fading—but it was so silent. There were no words uttered, not by the soldiers, or the advisors, and certainly not by their Queen. The Breaker of Chains? Khaleesi.
The dragons sang above them, their own thrice-fold harmony of the Old Gods of Valyria, of the Fourteen Flames, of their blood, and their fire, as they found their home.
“Princess Naera?”
The people blinked away, replaced by a knight. Ser Laenor.
“Ser Laenor,” she smiled, ignoring the caked layers of sand and silt on her cloak and trousers.
“Lord Avidius has just arrived also. He awaits in the Audience Hall with Rhaenyra.” Avidius. Rhaenyra. Yes. That was it—not the conqueror, or Varys, or the Red Priestesses, for now.
No, now was the time for her duty. Then, there would be time for her wishes, and for the conqueror, and the Long Night.
Laenor extended his arm with a silent request.
Naera stepped forward, towards the palace. He wasn’t the one whose hand she wished to hold.
The audience hall was dark, made of old obsidian stones once forged in dragonfire. The seat of power, the throne, by all means, other than name, was old, rugged, made of grisly slabs of stone arranged in a setting one could only describe as imposing, grand, and sullen, and so very, very dark.
Crested and carved from the obsidian stones was a seat, a throne for the ruler, and a symbol of power. In the dim and dark of the hall, a silver and white ray of light only crept through from the glass window, etched high above the stone floors, angled in such a way as to leave everything to the terrors, other than the very throne, and the one who sat upon it. Behind the jagged, sharp stones was another beacon of light, of glow and shine that left everything at a standstill.
On that chair built for discomfort, for pains, for toils and aches, sat Rhaenyra Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, with a face of diplomacy, silence, inexpression, impartiality, regality, and her pale, pale, pale skin, shone as bright as a candle for the light, the rubies on her black necklace glimmering with the same ethereality. Black metal—Valyrian Steel. Her silver-white hair was pulled into intricate braids, Valyrian braids, and the necks and sleeves of her obsidian dress were jarred sharp, angular, woven with plates of metal to gift it a sharpness that reminded Naera of old dragon carcasses, of the splintered swords in and around the Iron Throne, of the scales and wings of Syrax.
Sister.
Standing before her sister, her polished, royal, regal older sister, whose face was already tinged with the curse of age, but her eyes, oh, how was Naera to even stand on her feet? Her eyes were cold, dimmed, unblinking and serious, invoking darkness, night and fear, and authority. Naera felt inadequate, less, failed, covered in wet sand, trailing damp steps onto the centuries-old stone.
“You stand in the presence of Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne.” Naera curtsied, head bowing low despite the lack of necessity, for she felt the need, unsaid, unannounced, unknown—she felt the urge to kneel.
“Sister.” Rhaenyra greeted, cold, tempered and controlled, and Naera did her best to bury the growing feelings in her heart. Something had changed, she knew—something had changed in Rhaenyra. What had happened? Rhaenyra stood. “Join us in the War Chamber.”
The War Chamber?
Naera followed silently with a quirked eyebrow, strange, stranger, and strangest ideas running through her mind. Why in the War Chamber? What had happened to Rhaenyra? Why did her hands tremble, and knees shake to think of the possibilities?
Join ‘us’? War Chamber?
The war room was brighter, with long, panelling windows stretching across a wall, stormed skies burning grey, as clouds and thunders swirled and circled above. There was a storm coming.
A man stood beside the windows, in the very corner, lingering halfway in the darkness, dressed in deep red, and brown, and amber, and gold, patterned extraordinarily in geometric shapes—hexagons, principally, but also diamonds, and squares, all of the same size, the same shape, the same orientation, and the same colour. Consistently.
He turned to face them, amber eyes sparkling from the shadows in the room, glowing, like a cat—no, like a flame. He stepped forth, slow, cautious, his mask coming into view—wooden hexagons, chained and moulded together, crested in cursed gold with symbols of fire, of ancient scripts of the language spoken in the Shadows, of spells and sorcery, and of shadows. His eyes glared through the slitted gaps, a cloak the colour of night obscuring his head and his form.
Avidius of Asshai.
Join us. Why? Naera spared a glance to Rhaenyra, who had gone straight for her chair at the head of the battle map of Westeros.
It was lit.
There was fire—lava, volcanic lava, pouring through every last crevice and gap and pathway, lighting the words for the places, the symbols for the forts—King’s Landing, Dragonstone, Highgarden, Winterfell, but the clutch of land to the south, Dorne, remained dull, unlit, uninvolved, unconcerned, unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
No.
She stared up at her sister, the flames of the war table mirrored in her eyes. She couldn’t. Naera’s heart hastened, beating painfully in her chest, hammering, breaking the bones, blood rushing through her veins, hands, legs, mind ready to run, to fight, to escape. Horror, fear, terror laced her lilac eyes and she demanded, silent, for what words could encompass her inquiry? What is this, Rhaenyra?
What was she planning?
The Princess of Dragonstone sat at the head of the table without a flicker of concern—she was the same, unbothered, for she knew that none could dare question her actions. She was their queen, in all but name, the commander of their battles, the administrator of their wills, the owner of their lives, to sacrifice, or to save, if it came to be.
Rhaenyra seemed to answer, silent still, her blood sister’s inquiries. What I must do.
Naera felt a chill run down her. Every patch of skin nearly froze, every hair on her skin rose, eyes widening, heart hastening, on, and on, and on, and the rush of her own blood thrummed in her ears, loud, and unsettlingly resembling marches. Soldiers’ marches, in sync, in step, in a harmony that preceded Doom.
“Dārilaros Naera Targārien,” Avidius stepped into the light, hand outstretched. Naera met his hand with her own trembling fingers, finding his hands to be as warm as flame. The change only made Naera colder, making her frame tremble and her knees loosen.
“Āeksio Avidius,” Lord Avidius, she greeted also, eyes flickering back to Rhaenyra every other second, who herself was watching the encounter with disinterest, the same face of diplomatic composure, and it only sustained and strengthened the hold of trepidation, of anxiety, and of dread, that had taken hold of Naera’s heart.
No, sister. You can’t.
Avidius made to take a seat, symbolically, and literally, joining Rhaenyra on the War Council. He sat on the Eastern Coast, near the Blackwater, near Dragonstone, while Rhaenyra remained at the North, before the Wall.
Right.
She would know of the Conqueror’s Dream. She would know of the Long Night, and the prophecy if her dreams were true. Naera made towards the blazing hearth, trusting it to wash away the chill that had befallen her. It barely aided.
“Dārilaros hen Zaldrīzesdōron se eman—” The Princess of Dragonstone and I have—
“Lord Avidius will provide us a share the profits of his amber trade to the Crownlands.” Rhaenyra interrupted, Avidius nodded. Why? Xoreo and Avidius had already decided on the compensation necessary, then why?
“Yes.” He spoke with an eastern twist to his voice, “If, I am given the favour of this arbitration.”
If I am given the favour of this arbitration. Lord Avidius will provide us with a share of the profits. Profits meant Wealth. Wealth meant power. Power meant Authority.
Ha.
Naera was still a political instrument, nothing better than a barter coin, or a method for gain.
“Why?” Naera asked only Rhaenyra. She understood Avidius’ cause—servant of Light, or not, he was still a man, and he was still a merchant. Rather, the Lord taught desire—he was taking what he needed. Nothing mattered to him past the pour of gold into his coffers—true gold, not the cursed ores of the Shadowlands.
No, she only inquired her sister, the heir, why she would need the wealth of a merchant. She didn’t need to—No. She wouldn’t.
“Will you follow, or will you not?” Threats. Naera watched her sister from the corner of her eye, watched her stroll towards the hearth, hands clasped together over a flat belly. Her heirs. It was always about them, was it not?
Her heirs, her reputation, her claim, her throne, her power, her life.
It was never about Naera.
I need a reason, she would have argued, but she knew Rhaenyra’s response. Her reason was family—the civil war which she was already plotting, or rather, as the Princess would surely argue, the Greens had already begun—where shall the dragons go, and where shall the footmen? Which kingdoms shall remain loyal, and Naera knew, that if she were to agree to this, she was done. If she played a little mediator’s role in the way the Black Princess desired, she was done. She’d be tied to the war, to the succession, and by the lava that gathered near the edges of the Red Mountains, by the fire and blood that ached to make its way past the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass, by the Dornish Marches, she knew what her role shall be.
Ha.
The war was hardly here—she could seek to weaken the Greens without violence, without fire and blood, but oh, look at the way she dressed, walked, breathed, and talked. Rhaenyra was a creature of fire—a Valyrian Princess, the Realm’s Delight, the object of Daemon’s desire. It will never be about her, then why does she bother? Why does she choose a life where she is nothing more than a pawn, not even a knight—dispensable, worthless and unloved? Uncared for?
Right.
‘Family.’
Naera shook her head, laughing without humour.
Will you follow, or will you not? Would she wage war in the way of the Valyrian Freehold, slaughtering for gain, killing for power, or will she defect, prattle over to Alicent and the Faith of the Seven? What would she do?
Sister.
She came for this—she stayed for this. How could she be surprised? How could she resist? The war was ages away, and she had worked for months to avert one. The war was ages away, and the efforts for its course had already begun. The Greens were already plotting Viserys’ death, probably, and the Blacks were farther than set on their decision for death.
“Leave us, Lord Avidius.” Naera sent him away, eyes never leaving her sister, the battle map, the little green flags near Oldtown, and King’s Landing. The Hightowers’ Court was expanded and grown, and while every lord and lady in the land had declared fealty to Rhaenyra’s rule, not all would stand with her in the hour of need.
Avidius spared Naera a glance as he walked past her, one of sentiment, and of speech, for his words certainly resounded in her mind.
Tolī. Later.
Issa. Yes.
The flames in the candles in the stands, in the little wax pots laid out on the jagged, rugged war table, in the oil lamps of the chandelier, in the bright, hot, glorious hearth all crackled, whistled and sang, they flickered and nearly went out, for the breezes of the Stormlands crept into the chambers also.
There was a storm coming.
“Why, Rhaenyra?” Why are you doing this? “There are other ways.”
Rhaenyra chuckled, dry, mocking, like Daemon, eyes burning with rage, with fury, with frustration, “What other ways? They’ve already sent me out of King’s Landing.” Contempt for the Greens was loud in Rhaenyra.
“We can weaken them from within.” She tried to reason. This was it, perhaps—to prevent Rhaenyra from waging an all-out war, to prevent her from weakening the Greens, who, at the end of the day, were still Targaryens. They shall be overthrown, one day, she knew that with surety. They shall be overthrown, but for that, they must be weak. House Targaryen was strong still, but a civil war, once done, would only invite more—wars they couldn’t afford, if the Long Night was to be fought.
“And is that what you were doing, back in the Capitol, by training my enemies?” Our enemies, Naera wanted to correct. She couldn’t. She couldn’t let this be a misunderstanding—she couldn’t let this be a doubt for her own sister to bear.
“Yes. If Aemond is betrothed to Helaena, then Aegon—”
“Then Aegon, will marry for another alliance.” Rhaenyra slammed her hand against the battle map, drawing her attention to the green flags that already tainted the country. Storm’s End was coloured green—the Baratheons wouldn’t stay loyal, they both knew. Well, Naera knew that perhaps it shall be s stag who shall overthrow the dragon, all in all. Two stags, a lion, a wolf and a kraken? Five kings in a war.
Lions. Rhaenyra and Naera had both refused the offers of marriage from Jason Lannister. Casterly Rock and the whole Westerlands could be turned against them with a simple offer.
Riverrun. It connects Casterly Rock to the Crownlands—the Greens would give up anything for their support.
Harrenhal was still with them, as long as Ser Harwin and Lord Lyonel lived. They would support the Blacks’ claim. Oh, the Velaryons—the Sea Snake was power-hungry. If the Greens were to present a better offer, he wouldn’t hesitate. They might just need to remove him.
“You see, now?” Rhaenyra gestured to the pieces, the pawns of the game, which shall be played one day. She didn’t have alliances, not enough, anyway.
“You shouldn’t have betrothed Laena’s girls to Jaecerys and Lucerys.” Naera shook her head. “Laena and Laenor are loyal to you. Now, in the stead of four alliances, you have none.” Again, the Valyrians’ customs had been concluded as their weakness. Rhaenyra could have easily swayed Jason Lannister by offering him one of the girls’ hands, and House Tully would not have been too difficult either.
“There is no point dwelling on it.” Yes. That is what Naera had always believed, hadn’t it? Aegon will make new alliances, with the Riverlands, or the—”
“He will marry Elysabeth Tyrell.” She had made sure of that by introducing them. Her old friend cared little for who she was married to, and she hadn’t hated Aegon, only found him a touch immature. “House Tyrell is loyal to me.” No. “To us, sister. There is no need for bloodshed.” This could be solved without war, and without death, without devastation, Naera was sure.
“That’s rich, coming from a knight.” A knight, yes, but how much honour did Naera really have? Since her anointment, she had run from her homeland, broken any oaths of loyalty, severed any promises of tradition, and had only returned for her family. She had killed, yes, but she had also spared. She had spared hundreds of lives, when riding on Wisestone, while living in Qarth, while wandering through Slaver’s Bay—dare she say, she had even saved lives.
“My life may be far from honourable, sister,” and she hated how threatening and bashing her tone sounded, “but I do not want to be known as a Kinslayer.” Kinslayer? Yet, the Greens would hardly hesitate in coming to be known as Kingslayers, if it got them the power.
No. The room seemed to darken to a shade of dusk turned to night, golden and yellow and carmine from the firelight. There were people—several people, faces she had never seen, and where Rhaenyra had just sat, now was a man with dark, short hair, and a warrior’s gruff—a general, probably, refined and aged and commanding. To his left, was a man with greying hair, a look of frustration calmed and restrained upon his face. To his right, was oh—oh, no.
The Red Woman, leaning on an unlit war table, gazing with impertinence, ruby pulsing lungs breathing calmly as thunder and lightning showered without. She was red, so red, her hair glowing copper and fire in the lights, her garbs the perfect shades of blood, and she watched, and she listened, silent, smiling red.
“That my brother Robert left no true borne heirs,” a young boy read, “that the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen and the girl Myrcella being borne of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Jaime Lannister. By right of—”
The man at the head of the table interrupted, “Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Call him what he is.” Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Kingslayer.
The squire corrected, “…and her brother Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim—”
Again, “Make it Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Whatever else he is, the man’s still a knight.” The others at the table watched the exchange with dull interest, intrigue or sheer boredom. Not Melisandre—no, the Red Woman watched with pride, with relief, with satisfaction.
“Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.” The squire’s ability to keep a straight face should be commended. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty.”
“When Eddard Stark learned the truth, he told only me. I’ll not make the same mistake. Send copies of that letter to every corner of the Realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.” The Arbor to the Wall? The Arbor—Dorne had been assimilated into the Kingdoms. “The time has come to choose. Let no man claim ignorance as an excuse.”
“Sister?”
Naera snapped back. No. Another dream, a waking dream, a vision. The men weren’t present, the candles or the light, or the darkness of the night, or the Kingslayer—Joffrey, Myrcella and…? What had been the last name—Lannisters, all of them. Cersei, and Jaime, the Kingslayer.
No.
“Sister, I have never asked anything of you.” Rhaenyra began, but her tone, her voice carried the words on. And yet, you have taken that which I needed most of all. Ha. She was still whining about Daemon and her long-lost love for their uncle. Her long love for their uncle. “Do I have your support?”
Do I have your support? In her claim, always. In a war that may come, always. In a war that need never happen, that could be avoided, without bloodshed, without sacrifice, without death, and the weakening of their House? No.
“Yes, sister.” But I have something else I need to do. She had her own war to fight, her own bidding to complete, her own Red Woman to find, and Kinvara, and Asshai, and so much more. She had a part to play, though she was aware that years shall pass before she can understand it with any honesty, and yet, the Lord of Light had blessed her, and she had no intentions of not repaying his kindness.
“When the time comes, yes,” House Targaryen must be in power when the Night came. If not, then the world shall end in ice, with no flame, and no power. “But not before that, Rhaenyra. I will not aid you in plotting a war decades before it is due, not when another way is still possible.” Another way is still possible. A road of diplomatic warfare, of manipulation and deceit. There was always another way, not always easier, and certainly never obvious, but consistently, there shall always be another way.
“Well,” Rhaenyra turned away, and it made Naera’s heart drop. No, sister. She didn’t agree—she wanted war, she wanted to right her wrongs, and Naera understood. It was her right, but she wouldn’t aid, she wouldn’t help her sister take the first step towards an end to this world.
This war of succession was never Naera’s burden to bear. She had another, deeper, more fearful, more dangerous predicament ahead of her—her bidding to the Lord, her work in return for his guidance, and perhaps it was to wage war—or, more likely, to prevent one.
“Enjoy your time at Dragonstone.”
Notes:
It is coming towards the end of part 1, I think. Do I need to speed things up a little, maybe? Tell me your thoughts on Rhaenyra.
Chapter 22: Green
Summary:
The first round of negotiations takes place, and Naera sees a difficult vision.
Notes:
AAYA ITS ALMOST ENDING GUYS.
Chapter Text
Naera had never seen her mother happy.
Every memory she had of Aemma Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, consort to King Viserys, was tainted by a dull, dragging, lengthened sadness. Every scene was only either pain or desolation, perhaps even contentment, but never, ever happiness.
She remembered being taught how to spell by her mother, and she remembered her frowning always when Rhaenyra appeared in her chambers late in time and smelled of dragons. She remembered taking a minute to join her mother, her dear mother, who always seemed tired, and frustrated, face often oiled with sweat, hair always greased but still frail and dry, weak, exhausted, done with life, with birthing, with losing at what she considered to be her only purpose.
Why had it been her only purpose? Why had her mother been made to work for years, strenuously, to provide her father with a boy, only to fail, wretched, debilitated and consumed of every last ounce of her strength and life? Why had she been left to believe that that was her lone purpose? Why had she been left to believe that she had failed in her duty?
Naera had heard once when she had been but seven name-days old, perhaps less, with clarity, maesters and maids rushing through the corridors of the Red Keep, running, frightened, and the atmosphere had been thick with worry, with tension, but also expectance.
She had learned to leave her doors cracked open after that one incident, eyes set at the doors in the darkness of the night, and the next day, as she laid in bed, cold and restless, she watched through the thin gap as maids carried away sheets and clothes drenched in blood, as maesters ran past their ages in search of herbs and medicines to soothe and comfort her mother, and she heard, her blood-chilling and heart hammering at its very pronouncement, the sound of her mother’s voice echoing across the Keep, wailing.
There was sorrow, panic, disappointment, and hurt in a way Naera knew she never wanted to understand, in Aemma’s weeping, her crying and screaming, for what felt like hours, and hours, and hours. Then, through the candlelight which illuminated the paths without her chambers, she had seen armour, heard the clink and clatter of men in metal suits, seen the flourish of a white cape running past the doors, and she had remained still—very, very still, panic rising in her at the prospect of being caught, of being discovered this way, for her gleaming, glowing eyes sparkled like beacons of light in the darkness of her rooms, but her efforts had been unneeded.
Her father passed her door without concern for her, only rushing to his wife, to comfort, to perhaps even shed a tear with her, but certainly to do no help. She had had some idea, even at that juvenile age, of what Viserys must have told Aemma. We shall try again. She also had some idea as to why Aemma only cried louder after that.
Milk of the poppy, or, better yet, the essence of nightshade would have been prescribed, to sedate the grieving queen, as half the court sympathized with her, and the other half mocked her. She wondered what her father would have done—he would have felt frustrated, perhaps, another failed one, for he had hardly ever mentioned the miscarriages. No, her father had only been optimistic, hopeful of the next, never dwelling on the losses, but ready to breed again, to watch his lady wife run herself raw for his wishes, and still never succeed.
Sure, she thought about all that now, but back then, she had been frightened—frightened of her mother, for her mother, and worried also, but the desire to slink out of bed and close the doors with firmness took over. She didn’t wish to see anymore, the passing of people—green, black and green again, shorter, with brown, and maids, again, and the occasional slow-pacing maester.
She was about to let the cold marbles touch her feet, when another round of maids rushed past, none turning to catch her, and once her hammering heart had stilled, she tried making for the door again.
Only, there were other sounds—a single person, quiet in steps, not a knight, certainly, for she didn’t hear any metal, but Naera decided to stay still anyway, now sat up on her bed, watching the strip of light between the doors, and the mellowing yellow and brown and gold and red, and then, the figure slowed to a full stop, blocking the light that entered her room in a blinding strike. Her mouth went dry. Now, she saw only darkness, and red, and the glow of the fire that escaped from above the dark figure to strike her straining eyes.
Silver hair, long, and sleek—Rhaenyra, she had expected at first, but as the figure endeavoured closer, she could see lines, and age, and height, and everything Rhaenyra was not. Naera didn’t move. Her blood went cold. She couldn’t move, unable in every way to displace herself from her awkward stance on the bed, sitting up in the darkness, watching the crack in the door, caught red-handed, for all she could believe.
Then, step, step, and another step, and she only vaguely recognised the face in the darkness, heart shuddering and hammering in her chest, panic rising. She could perceive the stench of wine, the air feeling dense and heavy around her, wet, hot and humid.
Sleep well, princess, she had heard the words whispered in a solemn, miserable, understanding voice unmistakably belonging to her uncle, and with a thrum and shudder, the door had been closed, leaving her in pitch black and darkness, and that had been the first time she had been terrified of the darkness, of its suffocating weight on her chest, of the uncertainty, and the panic, and the inability to draw a single breath that left her clawing at her surroundings and her neck, gasping, sweating, torn and destroyed.
Naera wondered why her thoughts went back to that day. It was a dark and stormy morning, the typhoon over Shipbreaker’s Bay having made its way north, and east, and it rained, with flashes of light and earth-shattering booms of thunder. Only, this time, every candle in her chambers was lit, despite the early morning hour.
She sat alone, in one of the guest quarters at Dragonstone, listening to the showers of rain, to the occasional clashes of lightning, to the flicker and crackle of flames beside her, around her, but she felt nauseated. It was a wretched feeling, present for several dawns, but never as strong, and she’d turn her eyes towards the chamber pot every other minute to assure herself that it was close enough, should she need it.
Naera was confused—she had hardly had anything strange to eat, and she didn’t feel ill, aside from the tire, and the ache, but the vague sensation that she had lost wind of something imperative, forgotten something necessary, was lingering in her mind, a half thought which she couldn’t fulfil, for her mind was racked around and open over the dreams of her mother’s screams, of her blood, of her loss, night, after night.
She could feel the burn of acid in her stomach, irritated, churning, she’d puke, she knew, while, her chest and shoulders were aching, everything pained, from morning to night, and in even those stupors during which she awoke to the darkness, she could only feel and recall the damned pain.
Mother. A gentle face, soft and aged, tired, but lovely, with her silver-white hair, her Valyrian lilac eyes, and though she always dressed in whites and roses and light colours, and though, Naera could seldom recall an incident when her mother had truly burned with anger—she hadn’t. There had been irritation, annoyance, certainly, at Rhaenyra, at her, at the maesters, or even Viserys, and most often, herself, she had never seen her mother angry.
She had only seen her sad, devastated, lost in agony, weak and infirm, legs drenched in red and brown blood, and twinges and strings of her child’s broken flesh, skin, vessels, even silver hair, and his head would always be bashed, torn, turned inside-out, with hollowed eyes pooled with red blood, and grey flesh and soft bones sticking out in all the wrong places, and dark, bloody, grimy skin, scales, and wings, like a bat’s—like a dragon’s, contorted and twisted and tugged and knotted into a bundle of flesh—Naera hurled into the chamberpot, voice racking against the back of her throat, burning with acid, with green bile and spitting out the remainders of her past meals.
Again, and again, until nothing was left in her, more tired than ever before, pained, aching, Naera rinsed herself off and settled back onto her bed, wrapped in warm sheets the colour of the forest in some cruel joke Rhaenyra had pulled again.
Her eyes pulled for sleep, dragging low, and her room felt oh, so warm, but she couldn’t—Xoreo Sorraar Daxon’s ship had arrived, she could see, and she needed to dine with the family if only to make for a half attempt to prove her affections.
“Princess Naera!” The Qartheen man bowed deep in her presence, greeting her with all honours expected, but she couldn’t make enough mind to smile back, settling for an uneasy expression. Her nausea hadn’t gone, and breaking fast with the rest of the family had made it even more tumultuous.
“Xoreo Sorraar Daxon.” She greeted him also. He was a man of great height, taller than perhaps any she had met in Westeros, with skin the colour of ebony and impeccable manners, dressed in embroidered silks and linens, green, with emeralds and other gems woven through him. Naera spared a glance at her sister, who only quirked an eyebrow with the same question she had dreaded.
“Qarth has gone dim in your absence, oh, great Silver Knight.” Politeness. That was the way of the Walled City of Qarth. Strong, refined, grating politeness, but she noted the brilliance of his voice—low, quiet, formal and trained with the common Westerosi tongue, but his words just sang in a way others didn’t. He was a native.
She reciprocated, bashing herself within over the brashness of her own words, “As I am sure it does for your losses.” She managed a smile this time.
Xoreo Sorraar gestured to one of his servers, who pulled forth and opened a decorated, varnished wooden case. Within, lay a necklace of the brightest, clearest emeralds and diamonds Naera had seen in recent years.
Her first instinct was to refuse—things don’t tend to go well when she received gifts, Naera reminded herself. The last gift of her acceptance had been…oh, right. The Valyrian Steel Dagger Daemon had gifted her. She had dropped it in the Godswood where he had presented her with it, before her departure. She couldn’t bear to hold it—it felt heavy, dragging her down, exhausting her more than she already had been—and she couldn’t muster enough calmness to return it to him herself without embedding it thoroughly in his heart.
“It would be my honour if I could—” Naera nodded at his half-spoken request, turning and gathering her silver braids for her Qartheen visitor to clasp the jewellery around her. Rhaenyra watched the exchange with civility, a look of disinterest, and a plainness one could easily mistake for misery, but Naera wouldn’t make that mistake. Her sister watched with a muted gaze, yes, but she knew that her mind ran rampant, above and beyond, with thoughts, with concerns, with ideas as to how it shall fit into her scheme.
Naera turned away from her sister to thank Xoreo Sorraar when her gaze grew into one of disdain. Green. Her primary bother was that she could hardly blame her sister for hating the necklace and her acceptance—it was a play on their bond, the slow grazing of a jaw against their sisterhood which had once been forged in fire, blood and loss. Naera only wondered how long it’d last.
Avidius walked in then, his golden eyes staring through his amber-gold mask, through the careful patterns and slits in his mask, and the red, and the black, and Naera dreaded the glance he threw her sister. He had another with him, a paltry, underfed, tanned woman, her gaze focused below, following a step behind him. A slave. He took a seat, and the woman stood behind him, eyes downset still, hands clasped together, her droughty hair cut short and wispy at the edges. She only dared for a glance every now and again, snapping back every time she caught Naera staring back.
“Dārilaros Rhaenyra, Dārilaros Naera,” he opted for his most familiar language, gesturing to the woman with him, no, the slave woman with him, “Ñuha ydrassis.” My translator. Naera wanted to laugh. He spoke the common tongue well enough. He hadn’t brought her for that—it would have been easier to ask either her, or even Rhaenyra to help him, if he had the need.
No, it was a gesture to give away his true intentions, to remind them all that just because they dwelt in Westeros for these dealings, the laws in use, the customs in question, were still Eastern.
“Let us begin.” Rhaenyra gestured for them to all take seats around the round table. Round table. Naera watched with narrowed eyes, as Rhaenyra set herself close to Avidius, forming a block, a side, a faction, dressed in black and red and metal and flames. Naera spared a glance at Xoreo, at the green and gold, and at herself, and she couldn’t crush the shame and also the ire that befell her.
Why was she even here? Naera chose not to question that aloud. She also chose not to question why all parties were equal—this was the settlement of a dispute, and the arbiter should sit separately, the three parties involved should sit with the order, following a system, but oh, how could she ask?
Xoreo began with a sugared voice laced with ornaments of flattery, “My Princess, may I have the honour to begin?” The translator leaned down, whispering the words in a voice too quiet to Avidius, but Naera was sure that she heard the same shrill alternation of voices, the same stilted tunes of songs and horrors, nights and terrors. The tongue of the Asshai’i.
Naera nodded, allowing Xoreo to present her with two separate notebooks—naval agreements over sailing rights, as expected. The first was of Xoreo Soraar’s own contract with the port of the Blackwater, with the dates and days circled with clarity of its formation and arrangements. His fleet was set to sail past the Blackwater, past the very seas over which the carnage had occurred, on the seventeenth day of the month, while the second, unmistakably that of Avidius, marked the date of passage as the nineteenth. Naera spared a glance at Avidius, to his twinkling, burning eyes through the amber mask. He had no reason to cross their paths—he had been impatient.
“My Princess,” she couldn’t blame Xoreo for the confused words he battered out as Rhaenyra pulled the records towards herself. “…I present proof that my agreement with the Blackwater authorities preceded the agreement by Lord Avidius.”
The translator relayed that over, and Avidius hummed low and quiet in his own mother tongue, rather than in Valyrian. He was too quiet, however, for Naera to comprehend his true words over the distance, and resorted to listening to whatever the woman said, “According the reports Lord Avidius has received, his sailors had passed by the area on the fixed date. It was the ships of Xoreo Soraar which had impeded.” It would be difficult to provide proof of who was where especially on the sea.
The Qartheen wasn’t demented by the accusation, instead, he remained calm and adjusting his emerald green garbs, he answered, “I can assure your highness that ships had not been delayed. These…” he set forth another record book, this time, from the port of Pentos, “…are records which state that seven of my ships departed the port on the fourteenth, which would bring their arrival at the sight on the seventeenth.”
“Forgive me, Ser Xoreo,” Rhaenyra began, “Matters such as this are difficult to prove, given that there are no impartial parties as first witnesses.” Naera couldn’t help but glare. The rubies on Rhaenyra’s necklace seemed to twinkle and sway with each word she took, coming horrendously close to the glowing pulses she was familiar with. Avidius relayed another few sentences to his translator.
She spoke, “I agree with the Princess of Dragonstone. There is no true proof, other than…” she quirked an eyebrow, her cheeks wrinkling in thought. “…other than what the Lord of Light can provide us.” He wouldn’t. Avidius tilted his head to the side, gold and bronze reflecting off the candle lights. He seemed to ask a silent question, one not understood by any other present there. She didn’t want to know what he asked.
“Well,” Xoreo Sorraar rid the table of the records, and Naera could see him straining against his smile. In a delicate voice, one drenched and soaked in kindness and formalities, “It was also the Asshai’i who attacked my ships first.”
“It was your men who raped the innocent passengers on my ship.”
“Preposterous.” Xoreo Soraar argued, “It was the Asshai’i, by all means.” Naera was convinced—it simply wasn’t in their nature. A lone man could have committed a heinous act, or two, or a group, but for ships full of sailors raised and born in Qarth to abandon their key beliefs were radical, impossible. “It was your men who sunk three ships full of jewels in retaliation for crimes we did not commit.”
“Do you consider my amber less valuable?” Avidius leaned back in his chair, his mask hiding any semblance of anger, while his words poured filthy of it.
“I believe that the matters of whatever occurred are delicate,” Rhaenyra turned to Avidius, “We should concern ourselves with the compensations only, as it is impossible to know what truly occurred.” Undermining. That was preposterous. To believe that the entire string of events could be dismissed as simply incorrect—the compensation for both sides should depend on what occurred, and who started it, not just who suffered more losses. What is justice then, if all faults, instigations and crimes could just be dismissed?
What the lord of Light can tell us. Right. Avidius expected her to trust the flames with this answer.
No.
No, no.
She wouldn’t risk it. Visions could be misinterpreted, and without reason—the truth was obvious. It couldn’t have been the Qartheen.
Rhaenyra’s purple eyes wouldn’t leave Naera. They stared and stared, and stared, mapping the path of the emeralds on her, tracing the signs of tire and exhaustion she so clearly displayed. There was something about that gaze, the same half glare she had given her, full of disdain, full of error and fault and patronisation, disdain, distrust, disbelief—Naera knew those looks too well, but to see them on her sister, her blood, her friend, churned an ugly sensation in her stomach, growing the layer of nausea that she had nearly forgotten of, adding to it.
“Very well,” Xoreo turned a concerned eye to Naera, who had a hand loosely clasped over her mouth, trying to swallow the urge to hurl her meal out.
Avidius turned to Rhaenyra, speaking the shrill ululating words to her, directly, waiting for the woman to explain, “I have suffered a loss adding to nearly ten and seven thousand Westerosi gold, the loss of eight and ten invaluable lives of trusted sailors, and more, on the journey to the far west.” Rhaenyra didn’t correct him, didn’t even bother an explanation or a glance as Avidius expected her to pass judgement on the matter.
Xoreo looked troubled—Naera was the arbiter, but by rank, Rhaenyra was the greater party, the heir to the Iron Throne, the older sister, and yet, his loyalties lay with her, naturally, as she was one of his rulers—one of the Thirteen of Qarth. It pained her, to see him flip eyes between the two sisters, then to his reports, for he didn’t deserve to be dragged into an affair as unfair, or cursed as this was. But Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra had decided on this, she had declared Naera an enemy—her sister, her friend, her Queen, the reason she stayed at all—betrayal? Is that what she had accused Naera of?
It seemed the other way around.
“What of you, Xoreo Sorraar Daxon?” She asked in clipped, strangled words, the familiar burn of an ill stomach showing through.
“My loss in merchandise add up to two and six thousand gold, had two distinguished passerbys defiled by the enemy, and lost nine and ten lives, all from the great city of Qarth.” All from Qarth. He was trying to invoke some form of guilt in her, some sympathy, some responsibility and pride to her land, but he didn’t realise that her sister was doing a much better job of that.
Greens and Blacks, faction and faction, and she was being undermined, again. Undermined. Undermined. Undermined. Political tool—set aside, unloved, uncared, unremembered.
Unbowed, unbent, unbroken? A dazzling twilight, and winding, wrapping, stretching, arms, gazing at the summer clear night sky, at the stars, at the moon, warm, delightful, poisoned and pleasured.
“From the Arbor…” The dark-haired man’s voice returned. It faded, mumbling, dragging, blurring, with a crackling, breaking, shattering boom of thunder on the beaches.
A Flea Bottom accent called, a sailor, a rogue, a smuggler, “Many have already declared for him—Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly—”
Then, all familiar, warm and tempered as a fire, but sharp, with an edge, with danger, and a burn, Melisandre called, “Stannis does not need to beg this lord or that lord for support. The Lord of Light stands behind him.”
Stannis does not need to beg this lord or that lord—Stannis. Stannis Baratheon.
A man named Stannis Baratheon—no. No.
No.
Naera stood, her wooden chair screeching against the floor, and she made towards the door, hand clasped over her mouth, her head bursting within.
“Princess?” Xoreo Soraar stood with her, shrill, loud, and dizzying with the sound, as drastic showers and destructive rains hammered against the seas and stone, salt, and sand.
“Naera?” She heard Rhaenyra’s concerned voice scream, but Naera’s knees had already surrendered, her ankles striking the floors, collapsed, unconscious.
Chapter 23: Visenya
Summary:
Daemon speaks to some folk at Oldtown. Rhaenyra learns of Naera's health.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’ve devoted your life to studying hers, yes?” The flight to Oldtown had not taken long, but the Hightower flags hung on every last wall of the Citadel made him wish to utter a quiet dracarys to his mount. From the doors of the old building, to the walls of the library which he could peek, to every last Maester stationed within, had something or the other of Green.
Calm.
For Naera, he reminded himself, confident that if he could learn about her life, it would surprise her, even delight her, perhaps. He had given up on her writings. Caraxes could ink his thoughts better.
“Well, I mean—” the three maesters at the Citadel Viserys had spoken about were less than intriguing. They were young, barely in training, with perhaps two links on their chains and half a lifetime of learning under their belts. The first was the most forthcoming, Orphes, or some other strange name he couldn’t care to recall. The blond boy had nary an accent, probably a commoner from the West or the Rivers, but he was half Daemon’s age, probably even younger than his wife, and a very nervous lad.
He had already sweated through his garments and was jittering and flapping in his seat as does a drugged raven. Daemon didn’t like him, his only thought being perhaps that the lad should return to whatever mole cavern he crawled out of. He probably shouldn’t speak that out loud.
“Yes,” the second stated definitively, turning to check with his fellows, to remind them that yes, they were. He was a bastard, it was obvious in the way he struggled for recognition before Daemon, a Waters, probably, judging from the stiff-set shoulders and formal stature which were indicative of a childhood spent with septas and septons in the Crownlands. Daemon couldn’t help his expression of disgust upon the boy who reminded him far too much of brilliant and charismatic and intelligent Lord Highcock, and his whore of a daughter who had colonised every square inch of Oldtown, seemingly. Even his tea was served in green cups dotted with gold. Was this his bitch niece’s tea party? Ha. Alicent would probably stoop that low to acclimate her children to their faction, so it might as well be. Creyolin, Daemon thought the Waters boy’s name was, was still talking. He dismissed him.
The third was the most peculiar of them all—his skin had a tannish bronze tinge to it, and he did not speak, but only sat still and uninvolved, curling a deft finger along the fraying edges of the leather-bound book he had carried with him. He seemed at least half as qualified as a maester should be, for he was the only one with his chain, and Daemon had counted seven links on it thus far, making him an acolyte, at least, but judging by the dark maroons and mustards he wore, he had not taken any oaths yet. The acolyte shrugged at Waters’ words. An adult, at least.
“I primarily study her times in…in Qarth, Pentos, Volan—the Free Cities, your—my prince,” Orphes corrected, sweating and stuttering out whatever he could. By the old Gods.
“I concern myself with her time in the Dothraki’s Grass Sea, the Shadowlands, and…oh, and Yi Ti, whenever she shall decide to continue her journeys.” She shan’t, Daemon would have corrected a fortnight ago. Now, he wasn’t so sure he reserved the right.
“And you?” Daemon asked the acolyte, who pursed his lips with an air of what he could only describe as arrogance to him.
“Her childhood, and all her own works in Lys and Naath.” Creyolin responded for the acolyte, fearing that his long silences would anger the Rogue Prince. He wasn’t completely wrong. “You see, my prince, Princess Naera had changed after the Shadowlands, though I couldn’t fault her for it, and she focused more on the world, after that. Her…more ridiculous decisions had slackened.”
“Ridiculous decisions?” Daemon was amused, even if the three students didn’t see it that way. It was strange to him, to think of his wife, his niece, his Naera, cold, calculated and thoughtful, to make decisions on impulse.
“Forgive me—I did not mean it a—”
“No, go on,” he couldn’t help his laugh, “What has she done?”
“What has she not done?” Orphes had calmed down, glad to turn to matters of research and notation, “She fought in the pits of Mereen for weeks rather than looking for an escape, she smuggled ill slaves out of Yunkai—” Yunkai. That explains the threats. “She once sailed all the way to Lorath for an apple.” Sailed to Lorath for an apple?
“Oh, she once convinced the Dothraki into burning her at the stake for her crimes along with another ‘witch’ they had found, and helped her escape also.” Ah. The Dothraki feared witches. Naera’s silver hair would not have helped on that account, he supposed, but to convince them to burn her at the stake? Brilliant. Fire didn’t burn a dragon—genius. Daemon wondered, however, who had been the witch saved?
“Oh, you must never forget her deeds in Qarth!” Orphen waved insane gestures with his hands, and the group roared in laughter and awe. Even the acolyte managed a word of agreement, and Daemon recognised the accent as distinctly Dornish.
“Yes, that was perhaps the greatest political coup of our lifetimes!” Creyolin exclaimed, “Princess Naera had, you see, gained control of some grand wealth, though the details are hardly known yet, we await her journals here at the Citadel.” Daemon regretted not bringing them along. This group of young book humpers could probably make sense of her etched scrawlings which had started to resemble with greater, and greater replication, the patterns of dirt on the coasts of Dragonstone as Daemon recalled them. “She got into a tiff with the Third district ruler, and usurped his office. From the rumours and hearsay, we’ve patched together a rough account, but—”
“But we need her journals.” The Dornish man interrupted, “When can we have them?” His voice sounded deep and rugged, luxuried, and demanding.
Daemon didn’t know whether he should call it contempt. He only explained, “The Princess has sailed to Dragonstone. You must question her on that yourself.”
“Ah, the—no, Qarth was not her best, ‘Olin, it was the bloodriders!” The Bloodriders?
“Dothraquoy,” Creyolin nodded, “Princess Naera is a warrior to the last, my Prince,” he addressed, “Then, there is also Stygai, the Heart of the Shadow. Any person without some skill with the blade would never survive those parts of the world.” The Shadowlands. Daemon did not wish to think of those parts, and who would have surely accompanied his lady wife in navigating them.
“Her time in the Stepstones is not to be trifled with.” The Dornish acolyte noted. Stepstones. Daemon’s face grimed at the memory. Crabfeeder. The Sea Snake. His brother’s patronizing letter sending support. Viserys had never helped him when he had asked for it, only instead looking for ways to demolish his value and prestige by patronising his efforts. Viserys had made a joke out of him, but so had Naera. She had understood him, back then, even, that he’d abandon the battle sooner or later, but they still never spoke of the matter. King’s Landing’s courts, one in which a lord’s count of whores can’t stay secret for longer than a week had been ordered silent to protect her fucking reputation when she returned.
It was clear who Viserys cared for more. His sweet, his perfect, his brilliant and adventurous knight who wouldn’t ‘waste’ her life, but would instead fuck half the free cities’ prie—okay. Daemon clenched his eyes close. He’d need to watch that temper, if he was to ever regain her favour or affection, if he was ever to touch her again without it being against her will, if he was to ever make her a mother, as she was born to be.
“Well,” Creyolin nodded, “What would you like to know, Prince Daemon?” That is why he came, yes. Then, this trio of young boys had ambushed him with insane tales of increasing ridicule, and the good old Dornish fucker had distracted him with the Stepstones. No, he needed to turn back to her childhood. That, sadly enough, meant confronting his failures also.
Burned at the stake? Wouldn’t look for an escape? Political coup in Qarth? Led the Dornish Victory over the Stepstones.
For all his crypticity, the Dornish man, who identified himself as Iridin Sand—two bastards studying the life of a disinherited princess; the irony did not escape him—had extensive records on his niece’s life, from the very day she arrived in Dorne to the day she escaped on Wisestone, in frightening, eerie detail.
He claimed that her journalling tendencies had rooted from the day Queen Aemma passed, which lined up with Daemon’s own accounts of his wife, his beautiful, intelligent, powerful wife with a god-awful hand, escaping to crypts and passageways to write, and write, and write. The girl had probably known her written word better than her speaking. After her fleeing, the journals had been entrusted to Iridin Sand, who himself staunchly refused to reveal his parentage to any who would ask—Daemon had suspicions, perhaps the father of Prince Qoren and Raiden, for that would make the most sense out of his story.
Raiden. Naera wrote incessantly about him—long, passionate verses she would never utter to the darkness today—long, passionate, loving phrases she wouldn’t speak to him, ever.
Dornish cunts, he had rolled his eyes before swiping past the entirety of those transcriptions, but then, he read, and he read some more, about her training, about her life at Sunspear, about her intended.
Daemon was nothing like Raiden, he knew immediately. He was not kind, he was not gentle, he was a dragon, he was fire made flesh, god made human, but the scrawling letters sent to Rhaenyra of which only records existed at the Citadel, made him question whether it be possible that Naera didn’t want a dragon.
He read accounts of rumours, of songs by court fools of loving gazes and teases, of a familiarity Naera had expressly refused to grant him, of passion and pleasure shared between her and her prince whom he couldn’t bring himself to disrespect or call names by account of his hollowing heart, and of the first half of her life, he had never spared a thought to.
King Viserys Targaryen, at the behest of his second wife, Queen Alicent Hightower, had sent the younger of his two daughters by his first wife, Queen Aemma, to Dorne, as a means to create a lasting peace between the Six Kingdoms and Dorne. Princess Naera, the girl in question, was nine name-days old at the time, and was betrothed to Prince Raiden, the heir to Sunspear.
King Viserys made it very clear that this betrothal was not a means of acclimating the Dornish into his territory, but instead just a way to calm the century-long tension between them.
Princess Naera had taken less than a year to warm to her Dornish Prince, whom she often described as having been “plucked from a little girl’s dreams” later in her life. Many across the Seven Kingdoms compared her to Visenya, in part for her prowess with battle and combat, having been trained by a Braavosi sword master at Sunspear. She was also well-read, trained in etiquette and described by her septas to be bright, curious and inquisitive.
The Realm was glad for the Princess’ resemblance of Visenya, over Rhaenys, for the wounds inflicted nearly a century prior had far from healed. Dorne had yet to recover completely from its ruins in the First Dornish War, but Prince Raiden Martell had been incredibly involved, along with his betrothed Princess, in the latter steps of rebuilding the Sands.
The match was, unlike most political marriages, one forged in the seven Heavens, for it was as though every god had blessed the union. Prince Raiden was calm, compared to the fire of the Targaryen Princess, and his genius that was spent in the planning of trade and infrastructure nearby the Water Gardens was best countered by the Princess’ own flair for execution, brilliance and spontaneity, but combined, they owned a pragmatic outlook on the growth of their land—and it was their land, as the Princess had all but forgotten her Crownlands’ heritage.
Unlike Princess Rhaenyra, daughter and heir of Viserys, who was often called the Realm’s Delight, and was by all means, Rhaenys returned, strictly Valyrian, and refused to adopt any other culture into her life, such as the sailing might of her husband, Lord Laenor Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark and son of the Sea Snake, Princess Naera revelled in Dorne with a talent for adaptation. Within two turns, perhaps less, she had taken to loose silks and a culture of oiled clay lamps and scorched sands and embroidered suits.
The Princess’ first major act in Dornish politics was when she advised the then ruling Prince to support the Triarchy against her uncle, Prince Daemon, and Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, in the Battle for the Stepstones. She is on record as having stated in open court that “The Triarchy is to win, it is known, and Dorne shall win with them.” In response to word of this reaching the Capital, King Viserys was said to have been horrified and conflicted, agonizing over whether sending his daughter to Sunspear had been an incorrect decision. Queen Alicent and her father, the then Hand of the King, had assured him against that by stating that it was, by nature, Princess Naera’s fault to guilt over, as she had ‘betrayed’ her blood.
In response to this carnage of her reputation, the ruling Prince of Dorne had announced his intention of knighting the Princess for her skill after the war. This had only widened the rift between the families rather than narrowing it, as had been hoped. After the War for the Stepstones was over, the Triarchy lost, Princess Naera advised the Dornish to make their move on the Stepstones, leading four assaults herself, which eventually gained them significant control over the Narrow Sea and the Disputed Lands.
Following this, Princess Naera came to be known as the Silver Knight, acknowledged even by King Viserys once the situation had calmed, and officially declared as Visenya Returned. There was talk, most prominently in Dorne, where her popularity had no ends, that Prince Daemon, the wielder of Queen Visenya’s Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister should yield it to Princess Naera on account of her victory in the Stepstones. Prince Daemon is said to have never been made aware of those rumours, strangely enough.
Princess Naera’s second major political victory came in the form of the Hall of Flames, which was a mirrored audience hall constructed under her supervision. Any commoners or lords who wished to hold an audience with the pair could attend during mornings. The Hall of Flames was also a performance hall by evenings, and it was extremely popular also, as thousands of hand-sized mirrors lined every wall, and even the ceiling of the room, and when properly placed candles or lamps were lit, the Hall of Flames sparkled and dazzled as a flame. Thus, it was a building which raised funds for the Sandship, and Prince Raiden did not spare any compliment or profession of love over her success, apparently enamoured and devoted to his soon-to-be lady wife.
King’s Landing’s opinions on this are disputed.
Dorne looked ahead towards a bright future, as Princess Naera and Prince Raiden approached the age for marriage, but, as every god had blessed the union, so had Death. Within a fortnight of their intended date of marriage, Prince Raiden passed in illness.
Thus, in just a fortnight, the first alliance between House Targaryen of Valyria and the Crownlands of Westeros and House Nymeros Martell of the Rhoyne and the Dornish Peninsula, came to an end.
Princess Naera, devastated over the death of her love and betrothed, refusing to marry his younger brother, Prince Qoren Martell whom she had practically raised, and hateful of her father’s wish for her to return to King’s Landing and wed Lord Jason Lannister instead, was forced by her own desire for freedom, to flee Dorne on dragonback and abandon her written fate.
Dorne suffered immensely for this loss, and so did the Targaryens, until the Princess returned eight years after and was arranged to wed her uncle, Prince Daemon. It is notable that the Princess defeated the Prince in single combat set for first blood in a lance tourney on their wedding day.
Targaryen and Martell: A Comprehensive History of the Alliances and Wars
between the Two Foreign Ruling Houses of Westeros
by Iridin Sand (and later, Petyr Flowers and Oberyn Martell)
“Princess?”
“Come, Maester. How is she?” Gerardys didn’t seem glad as he walked into her solar, as he spared a surveying glance over the corridor, and then firmly shut the door behind himself. The healing Maester of Dragonstone was a man Rhaenyra trusted with great sincerity since the time she had flown him to King’s Landing to treat her father’s laceration by amputating two of his fingers, rather than by cauterising or removing the dead flesh, as had been suggested by his attendants.
Gerardys was a young man, compared to others in his position. With his youth and station, came promise of his knowledge. Yet, when he approached Rhaenyra, his ash back hair seemed to wilt, and his face seemed to grey, as though he had wandered the rain for moons and moons. Rain, rain, rain. It hadn’t stopped for hours, and the thunder, and the lightning, and the winds didn’t help either.
“Weak. Asleep.” Rhaenyra recalled the time her sister had collapsed, reasonless, bleeding from the eyes, the ears, the nose, in the Dragonpits, all those fortnights ago. Mellos had failed to find any fault with her, but she trusted Gerardys better with matters of health and ailments than she ever could Mellos. Well, Naera had also insisted on her wellness, and little could be done to treat a patient who does not wish to be treated.
“Have you found a cause?”
“Not yet,” hopeful, “but the maids have noted that she barely ate since she came here.”
“She seemed tired.” Rhaenyra shook her head. “She barely ate at the Capital also.” All those dinners, and she had seemed tired and absorbed throughout the latter ones, after her collapse. She had never noticed her sister’s failing health, had she?
“I do not believe there is anything to fear. She shall soldier through it admirably,” I hope, he did not say. Rhaenyra simply knew that to be what remained unsaid. No matter how small a problem could be, there was never a sworn future in which all would be well. Yet, Naera was strong, she was a warrior, after all, better than Daemon, who many had agreed to be the best of the lot, and perhaps even better than Ser Cole the defector, if they ever come to cross swords.
Rhaenyra bit down, hard. They would come to cross swords, her hopes were. If there was any man who could defeat her chosen Kingsguard, her teenage infatuation, the sworn sword of the Green Queen, it would be her blood, the Visenya to her Rhaenys, her sister, and her first friend, her lifelong bond, even if they had grown distant. Rhaenyra wouldn’t let her Visenya leave her, by any means necessary.
Ha. Though, did that make an Aegon out of Daemon? She thought not.
“Princess, I must say, however that I suspect the cause may be a matter of the mind.” A matter of the mind? Mellos sounded quite sure, for it to be a mere suspect. He was confident enough to present it before her—he was sure, almost.
“Are you saying that she’s gone insane?” Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. It runs in the family, since the days of Maegor, since the days of Visenya, of Daenys, or even Aenar. Targaryens aren’t always sane, aren’t always godly and divine.
“I cannot say,” Gerardys pressed his lips into a thin line, “I can attempt to get a word from the maids at the Capitol and Grandmaester Mellos, but…”
Rhaenyra nodded, “The storm.” The storm had come, shattering, shaking, blowing and destroying. Ravens would struggle, and ships would sink. Dragons could fly above the storm clouds, they could soar near the heavens, even.
No.
It hadn’t gotten to that yet.
“Do it.” Ravens would have to do. Ravens. Hadn’t Naera ever said something about Ravens? No, that had been Helaena. They were starting to resemble each other immensely.
Ha.
Gerardys hadn’t left—he lingered, averting his sullen gaze, until Rhaenyra questioned him on it.
“There is another thing, princess.” Hesitation. Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows. A truly awful thing, then, if even the Maester is aware that it shall be difficult on Rhaenyra. Was Naera truly that unwell? Had she gone blind, would she never awaken?
Rhaenyra’s shoulders shuddered at the thought, the very idea of another sibling dead at the hands of the Gods pouring wax onto the flames of anger and fear in her stomach.
“I have reason to believe that…”
Calming her now trembling jaw, she commanded, “Go on, Maester.” She would handle it.
“Princess Naera is with child.”
Notes:
dun dun dun?
Chapter 24: Confession
Summary:
Naera accepts her truth, and swears her allegiance
Notes:
So
Year-long hiatus on its end, for like a month. I will try, seriously, really, try to get it done by April.
Thank you, to everyone who read this and left comments. Your support in invaluable.
Chapter Text
“Where is the princess?”
Naera opened her eyes with a start, cold, harsh fog surrounding her. A distinct chill ran down her spine, flowing in short, quick bursts, as though the winter flood had come to the Riverlands. The sky was tanned, the colour of burnt sugar, dusted in mist.
Scales whipped past—pink, stained gold, scarred and leathery, humongous wings with a screeching presence. She could smell smoke, ash, and the salty seas. With a gasp, Naera blinked away the haziness. The rushing of waves greeted her ear, the sight of cavernous rocks around a stone corridor. Dragonstone. She stood on the passageway to the fortress from the sandy beach, half a dozen armoured knights behind her.
Daemon stood beside her, dressed in the finest, darkest black she had seen—black as though the terrorful night had embraced his visage—and his hand crawled along Dark Sister’s hilt as though the very air held threats. His face resembled a scowl, his shoulders tensed, but he glanced at her, and his eyes took some relief from her calm. He nodded, absent, catching his lack of control.
Her sword was in her hand, safely within its scabbard, and her Valyrian Steel dagger dangled at her waist. She thought of the day he had gifted it to her, that day in the hedges when he’d proclaimed wanting to know her, admitted his desire for a successful marriage, his desire for her, against her every belief,
Daemon stared upwards, hardly shocked by her presence—as though they hadn’t warred over their last meeting as terribly as she recalled. Silver clasps held together his cloak, and Naera felt the familiar, long-faded urge to rip it apart, to hear the clinking of its metal against another’s, to feel him as a part of herself, however fleetingly so. She followed his eyes to focus on the dragon that flew overhead, pink and red, with a long snout—Syrax, she recognised, as well as the flapping black cloak of her rider. Rhaenyra, white hair twirling in the wind, clothes as dark as Daemon, with a flicker of gold on her brow.
Syrax circled the air, humming her song which was but a battle cry, and Naera felt a sense of urgency despite her languor. She felt the danger Daemon did, the tightening of the air, the crispness of their conduct.
When Naera’s eyes dropped, so did her heart. Otto Hightower stood a few paces before her, eyes trained upwards, with a dull hunch that suggested fear. A man with a white cloak stood before him, another dozen with green following.
Syrax thundered down on the corridor behind Otto Hightower and his swords, Rhaenyra slipping off her mount and crossing the sentry to stand a pace in front of Naera and Daemon. Syrax growled as Otto stepped forth again. Naera’s eyes trained in on Jaehaerys’ crown on Rhaenyra’s head.
It was a ring of gold and silver, engraved with the seals of every major House of Westeros—the Stark Wolf of the North, the Tyrell Rose of the Reach, the Lannister Lion, the Baratheon Stag. Naera could only recall having seen it on her father, and her heart shuddered at the implication.
Viserys was dead.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto began, solemn, as though the fact that Rhaenyra stood at Dragonstone while soldiers in green accompanied the Hightower snake didn’t mean what was apparent. A coup had taken place. Otto looked distressed, as though the day didn’t spell out his long-sought glory, the fruit of his every ambition.
“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” her sister corrected, “and you all are traitors to the Realm.”
“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace is offering terms,” Otto tried, testing the waters, as though the knights with polished swords and archers with deadly aim that watched him were not enough indication of their folly in trying to make amends. Still, he spoke, “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son Jacaerys, upon your death.”
Naera stepped forth, her sword growing light in her hand, as though a single stroke wouldn’t hurt. “Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon, after the death of your lord husband, Lord Laenor.” Daemon tutted, nearly silent, but Naera heard him. Rhaenyra listened to Otto’s words, devoid of the fury the fire had promised. She listened to Otto’s words, not truly considering them, but respecting their attempts—regal, in the very literal sense.
Emboldened by the lack of response, Otto spoke louder, “Your nieces and nephews, the children of your sister Princess Naera, will be allowed return to their home or residence at Dragonstone or King’s Landing as respected members of the family, and will also be given places of high honours—your son Joffrey, and nephew Aegon the younger as Kingsguards upon their coming of age, your nephew Viserys, the obvious younger, as the King’s squire, and your niece Rhaenys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children.
Daemon said, “I would rather feed my sons and daughters to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” Their children.
Naera spoke, without thought, without intention, “Do you consider us cowards if we tread in the strength of Dragonstone, Lord Hightower?” Her voice was bold, strong, hardly aged and mocking, “This is where the Conqueror planned his war, and it is where we shall win ours, should the day arrive.”
“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto said with finality, a touch of the pride, of the malice leaking through his perfumed visage, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a Septon of the faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” He smiled, ugly, and the world saw him for what he was. A man whose ambition had been fulfilled. His blood on the Iron Throne. “Then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—Houses that have also received and are at present considering generous terms from their King.”
Rhaenyra spoke, for the first time, her white hair flickering with the air. Her voice was cold, “Stark, Tully and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.”
“Stale oaths will not place you on the Iron Throne, princess,” Otto took silent, leering steps closer. Naera tightened her grip on her sword. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”
Rhaenyra ran forth, faster than the wind, and grasped the old man’s cloak. She plucked off his golden pin, the hand with its pointed finger, and said, “You are no more hand than Aegon is King,” she tossed it off the side, down to the crashing waves below the stone passage. “Fucking traitor.” The green soldiers inched closer, swords at the ready. Rhaenyra looked at Otto through her lashes, daring his hand.
The red-caped knights of her own company stepped forth, but Naera stopped them with a raised hand. They were not so foolish.
Otto called for the Grandmaester, that tattered old man who called himself Mellos. The grey-robed man husk of a man offered him a page, old and folded, fraying at its edges.
“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered, glancing at Naera for a clue. She kept her eyes trained at Rhaenyra, at her locks of silver, at the golden crown that rested on her head as though she was borne for it. She was, Naera reminded herself. Rhaenyra was born to rule.
Rhaenyra studied the page out of sight, but Otto spoke, “Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other.” Rhaenyra’s shoulders hunched, hesitant. “No blood need to spilt so the realm can be carried on in peace,” he glanced above Rhaenyra, at Naera, at Daemon, at their primed swords and unbreakable resolve. Rhaenyra was queen, and there was to be no question of it. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”
Daemon answered, “She can have her answer right now stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce,” and the shrill sound of steel against steel rang resonant in the air, as all drew their swords except Naera. The maester stepped away frantically as Daemon continued, Dark Sister gleaming red in the twilight, and Naera couldn’t help but imagine running a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, pressing a fleeting peck on his cheek, holding his hand despite the war that raged on. “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” Syrax groaned in warning, wings flapping behind the green escort. They were surrounded—swords facing them, a dragon behind, with a hundred feet fall into jarred rock and crashing waves to the sides.
Rhaenyra clutched the page still, and Naera watched her hands tremble. No.
“Udligon issa sepār mēre másino, jorrāelagon mandia,” Tell me just one thing, dear sister, she said this without knowing, as though she was a mere spectator to the event, not an involved actor at all. Naera pulled her sword out, brandished steel from the Shadowland, polished to the colour of silver, like her name, like her legacy.
“Gaomagon ao jaelagon ērinnon isse bisa vīlībāzma?”
Do you want this war won?
Do you want the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms, the rule that is your birthright?
Rhaenyra caught her failing self, pushed away the sentiment she had long been cursed with, and stood straight, head held high, the golden crown gleaming.
“Rūsīr perzys se ānogar.”
With Fire and Blood.
She crushed the old parchment in her grasp, felt the page wrinkle and tear against her skin, and tossed it into the waves.
Rhaenyra turned back, walking towards her knights, and Naera saw a hint of something different in Daemon’s eyes, an admiration uncontainable, a love aged and solidified until it had become a part of him. His hair, nearly reaching his shoulders, flapped with every turn of the wind, a smile etched on his unaging face. Naera felt the all-familiar ache in her chest she had grown to associate with only a certain woman, but with this came a wave of fire, a flame of courage. Naera trailed after Rhaenyra, the knights parted to make her way, and Daemon took her side again, his arm going around her shoulders, lips brushing past her ear.
As they began their ascent into the fortress, Rhaenyra spoke, clear and loud over the hanging air, “Dracarys.”
With a roar untethered, Syrax breathed fire—raw, hot, magical flame unto the green escort, embellishing their towered shields and silken cloaks with the might and wrath of Valyria.
But within Naera’s mind resounded not the screams of Otto Hightower. Instead, it was those names—those three names, again, and again, and again. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children. Daemon’s children.
A sound pulled her from her musings, eyes snapping open to white calicoes and stony roofs. A storm raged outside that same fortress, thunder, lightning and wind clamouring against the windows. The sound returned, a deep knocking on wood.
“Come,” she uttered, barely heard by herself, but the door opened. She swept in a breath of cold air, dragging herself up. Her head felt clear, though she couldn’t discern how. A dream such as that, prophetic in all but name, could hardly come without a cost.
With careful footsteps emerged Rhaenyra. She wore the darkest black, much like her dreams, but not quite. On her face was the same solemn, regal expression she had donned for as long as Naera could afford to recall. All their childhood scuffles lay forgotten over the succession.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” Naera cleared her throat, “how fares—” Rhaenyra sat beside her, taking her hand. The touch burned both, as though the mere distrust had made the other’s touch anathema.
“They shall return in a fortnight.” Merchants could hardly afford a week’s absence jittering over an ailing arbiter. Naera nodded absently, mind yearning to return to her ponderings. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children, by Daemon. That very Daemon who Rhaenyra had yearned for, to the point of betrayal, to the epitome of disgrace, to the brink of exile; that very Daemon whom she yearns for still, Naera thought, and the dread that followed that realisation confused her, bothered her, stripped away the defences she had long built and tore her wounds open to the salty sea air. She yearns for him still, but so do I. “You aren’t well, sister, I did not mean to—”
“Don’t,” Naera stopped, her free hand trailing to her neck, to the bruises long faded, so the anger long drowned by none other than a sickening, flooding, endlessly sweet ache. “Do not apologise for seeking your best.” It was the noblest thing for Rhaenyra to have done, and they both knew it. She couldn’t sit and wait while the Hightowers gathered support, and allies, while they plotted schemes to usurp the throne, not after she had, in finality, lost the only thing she had wanted as much as the Iron Throne. Daemon.
“I only apologise for distressing you.” Rhaenyra sighed, unable to find the proper word, unable to breach the subject she had poised herself to address. Naera stared at her sister, at the way her once innocent face had hardened with toil, at the crease of her fair brow, the shadowing of her eyes that counted far more than a dozen sleepless nights. She stared at her jewels, gilded Valyrian Steel with the bloodiest rubies, at her neck. Gold and tarred silver at her ears. Black and Red velvet at her waist, cinching scales like those of the Black Dread on her sleeves.
She imagined that somewhere west, a woman her age lay adorned in green.
“How long shall you fight silent, Rhae?” Naera trailed a hand to the embroidered wrists of her sister’s gown, tracing the spiked, metallic lines, “The Hightowers denounce you with every other word.” Why play so civil, when, “That whore of a queen cut you with a blade, challenged your sons’ legitimacy, married—” she breathed, “married the man you love to your sister.”
And it shattered, then, and there.
Rhaenyra flicked her hands away, a strangled sob being the only flash of lightning before her thundering tears broke the gates. She took Naera into her arms, against her steel gown, against her scarred self, and held her sister silent, as tear, after tear trailed down her cheek, dripping onto Naera’s face to mingle with her miserable proclamations.
“Forgive me,” Rhaenyra choked, “for I have caused you nothing but pain—for I have given you nothing but hatred, hatred over deeds you never committed.” She shook her head, gasping for breath.
Naera took her face in her hands, grasping senselessly for support, “It is I who has been selfish. If I had stayed—”
“Then you’d be broken,” Rhaenyra resolved, “You’d be like the rest of us, Naera, do not seek forgiveness for doing the best for yourself.” She recited Naera’s own words. “No, do not wish me that misery, of seeing another fallen to Hightower ambition.”
Naera’s chest tightened, a desperate cry echoing through the stone chambers, “but that isn’t all I’ve failed you in, Rhaenyra.” Daemon. His flapping hair, his kindred smiles, the passion with which he burned every second, of every day. Fire and blood. Naera had fallen, defeated, immersed in his beauty, sunk in that ugly sentiment.
“I love him,” as the dragon does the sky, as the waves do the wind, as a Targaryen does one of her kin. Hopelessly, without sense, without reason, without paying heed to the screaming logic that reminded her of his flaws, but he was perfect. He was sublime, strong, ever-present, until she had pushed him away.
Rhaenyra leaned her forehead against Naera’s and whispered, “Pār jorrāelagon zirȳla sȳrī, syt nyke daor.” Then love him well, for I cannot. “Laenor treats me well, Naera,” she chuckled, nose blushed red, “Ser Harwin loves me dearly. It is well. I am well.” Naera closed her eyes. I am well. She doesn’t need him—no, she doesn’t want him, for she knows now that Naera does.
She does not want him, because she cannot have him. Her ambition has ended with the demise of her true love, but Rhaenyra cuts those thoughts short, “I have not wanted him in years, Naera, neither has he me.” She nodded, as though seeking a declaration of trust.
Naera found herself believing her sister against every fact, against her own instinct. She nodded, and Rhaenyra smiled, wiping the tears from Naera’s face. “We’ll be strong, we can win this, Naera,” a glimmer of hope, a ray of light that broke through the storm, “if you’d only—” Panic rushed through her, an image of night, of snow, of blood pouring by the gallons, and seas turning dark. Fear surged through her veins, frigid as the morning air, dead as the Long Night.
“I forgive you,” Naera brushed away Rhaenyra’s tears, and struggled to her feet, cotton chemise barely strung together. Rhaenyra protested her deeds, imploring her to take the needed rest, but Naera ignored those pleas.
She knew what was to come.
A coup, orchestrated by the Green Queen. The Conqueror’s Crown on Aegon’s Head, and the proclamation of his rule, and she knew what was to follow.
A War, unlike one that had been seen since the foundations of the Freehold.
A War amongst Dragons, and years after that
The Long Night.
And she understood her role, finally, in this grand scheme, amidst this treachery, and debauchery. This confinement had a reason, as all curses and trials do, for the Lord of Light is just, and often kind. He was kind when he granted her Melisandre, as kind as he is now, granting her Daemon, his love, his fire, his passion to ignite her world that had been dimmed by the night, to set it alight once again.
She was to stand by Rhaenyra’s side, for it was she, who would lay the foundation for the Liberator’s acceptance as Queen of Westeros. The first Queen to sit on the Iron Throne—Naera would be her Visenya, her right hand, her soldier, her Queensguard—the broken half of her soul held close but never fused to heal the rift of regality.
“I am yours and have been for long, but I implore that you hear it for once, and for all.” She drew her sword, silver steel cursed with flames, in a leather scabbard, survived from Stygai. Naera knelt, her white gown pooling at her ankles, sword held before her.
“I swear by fire and blood, that I, Naera of the House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms and Knight to Westeros, shall follow the cause of you, who are the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and die if I must, to place you as Queen of this Land.”
Chapter 25: Love
Summary:
Daemon and Naera talk;
Notes:
WARNINGS: creepy Rhaenyra, smut, no truly graphic descriptions, but ya.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Naera was alone when he found her.
It was, to him, a tragic sight. His love, his wife, the object of his every desire, wound in a loose chemise, leaning against the fireplace, head to the mantle, eyes set on the flames. Her long silver hair hung in the flames but did not burn. Fire cannot burn dragons, he thought, before he saw that she had a hand in the flame, placed with purpose over the embers within the glowing sphere of the fire, moving in soft, careful strokes, as though she was trying to lull a dragon to sleep.
The smell of ash and woodfire greeted him with every breath, the darkness that engulfed the room putting him on edge. It was silent—completely, deathly silent, like a day of mourning, a day of contemplation, or rather, the calm after the storm.
He called her name. She did not respond.
He asked for forgiveness. She did not hear.
Daemon Targaryen feared few things, but he’d never thought that his woman would be one of them. While one day, the thought had delighted him, today, it only chilled his gut. She couldn’t hear him.
He stepped closer, his heavy black cloak a comforting presence, as was the heft of Dark Sister in the scabbard—not that he’d ever use it. How could he? If she died, if she died by his hand, who would he become? The revolting equivalence of the Vale’s heir to his niece is not something he’d want history to remember him for. Daemon Targaryen—heir, exile, uxoricide.
He dropped to his knees slowly, unsure, unable to relinquish his grasp on Dark Sister’s hilt.
“Naera, ȳzaldrīzes naejot.” Speak to me. He folded his sleeve upwards, breath bated, and thrust his hand into the flame. It was hot, but not enough to burn. Cautious, he crept his fingers forth and held her hand within the flame. Only then, did she turn.
Like a poet broken from her musings, she awoke.
Naera gasped, alert, and withdrew her hand from the blazing fire, bringing her ember-laden hand out of the flame, instinctively wiping the ash on her dress. The fabric burned in her wake, cotton threads spindling and burning, ripping oblong holes that merged and contorted grey, as the fiery embers struck their surface.
Naera shook her head, eyes watering from the light, as she blinked frantically, as though she couldn’t figure what had transpired. Staring into the flames, hour after hour, burning her eyes, but seeing the truth. The blasted faith of the Seven had something of the sort, Daemon recalled, but he couldn’t place if it was with the Weirwood gods of the North instead—a prophet, blinded, maddened, wild and devoid of any sanity.
No.
“Are you well?” He asked, taking his face in her hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. She didn’t comply, backing away from his hold, crushing his hopes, sending cracks in his heart. Don’t run from me, he wanted to beg, but he couldn’t.
Pride shall be your failing, Viserys had once told him.
Inaction shall be yours, he had retorted. Now, he wasn’t as sure.
He repeated his words, desperate, but Naera refused to meet his eyes, looking back at the flames instead. The locks of her hair smoked still from their journey into the flame, and the fabric of her dress near her lap was charred and tattered.
She hummed an affirm, scarcely nodding, but her lips parted, as though she wished to speak, then clamped close in doubt, in hesitancy.
“Tell me,” He whispered, unable to bring himself to anger over her lack of response. It is my wrong, he wished to claim, but again, pride came in his way. He dared not take her hand, her guttural, insistent, hateful words coming back to echo in his mind like bells of winter. Don’t touch me, she had said.
Again, she drew on the verge of speech, but no words came. Naera shook her head, sighing out, she threw her head back, and Daemon cursed that part of him that came to life at the sight of her gracious neck, the scene of her dress poorly laced, the prospect of something he had forsaken by his own err.
Tightening his jaw, he pushed those thoughts away and tried again. “Issi ao sȳrī?” Are you well, he asked.
“Issa,” she replied, hoarse, on instinct more than anything else. She could hardly resist when he spoke in Valyrian.
He dared to smile, solemn, “Nyke māzigon hae aderī hae nyke ryptan.” I came as soon as I heard, he added, “Skorion massitas? Gerardys jāhor ȳzaldrīzes nykeā udir daor.” What happened? Gerardys won’t speak a word.
Naera shook her head, the last of her resistance waning, growing thinner, and thinner, as her eyes bleared and her voice cracked to a shrill tune, “Daorun.” Nothing. And the shields revived.
Daemon steadied his thoughts, reined them from racing, and said, “Naera, nyke vala, darilaros, azantys, yn gō ry hen bona, nyke nykeā mittys.” I am a man, a prince, a knight, but before all of that, I am a fool. “I got everything I wanted dropped in my hand, and I let it slip through.” She did not move, did not speak. She listened, breathless. “I was never a mender, Naera, se sir nyke emagon ivestragī ao pryjagon.” And I have let you shatter, “Sīr lo ao ōregon mirros syt issa yn vēdros, ivestragī issa jorrāelagon ao.” If you hold anything for me but hatred, let me love you.
Shhh, she lurched forward, stopping his words, her crackly, tearful, high-strung voice resounding foreign to both their ears, “Daor, nyke gaomagon daor vēdros ao. Skorkydoso kostagon nyke?” No, I do not hate you. How can I? “Ao lit issa perzys. Ao vēttan issa zālagon. Ao vēttan issa giez—perzys se ānogar. Ao vēttan issa nykeā targārien arlī.” You lit my fire. You made me burn. You made me whole—fire and blood. You made me a Targaryen again. Fire made flesh; gods made human. Fire and blood, the blood of the dragon ran in their veins—hot, hotter than the burning sun, for the Martell flags could never contain their glory, only compete with them. He had lit her fire, reminded her of loyalty, burned her from within till she glowed.
“Avy—” she breathed in, “Nyke jeldan ao naejot pāsagon issa.” I wanted you to believe me. To believe the blood, the magic, that dreams dictated the fate of dragons, and not the other way around. Daemon knew now, simple proof to crack his ignorance. Targaryens were dreamers before Dragonriders.
“Kesrio syt avy jorrāelan, kepus.”
Because I love you.
She dropped her head on his chest with a deft thud, breathing hastily, spent, exhausted, as he said, “se avy jorrāelan, ābrazȳrys.” and I love you, wife. Like the dragon does the skies, like an honest man’s blade does its scabbard, like fire does blood, as a Targaryen does one of his kin.
Then, wrought by these confessions, head raised to meet his eyes in finality, she spoke her last secret, “Nyke rūsīr riñnykeā.”
I am with child.
A child. His child.
Daemon and Naera—fused as one, a proof of their love, a token of their union. An heir, no less, but Daemon smiled to think of a girl with her smile and his temperament, or a boy with her bookish demeanour. This was his every dream—a Valyrian bride, Valyrian children, pure, strong warriors, dragon riders, swordsmen and archers, but steeped in royalty. He breathed a laugh, picturing an heir to pass Dark Sister to, dragons to keep their kin company.
“Drējī?”
Truly?
She nodded aghast, hands trailing to his chest, her head falling against him. He wound his arms around her, and she melted away, latched unto him as though she were a sinner, and he, absolution. Thoughts returned, of the last time he had truly held her, of his crime, of his brutality, his ignorance, his pride that he had just learned to relinquish.
“Forgive me,” he whispered against her ear when he felt her heave, gasp, tremble, and he repeated himself, like a chant, morphing into his mother tongue to utter in continuity his regret, his apology, until Naera gasped a strangled sob.
His regret merged with his joy.
“Nyke istan pirta,” he told her, I was wrong, and she wept even further.
By when her sobs ceased, she lay in his grasp nearly insensate, a gracious promise of trust renewed, of forgiveness granted, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, until the skies fell, until the rivers rose and the mountains trembled.
“Mazverda ūndegon.”
Show me.
Show me the truth.
If he couldn’t battle down his fears, if he couldn’t rationalize them, conquer them, he’d bow to it—he’d do it, for her. If it would make her forgive him. If it would make her love him.
Naera took his hand, rising, languid but unbroken, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, he recalled and dragged him to the fireplace. He stared at her eyes—swollen red, but not by pain, he shuddered, by fire.
“Jurnegon,” Look, she held his hand tight, “Jurnegon ezīmagon se perzyssy,” look into the flames, and he did.
He watched the flames, and he saw.
He saw eyes—his own, and Naera’s, the same lilac, but smaller, with the gentle squint that she forever carried with her slight near-sightedness. He saw the pairs of eyes merge, lilac meeting lilac, the lines of their irises floating outwards, glowing nearly silver, until they were all that remained, growing, festering, spinning and clashing slivers of steel and iron.
He saw blades, one, two, three, dozens, dozens of dozens, and even more, some sparkling and polished, others rusted and bloody. He saw iron being melted in a great crucible, red hot and molten metal poured into moulds, and he saw sparks, bangs, the sharpening of a thousand blades.
He watched those blades heave to, merge with the flicker of the flames into arrows, strung on bows, the stretching of string, the tightening of one’s aim, and hark, a thousand arrows sailed the wind, but the wind merged to water, the water that held the carcasses of a million ships. He watched ships, sails flickering with the sky, sails of black and red—Targaryen banners, luminescent dragons on the sails that spun in slow circles, sped, three red heads chasing one red tail, spinning, hungry, fast, ferocious, ruthless, and when he blinked, it was all gone.
The red of the flames clotted together, inching lower, fluid, blood, gallons and gallons of it, pouring, red, hot, thick, warm—the blood of the dragon, pouring down acres and acres of skin, ivory backs, breasts, pooling on perfect hands, pouring down perfect lips, and the lips were stained—red, red, red, and the teeth shimmered like rubies—red, red, red, red eyes, red lips, a woman in red, flames in her hands.
He heard, whispered in the silence, a breath against his ear that he knew wasn’t Naera. It was a voice most old, nearly arcane, but soaked in the effeminate youth of a woman unaged.
“Syt bantis zōbrie issa se oss ȳngnoti l ēdys.”
For the night is dark and full of terrors.
A tremor ran down his spine.
The flames contorted, flickering, crumbling under his gaze, but he saw iron, he saw the blades again, old, rusted and arcane, soaked in blood and polished, he saw the blades drown in fire and blood, saw the thousand blades melting together, fusing by the hilts and edges into a throne, a throne of Iron, a symbol of power, and the flame grew hotter, the flame that melted this monstrosity, sealed it in history. The flames blinked shutter, dragon scales the colour of night coming into view—scales, talons, claws, teeth—too many, too bloody—and wings the colour of dread. Balerion, he knew, the dragon that soared to the sky, the vision of the throne long forgotten.
He saw the dragon, its scales, leathered scars, ridges and contours, and he saw it dissolve—fragment in a second, into thread, spools of green and black, woollen and silky, wrapping around, weaving the carcass of the dragon. He saw the silks break into waves, waves that poured over stone, sand, salt, over great cliffs in the Stepstones, over merchant ships in the Blackwater—gems—emerald and amber, engulfed in flames, drowned in darkness. He saw great wooden hulls clash against each other, masts horizontal as fleets capsized, saw the rapture of a dragon as he burned it all to seafoam.
The seafoam boiled to clouds, the skies—red and orange, fire and blood. He saw faces forgotten in the whip of the wind, saw cities upended in the matter of a whim, bricks crumbling, wings rising, a throne laid in dust, but a sky open, free, blue and oh, so brilliant.
Glaesagon, Daemon, his brother had told him.
Live, Daemon. Live how I never can.
"It is true," he spoke, turning to face Naera, his own vision growing blurry and delicate. He sighed in relief and joy, elation at his forgiveness, delight at his impending paternity when she pulled him into her arms again.
Rhaenyra stood at the door to Naera’s chambers, watching the scene by the fireplace, silent. Her fingers trailed the blood-red rubies of the Valyrian Steel necklace Daemon had gifted her all those summers ago, feeling every ridge of metal, every mark of their heritage.
I brought you something, he had told her when he first presented it to her, when she was just a girl, and hopeful. Before Harwin, before Laenor, before Cole, it had been him. It had always been him.
She watched her sister drag their uncle down to her arms, heard him sigh in solace, heard him sob in realisation. He loved her too, with a fire unmatched, she knew. She watched on, sick of the play, wary of the sentiment, the hope that he’d ever give her what she needed. He won’t.
But he had given it to Naera. A child. A symbol of love, something to prove their union, something she’d never get from Laenor, and could only abhor from Harwin.
She blinked that last tear away, steeling her face in a porcelain mask, the loving sister, and not the forgotten lover. She knew what she had to be, but that only made it harder, only shackled her further to her fantasy. She couldn’t turn her eyes away, even when they embraced—a hungry, desperate, tearful affair as long, lithe limbs drowned his silver head into a lean frame. Hair entangling, kisses exchanged, the flick of metal on his cape as his cloak gathered on the ground, his sword forgotten, his defences dismissed. No, Rhaenyra didn’t look away, she couldn’t, because despite herself, despite her claims, despite her desires, she yearned to be the one in his arms.
She dropped her hand to her chest and grasped the metal embroidery of her neckline—a hasty attempt at calming the ache in her heart, which only reminded her of his every touch, all those summers past, when she had been the object of his every desire.
It made her remember that night in the streets of King’s Landing, when he’d stripped her bare of any defences and abandoned her, left her hanging on to the fantasy that had festered for years to bring her hence, to watch the scene that unfolded.
Her sister fell back, a spool of silver against the ebony wood, and he leered over her, mouths entangled, and the first semblance of a moan broke through, strangled, ugly and pitched. Still, Rhaenyra couldn’t look away, no, she watched, watched and watched, as Daemon took her there, raw, hungry, desperate and messy. She watched them meld, watched him rip her dress apart, watched him worship her form, watched them writhe in harmony, biting, tearful, grasping, senseless, as the pair hummed a sensual symphony of pleasure and pain morphed into more, and more pleasure.
She unclasped the steel necklace, feeling the warmed metal grow cold in her hand. She traced her skin over its engraved metal once more, counting the rubies—fourteen, as with the gods of High Valyria of Old, as with the Flames that erupted, horrendous volcanoes that brought about doom, examined the steel disks that housed each gem, then turned her eyes back to the pair that lay entangled beside the fireplace, settled on the remains of their garbs.
Rhaenyra watched her sister’s pale, ivory back, and its near lack of scars glow brightly against the darkness, a beacon in the dark, rising and falling like the ocean waves on a sunlit eve, sounds she’d considered from him impossible wringing true and loud to echo in the silence, praises, worship, pleads, prayers, and she heard her sister, her flesh and blood, the one she had condemned to this blissful fate, moan in harmony. Amongst it all, was a declaration, one that shattered the load in Rhaenyra forever, shocked her core and slashed her shackles, resounded the doubt and made her whole.
“Avy jorrāelan, Naera.”
I love you, Naera.
The mother of his child, the object of his every desire, her sister, their blood, ha. The Blood of the Dragon, ignited, boiling and broiling, bringing another child to this bloodthirsty war of Greens and Blacks, treachery and trickery.
No. As much as she tried, she couldn't villanize them, couldn't pretend that she didn't want it, no.
It was her, her sister, her Visenya, her commander.
Her, and none other.
Rhaenyra dropped the necklace on the floor, walking back to the chamber of the Painted Table. Her War Room. Her duty. Her birthright.
Notes:
where do you think this story should go now? Comment anything at all. I will be vv happy to read it :)
Chapter 26: Return
Summary:
Responses to the King's learning of Naera's pregnancy.
Chapter Text
“His Grace wishes that you return to King’s Landing.”
Laenor sat mildly fearful in the small solar adjoining his sister-in-law’s chambers. Periodically, he flitted over his hair, or his garb, anything to stay alert. Daemon sat opposite him in Naera’s chair, surrounded by papers and piles of poorly bound journals. He swirled a glass of Dornish Red, eyes set on the first of many letters received.
Laenor placed the King’s post on the table, blinking frantically when the page melds with the mess and he can’t quite locate it any longer. Shaking his head, “He is throwing a banquet in her honour, Daemon.”
Silence. Laenor raises his eyebrows, trying to discern if Daemon heard any of his words.
Daemon put down his letter, drained his glass, and hummed absently. The sunlight that poured in through the windows fell on the Rogue Prince’s face profusely, brightening his face to a degree that made Laenor’s eyes burn just looking at him.
“No,” Daemon reached for another letter, breaking the wax seal and flipping to the first page in one fluid movement.
“No?” Laenor questioned. I’m going insane.
“No, the mother of my children will not be debasing herself to dine with the vipers of King’s Landing.” His words were dismissive, insulting, even, but there was pride in his voice. Laenor still found this new situation difficult to shield himself from. The couple had been at each other’s throats—quite literally—on their wedding day, and had orchestrated a horrendous war of wits and words shortly after, causing Naera to flee to the Island, and yet, yet, with the announcement of their impending child, they had settled rather beautifully.
Laenor eyed the door to their bed chambers, wondering if asking for Naera would instigate an argument. Despite their newfound love, he doubted the Rogue Prince had lost his pride of station.
“Then, he insists that he bring the court to Dragonstone.”
“No.” He heard Naera shout through the door. He heard it followed by clutter, scrambling, rustling and a rush.
“His grace wishes to—” The door slammed open. Naera, hair messy and palour pale, stepped inside, barefooted. She crept to Daemon’s side, who didn’t hesitate to wind an arm around her waist.
“Tell His Grace to shove his wishes up his withered whore of a wife and maybe I’ll consider it.” She reached for his wineglass, took a sip, and spat it back. The pair exchanged glances, and while Laenor could hardly decipher their estranged codes, it appeared something along the lines of Wine when pregnant?
Tastes like pig’s piss.
Daemon drained the glass. Say that again, or, more disturbingly to Laenor, I'd rather taste you.
Naera rolled her eyes. It was the latter.
“You heard the Princess,” Daemon tutted, smiling at his wife.
Laenor resisted the urge to drop his face into his hands and whine against his fortunes. Daemon wasn’t his favourite person to deal with, to say the least, even if respected the man immensely. “How long do you intend to avoid this? He is only trying to reconcile.”
“His reconciliation means little after his dismissal, Ser Laenor.” Naera’s words hovered after she spoke them. “He will not have Rhaenyra back at King’s Landing to protect his Hightower wife. I will not leave her side for the sake of my pride, and that of my husband.” Husband, and he marvelled at how brazenly the paid fit into that description now. Husband and wife, valzyrys se abrazyrys, fire and blood.
He erred on the side of caution, however, voicing his singular concern, “If you join this struggle, it’ll turn into a war, Princess.” A struggle his parents, his sister, his wife, and his children had already joined. The Queen Who Never Was wouldn’t sit silent as the realm was denied another Queen, be it the daughter of her own Usurper, and the Sea Snake had been at sixes and sevens with the Hightowers since their dismissal of the threats the Triarchy had once posed.
“This has been a war since your wedding, Laenor.” Daemon reminded.
The Driftmark heir couldn’t deny the truth. The factions, the War had begun when he had married Rhaenyra, and he knew it. He remembered the moment still, in the midst of Viserys’ speech, when Alicent Hightower had stormed into the banquet hall, wearing the ugly lavished green of her House.
The Strong brothers had wondered aloud, what colour Oldtown blared its towers when arming for war.
Green.
“Needless,” Naera turned to the lone window in the solar, a carcass of glass and iron that overlooked the cavernous cliffs and beaches, “You may inform His Grace that we do not consider it apt time for such an event. I can hardly stomach a dozen grapes, much less a feast.”
Laenor nodded.
Just months after their marriage, on her visit to Dragonstone for the arbitration of a trade dispute for which she had been named arbiter in accordance with the Law of the Free Cities, Princess Naera announced that she was with child. It is alleged that she and her husband had reconciled some longstanding differences upon this news, and settled comfortably in Dragonstone.
Princess Rhaenyra welcomed their stay, and Prince Daemon took to training his grand-nephews Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys with the blade. Princess Naera often read them poetry and politics, but mostly kept to herself and her husband during her early pregnancy, as she was most sickly during this time.
Maester Gerardys of Dragonstone has noted that the Princess had been in poor health, both physically and mentally for reasons he never clearly deciphered, and wrote in his person that he feared the life of the child and the Princess. He dreaded, in some of his logs, that he be forced to perform the same deed unto Princess Naera as had been performed unto Queen Aemma years prior.
Maester Mellos had recorded three letters in the Citadel from this time that were exchanged between King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra, relevant to this telling. The first, sent by the King, discussed the news of the day and requested Princess Rhaenyra to forward his bequest that both Princess Naera and Prince Daemon return to King’s Landing to receive due honours. The second was addressed by the Princess, who informed the King that his wishes had been dismissed as the pair did not wish to return to King’s Landing. It mentioned that Naera had been in poor health and would not be adequate company, thereby dissuading King Viserys from gathering the court at Dragonstone.
The third was a letter from the King addressed to Prince Daemon, which beheld his cordial congratulations, his commendation at Daemon for finally “taking an honest wife and bedding her”, be it his daughter or not, instead of consorting to his bevvy of whores, and a brief inquiry as to Naera’s health. This letter was never responded to by Prince Daemon.
Naera picked the last letter tentatively. It had been the first on the pile, so, naturally something that Gerardys considered the most important and what she was inclined to believe a waste of time.
It was dark without, an ugly affair of auburn fading to black, black like ash, black like the terrorful night. A fire burned in her solar, warm beyond her respite so she threw open the windows overlooking the caverns of Dragonstone. Breezes whistled past, curtains flapping forth, the song of Dragons resounding sweet in her ears.
She overlooked the igneous rocks of the isle, the ancient stone passageway built towards the shore, and recalled her dream of the scene to take place there. Three years hence, perhaps longer, she shall stand there, when the sky bled mist, and Otto Hightower would burn by fire and blood.
She thought of the day again, of Daemon, his windswept hair, that ebony cloak, and Syrax’s flame. Syrax. Dragons. Dreams and Dragons—the truths of Valyria, her heritage, woven into her skin, bled into her veins without her choice, without her knowledge, and now she needed to confront the deeds.
She felt drawn, as of late, to the bleak stone of Dragonstone, in its dark foggy hours, to its dark underground caves with paintings of dragons and doom. Daemon accompanied her there, often, a nostalgic smile etched on his face, as though he longed desperately for the home that he had never had. Flames felt warm, not even hot, to the skin, and the darkness scared her less. She felt drawn, to the old, to towering flames and obsidian stones, to a history she hardly knew.
Wisestone lingered on her mind with these thoughts, wreaking havoc to her mind, and plunging her into guilt. Melisandre, she thought—what was she to say, to her Red Woman, to her love declared and spent?
It wasn’t meant to be, she knew. She was just a page in her life, for the priestess would live to the age of night and stare that horror in its face, unshook by its vastness, unfazed by its perpetuity. Something in that made Naera wish she could reduce her old love to a simple page in her own book, for, as she was now, all her pages needed was Daemon.
His eyes, his strength, his charm. Ha. His love, that she had allowed him, his affections she had accepted, his yearning for a world long lost. Lost, lost, lost. How much more was to be lost? In the war to come, she saw only death, death, death—trails of blood, dragons drowning.
Aemond was the key, she knew. If he reached age, he would be invincible. Vhagar at his command, a warrior’s ferocity, and an aspiration such as the Rogue Prince to live up to. He would want to be Visenya, and she’d have to show him that there was to be only one at this age who could live up to that title.
“Skoros issi ao otāpagon bē?” What are you thinking about? She smiled as Daemon rested his chin on her neck, arms encircling her waist.
“Se vīlībāzma,” she confessed. The War. The war that she was now fully entangled in. That her children were entangled in. The war that would name its survivors kinslayers and kingslayers. She only dreaded one who would be called queenslayer—upon her dead body.
“Don’t worry your pretty head with such things,” he turned her, and leaned down, their foreheads brushing, arms entangled. He shook those thoughts away from her, getting hopelessly good at the deed of distracting her.
“Gevie bartos?” She raised her eyebrows. Pretty head?
“Gevie abra.” He grinned. Pretty woman.
He leaned even further, noses brushing, and caught her lips.
“Se olvie gevie ābra.” The most beautiful woman.
She closed her eyes, sighing softly, relishing the weight of his forehead against hers. An image flashed through her mind, an obsidian blade, glassy and sanctified, almost glowing despite the darkness, and fog—heavy, cloudy fog, that suddenly laid weight on her limbs, made her gasp in tire. She held the blade, cold in her touch, and cut open a lip—Daemon’s lip. Blood poured down the laceration, and she smeared the blood, dragging the stain on his forehead.
She blinked, a sudden warmth settling within. The scene was gone, the fog, the blood. There was only Daemon, solid, real and present, holding her, with her.
Blood on the lip, blood on the forehead—a custom of marriage in a culture long lost. If I’d had my way, I’d wed you in the ways of the Old Gods of Valyria. I’d wed you beside fire, and take your blood, like the ways of our ancestors.
Her heart skipped at the thought.
“Ivestragī īlva dīnagon.” Let us marry.
Daemon laughed against her lips, eyes crinkled close, “īlon īlva emagon.” We have already married.
“Isse se ñuhoso hen valyrio daor.” Not in the way of Valyria. She heard him inhale, hungry, torn with desire. He flipped like a coin, she marvelled, tender for a moment and ferocious the next. His lips crashed against hers, eyes torn open to gaze, gaze, and gaze, and see the world the way she did, reflected in her eyes.
Gevie, she thought. Daemon Targaryen was a beautiful man.
He took her hands, brow creasing as he found paper. On finding the letter, he gave it but a glance—but that was enough, for the sight of the King’s seal was enough to ruin the mood.
“Tubi’s?” Today’s? Naera nodded, pushing him down into a chair, arms going around his neck when he pulled her into his lap. He kissed her again, a promise, and his eyes turned to the letter.
It was from the King, addressed in what he knew now to be distinctly the hand of his whore of a wife—swirling, southern, small blots of ink dotting the eyes that looked suspiciously like stars. The addressal read to Daemon, of the House Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and mentioned Naera not. Daemon broke the seal open, watching the red dragon snap, and tossed the envelope away.
He opened the first page, ignoring the greeting, trying to ignore the ire it wished to propel. Daemon, and not brother.
Naera busied herself with his hair, legs dangling off the side of the chair, fingers winding through his silver-gold curls, lips tracing the shell of his ear.
He read the letter in silence, covert in not showing its contents to his beloved wife, and balled the parchment up. He tossed it into the flames, and she didn’t ask, only holding his hand, silver hair cascading down her shoulders.
“Nyke kesīr,” she told him, when his eyes regained their glassy rage, “Nyke rūsīr ao, sir, se va moriot.” I am here. I am with you, now, and always.
“Nyke raqagon Aemon,” he kissed her neck, hours later, when the sky was dark and the tides had calmed from the storm. A book was balanced precariously on her knees, her hands holding his at her waist. “Aeron? Aem—”
“Daor.” She shook her head, her silver locks sprawled across his chest, head amidst them. She said, “se brōzi hen ñuha muñnykeā daor, kepus.” Not the name of my mother, uncle. He made a half-timid noise of apology, humming against her, feeling her weight, her warmth that seemed hotter than the fireplace. He pondered on how to coax her mind away from those thoughts that he knew she’d drown herself in again.
“Ziry iksos nykeā lumie naejot pendagon hae olvie hae ao gaomagon.” It is a sickness to think as much as you do. Thinking, thinking, bashing her mind over possibilities that had long passed.
She chuckled, “Skoros jāhor ao emagon issa gaomagon, pār?” What would you have me do, then? She threw her head back, a wave of nausea hitting her. She breathed, laboured, vision swimming with strange white dots. He had grown used to such fits, extracting his arms, giving her space.
“I’ll send for Gerardys—”
“No,” she clamoured off the chair, leaving him cold, struggling towards the oaken table beside her bed place. She bit off a piece of ginger, chewing on it in consternation. She spat the fibre out, “He’ll only pour a cup of tea.”
He hummed, paging through her book. A tale of Riverland customs, strangely, but he didn’t wish to question her visions. Her thoughts only lingered on the war, lately, and it dismayed her to speak of it aloud. After she made a round of all her remedies—lemon, mint and some herbs he couldn’t quite place, he did her the courtesy of throwing open a window.
She sat at the sill, appearing to him a blazing enigma amidst the darkness of the night sky. Her silver hair shone, scattered as it was over her face, her skin pale beyond reason, glowing. He knew not what to feel, now, when the bizarre had faded, when she had become just a constant thing, who loved him, loved, loved, loved him back.
Naera sighed, soft, nausea eased with every fresh breeze.
“Naerys,” Daemon brushed away her hair, “if it is a gir—”
“Rhaenys,” she offered, for the first time, “Aegon, and Viserys.” She considered the names, “A dragon has three heads.” Daemon breathed, flared, gods, three children. No, he calmed himself, grinning regardless.
He clicked his tongue, falling into an armchair, “That Hightower cunt has that name.”
Naera gathered her hair, an estranged smile on her face, “The Conqueror had that name.”
He closed the book. “Rhaenys died at the hands of the Dornish,” he dared remind. Would it not be a disgrace, after her engagement to the dead Prince of Sunspear?
“We have far too many Visenyas, Daemon,” she voiced. She was Visenya, but so was Daemon—formidable warriors, hard-hearted, confused so oft for Maegor. Then, there was the matter of Aemond. Too many hands asking for Dark Sister’s honour.
The third. Viserys. The first of that name emerged a weakling, but Daemon doubted that he could ever grow to hate the man who held it. No, now, that wasn’t fair—he hated his brother, yes, hated how he denounced him, defamed him, distrusted him, forced him to settle, condemned him to marry—but there, his anger fell short, for he loved his ugly brother’s beautiful creation.
Beauty, and he stared at the incarnation of Meleys, the Valyrian Goddess, every day. Silver hair, lilac eyes, but strong, capable, capricious but timid, yielding, relinquishing in a way that made his blood sing, made his thirst morph into famish, rather than quench it.
“To swoon as much as you do is a sickness, kepus,” she taunted, lips parting in laughter, head thrown back, glorious, splendid.
He smiled, watching her intently, twinkling eyes, “Happy with ourselves, are we?”
She laughed, fleetingly, the crackling of the fireplace being the only sound that remained.
He asked, “Viserys?” Brother.
She took a final breath of fresh air, staring at the black sky that had turned an inky blue, telling her that dawn arrived. Another sleepless night owing to her sickness, and Daemon had stayed awake still. She didn’t know whether to reprimand him or thank him. She left the windowsill and the thoughts of mundane daily life, sighing aloud.
She said, “The King deserves a reminder of his deeds,” one he can’t dismiss, one he can never claim to have forgotten. But he will forget, Daemon knew, as much as it ached his heart to believe. With the way his King’s health went, he would drown in poppies before he’d remember his grandchildren—his nephews’ names.
Then, there was the boy.
“What of Aemond?” She asked, pacing the chambers, soft cotton dress swinging with every step.
A change in ideology, as it were, needed be done. To rip the boy called One-Eye from the clutches of green treachery and inflict in him a dishonour unimagined. It needs to be his decision, Naera had insisted, and Daemon couldn’t disagree. The boy babbled, as indicated by his blame on Aegon for the insults spewed on Rhaenyra’s boys. He’d be exiled again, perhaps with Naera, even, if they’d outright suggest it.
“It won’t take long,” she assured, “three days. The boy stands on the brin—”
And then they heard it.
A screech, a sense of calling.
A dragon’s cry.
But familiar.
Naera burst towards the window; her eyes set on the horizon. There, with the dawn that broke golden across the sky, she saw, coming from the east, shrouded in light—a dragon, paler than white.
Wisestone.
In all his glory, stronger, certainly larger than the last time she had seen him, but memory tricks the mind often. He flew west, barrelling through the skies towards the little Isle, roaring in homecoming.
But that wasn’t all, for, with that first light, she could see a lone ship bearing orange sails spotted with gold suns in the distant sea where the ocean curved into the sky.
A Dornish ship.
Melisandre.
Notes:
winding to an end, sort of, at least for this part. Would including a smut scene make sense? Recommendations needed
Chapter 27: Dragon
Summary:
Naera meets Wisestone and comes to terms with his truth.
Notes:
OOC Daemon? a little. I did my best :/
Chapter Text
Their footsteps echoed through the halls of the fortress. A set, heavy and muddled, more hastened than the other, that paused periodically, presumably to let the other catch up, and the second—lighter and clearer, with a calm, unstopping rhythm, a sense of expectancy escaped.
The doors of the fortress creaked aloud as they opened, drowsing guards shaken awake by twin flurries of silver hair and black capes at the first hour of dawn. The pair stumbled out into the staircase, cold morning air shocking the breaths out of both, a hazy fog settled over the walkway.
Daemon took Naera’s hand, leading her from two steps ahead, failing to suppress the sense of urgency that had filled him. Her hand was warm, far warmer than his, almost as though she had turned to toss embers around while he dressed. The air was salty, sandy, and gratingly cold, and his breath nearly fogged two inches before his face, but he kept his pace, descending the stone staircase towards the beach.
The sound of waves greeted them, harsher for the morning, water crashing against the cavern rocks and rising on the beach. He left her hand, just for a second, scouting around for her great white beast that he hadn’t really met in years, and the low, gurgling Valyrian of the dragonkeepers alerted him.
“Dohaerās,” they chanted, serve, and by the time he turned, Naera had already broken half the distance towards the white dragon settled on the corner of the landing of the isle, wings horribly scratched, harness torn to shreds. Naera walked with greater urgency, cape flapping with the wind, silver hair drawn into a braid that turned and flittered with every step.
He took a step to, but she uttered without turning, “Umbagon.” Stay there. He stepped back, drawing a cold breath through his mouth.
Half a dozen Keepers surrounded Wisestone, spears at the ready, the oldest amongst them uttering the same command, a word that made her frown in distaste.
Wisestone. Wisestone. Her oldest friend, after Rhaenyra. The other part of her being, other Dragonriders would argue, but her bond to her beast had always been one of understanding.
Nyke jorrāelagon ao, se ao jorrāelagon issa.
I need you, and you need me.
Iotāptenon. Raqagon. Pāsābarves
Respect. Friendship. Loyalty.
And look where it got her.
He was injured, it brought tears to her eyes, to see him, perched at the edge of the sand, white leather wings torn and burned in places, with a pulsing, bloody clot winding around his long, spiny throat.
But there was something different. He was larger, his wings reached farther, and she could not recall him ever being so tall. His tale whipped languidly, longer than what she remembered. He had grown—where once he may have beaten Syrax in size, now, just moons past, he could soar in equivalence with the ugly Cannibal. Beautiful Cannibal, Daemon would have argued, despite the wyrmling carcasses surrounding his nest.
The Keepers stepped in, muttering the same inane words and requests.
“Dohaerās, ziry poghash,” Serve, he says. The Keepers turn in unison, bowing their heads, stepping away when the oldest motioned so. Naera paid them no mind. She only stepped closer to her friend, glad to see him uncoiling, neck extending, his reptilian head, glowing white in the morning haze, approaching her slowly.
She said, “Zaldrizes buzdaris iksos daor, kona dohaerās” She heard the voice of the Liberator, splendid sweet as it was, echoing in her mind. She clenched her eyes shut, shocked at its return. It had been weeks since the last occurrence of the Stormborn’s voice in her mind, and she shook her head, trying to rid herself of its impact.
A dragon is not a slave that serves.
The Liberator had dragons, of course. The Dragon Queen.
Three to count. Aegon Returned.
Wisestone curled his neck towards her, head bumping hers, knocking her a step back. The great beast purred, guttural, a lovely sound, perhaps.
“Iksos skoros nyke emagon rhēdessiarza ry ñuha glaeson.” That is something I have believed all my life. And look where it got her. She shook her head, laughing when the beast scuttled through its throat, tilting its head, larger than a small carriage, perhaps, in her direction, claws grasping at the sand and rock, battered wings flapping like canvases survived from an arson flapping in the autumn wind.
“Nyke emagon dōrī eptan ao naejot dohaeragon, ñuhyz raqiros.” I have never asked you to serve, my friend. Even when she had been a girl of less than nine, braids swinging, skirts pleated, when all the old dragonkeepers had repeated the same word in the decrepit halls of the Dragonpit, she had never echoed their sentiment. She had never asked him to serve her.
She had only given him a choice.
“Nyke jaelagon naejot henujagon bisa dīnagon,” she had told him, I want to leave this place, before she had even understood the world. It had been just a feeling, just an irk with the home she had been born in, a tire with the septa who raised her, small discomforts that urged her. She had asked him a question, unimagined by the young beast who only knew flesh and fire and spears and iron and commands, “Jāhor ao māzigon rūsīr issa? Will you come with me? She had become a dragonrider that day.
Half a dozen years later, at the eve of her return to King’s Landing, fate to be sealed in sorrow, misery to be sculpted for eternity, she had become a dragon rider again. She had taken her freedom, for No one can hand you your freedom, the Liberator said.
Now, she faced the same creature she had only obtained freedom with, living with the reality that he had left, left her, and come back, battered and half dead.
“Gōntan ao pendagon bona nyke gōntan jaelagon naedako daor?” Did you think that I did not want to run? Run, run, run, for the first months had been a prelude to just that. To run, to fly free, to love without judgement, act without thought, but she had done else. She had chosen duty over joy, family over desire, for just once in her life after Dorne.
Perhaps, just perhaps it had been a futile attempt at repaying her crimes. More likely, it had been a fleeting sense of love for Rhaenyra, a practical idea of what would incur if the Greens won. But she had stayed. And he had left.
Left.
Wisestone screeched, and whined, scarred wings flapping in the dawn sky, spiny neck wounding around, shaking with the force of his efforts at protest. No, he seemed to object, I did not run.
No, he had not run.
He had only returned.
Returned.
Returned to Asshai, to the cursed waters at the edge of the Jade Sea, to the skull-laden fields that hid their sins with miles of milk-coloured grass. Towns and cities, towers and palaces of a civilisation lay’n destitute. A land of gold, amber and ruby cursed by their god, where red, red, red blood, cloth, souls dwelled, crested in gems, guarding relics of old.
A land he had made home, and she had made to soul.
A woman she had mated to soul.
“Gōntan ao pendagon bona nyke gōntan jorrāelagon daor?” Did you think that I did not love? He made the same sound, a whine of protest, and dove forward till his jaw rested on her shoulder. She reached forth a hand, brushing her warm hand against his cruel, hard scales. He was warm, boiling warm, like a sword forgotten in the temper, a volcanic caldera spouting disaster.
His claws gleamed, sharper than she had ever seen them.
She hugged his head, arm going under his maw, head sliding against his skin, hot, pulsating flesh brushing against her cheek, her neck, her arms.
He had changed, yes, but so had she. She was not the same soul—resistive, defiant, still, but her loyalties, her motive had changed. She needed freedom, yes, but she was tethered forever also. He needed family, she realised. Not just a friend, but a soul to bond with. A person he could name his own.
“Yn, nyke aōha raqiros.” Yet, I am your friend. She fell to her knees, him sliding with her.
He huddled closer, grumbling deep in his throat.
Friend. The dragonkeepers had asked her what her words meant, whispers of treachery whistling through the thick, stale air which smelled of ash and burnt flesh. The shadows had made his reptilian eyes sparkle bright, like candles in the darkest night as she cowered away from swine and rats.
Just making a new friend, she had argued. A friend to burn the fears away. For what promise is a friendship better built on, than one of freedom, and trust? What is a trust better founded on than understanding?
A trust based on a bond, a bond based on heritage. She was as much a part of him, as he was inexplicably a part of her. Souls tied from that moment in the Dragonpits, when he had flapped his wings and taken her to the air.
His golden eyes gleamed, dark slits as black as the endless abyss of the Shadowlands—no, as black as the doomed ashes of Valyria.
“Ao issi ilirigin aōha qrimpālegon,” you are forgiven your deed, a betrayal she could never hold to heart. She hadn’t raged when he had done it, because she had understood where his desires were rooted—love, love, love, for home, for comfort, for understanding, but there was something greater than desire at play here. “Syt nyke unyishishk mazverdagon ao se tolie ezīma hen nuha gīs.” For I would name you the other half of my soul.
Like a true Targaryen. Bonded for life with a beast of her ancestry. Fire made flesh—Dragons and Valyrians—they were meant to burn together, eternal.
“Ilon dakōtan qrīdrughagon hēnkirī, ry lī jēdri inkot. Sir, īlon amāzigon naejot gaomagon īlva gaomilaksir.” We ran away together, all those years ago. Now, we return to do our duty. Now, they return to their families. Her to Daemon, to Rhaenyra, to Viserys, and the war that she wished to avert. But Daemon.
She turned, eyes searching the bright beach.
He stood like a beacon in the darkness—a sliver of shadow near the white waters. When he met her gaze, she smiled.
She turned back, stroking the side of his jaw, and, perhaps by the sight of the smile on her face, he knocked her back, pushing her on the sand. Wisestone dropped his head on the sand, eyes half-lidded, the exhaustion of a long journey catching him.
She trailed a hand down his head, tracing new scars. There was a gash, bloody and raw, running from his left eye to his wings, thin but deep, staining his silver-white scales. It looked like a river of blood on ivory skin, a sight she recalled from the flames, but it was different—he was greyer, more lustrous, as though ashes had soaked his skin raw. She wondered what could have caused it. He had survived Stygai with fewer injuries, Naera recalled. “Skorkydoso istan Asshai?” How was Asshai? She asked, gaze turning to the Dornish ship in the murky distance. It had sailed closer but was still hours away from anchoring.
Wisestone whined, guttural, a wisp of smoke bursting out his nostrils. Not Asshai?
“Skoriot, par?” Where, then?
The dragon raised his neck, wings waving twice, tail lashing, extravagant, and blew a roar of fire.
No.
Naera furrowed her eyebrows.
“Daor.”
No.
“Valyrīh?”
He bobbed his head, waves of muscle and flesh, fire and blood, wavering and pulsing, and settled back on the sand, eyes closing calmly.
Valyria.
Land of Doom.
How could he have survived—no, no, if he survived, then—she cursed her thinking. She couldn’t go to Valyria. The tale of Aerea, rider of Balerion came to mind. The Targaryen Princess who had ridden the Black Dread before her father had disappeared for a full year, and when she had returned…
She was cooking from within, Septon Barth had written. Her mouth and nose smoked. She begged for death.
But…
Skoryso?
Why had he ventured to the land of death, leaving her side? Why had he not returned home, to the Shadowlands?
Why?
As though sensing her foolish question, he opened his eyes, groaning in his throat, silver scales glistening in the sun.
She laughed.
“Aōha lenton.” Your home.
His home was in Valyria.
For they were so very similar, indeed.
“Iksā Valyrīha. Sīr iksin nyke.” You are Valyrian. So am I. Ancient, cryptid, written in stones that melted, remembered by a dynasty that survived. Targaryen. Fire made flesh, gods made human.
She had the Blood of the Dragon.
My dragon is not Valyrian, she had told the Keeper at King’s Landing, arrogant, blind. Now, she knew. Now, she saw.
“Iksan brōztagon Naera. Īlen gimedagon bona brōzi naejot rigle ñuha ānogar.” I am called Naera. I was given that name to honour my blood. Aegon. Rhaenys. Viserys. Daemon. Jahaerys. Rhaenyra. Valyrian names, revived across centuries forgotten. “Nyke would tepagon ao mēre sesir,” I would give you one also, and a dozen names echoed in her mind. Balerion, Meraxes, Meleys, Caraxes, and also Syrax, Teraxes, Vermithor, but also Gaelithox and Shrykos—names of dragons, names of their old gods, taken, or to be taken, but not by her.
“Nyke brōzi ao arlī.” I name you again, a name to correct her errors, a name to let him find a home within his kin, amongst his brethren. He wouldn’t be a creature of foreign lands, he’d be one of their own. A Targaryen Dragon bonded to a Targaryen Princess. “Nyke brōzi Gēliax.” I name you Gēliax. Silver-struck steel, Valyrian history infused the metal, grey as his wings, chilled as his wrath. Then the silver burned the wolves, her mind said, but she couldn’t place the reason.
The dragon raised his head, sharp gold eyes, dotted with ash black blinking as he considered the new moniker.
With a roar that deafened, and brought the skies down to the Isle of the Dragon, Gēliax accepted his new name
By noon, every soul in the fortress knew of Gēliax. Rhaenyra had greeted the beast, raced against Naera on Syrax—lost, and the children had all crooned over the great silver dragon in exchange for something between indifference and violence until their septas and knights ushered them away. Daemon soared the skies, judging Caraxes hardly too tired to retire after heralding the race of the sisters. Ser Redmond now limped around the keep, evermore cautious of the Princess and her friend.
Now, with the sun high in the sky, the princess sat on the sandy beach, leaning against Gēliax’s silver belly, humming an old tune she couldn’t place the origin of. Gēliax lay warming in the sun, tail whipping from time to time when strangers approached—though there was hardly any person he didn’t waver at, except Naera.
“Se vys gimigho sȳrkta…” And the world knows better, she sang, quiet, just a melody against the crashing waves, “Nyke runagon doar.” I do not remember.
Her eyes upturned as the Bloodwyrm screeched, taking another round of the island before landing on the beach. He roared innocuously, racing the sands to approach Naera and Gēliax. The silver beast raised its head, regarding Caraxes with caution, until Daemon scuttled to the ground, sweaty and delighted.
Caraxes tilted his head, snorting smoke, and narrowed his eyes, inching towards Naera and the new dragon in their midst. His red, pulsing features struggled with the new disposition. Where Geliax was calmness incarnate, calculated, careful yet impulsive, defiant, so much the image of Naera, Caraxes was the picture of Daemon—grumpy, furious, brash and loud, yet clever, intelligent.
The red dragon locked eyes with Naera, a humbling moment for her, to be showered with the attention of a creature so fleeting. He knocked his nose against Naera’s shoulder, breathing smoke into her face, at which she only laughed.
“Qrīdrughāks, ao mele dyni,” Daemon laughed, brushing a hand over Caraxes’ scales, “Tepagon nyke iā merioso lēda ñuha ābrazȳrys, kessa ao?” Go away, you red beast. Give me a moment with my wife, will you?
Caraxes turned his head, blowing smoke straight into Daemon’s face, and then wound away, regarding the silver beast on his territory instead.
Daemon himself settled on the sand, ash trailing his footsteps, and gave Naera a glorious kiss.
“Skorkydoso is aōha ñāqatubis, valzȳrys?” How goes your morning, husband? She asked, smiling with a touch of mockery. Husband and wife, he had tried to remind without fully meaning to. He was hers and she was his.
“Visited the Dragonmont,” he smiled, regarding the image of Caraxes and Geliax with some amount of surprise. Rather than battle for dominance, as is expected with most beasts of their caliber, the two observed each other, puffing smoke, growling and whistling. “Vermithor’s grown bigger.”
Naera hummed, falling to the sand as her support with a soft whine, Geliax departed the sand, wings flapping, soaring with Caraxes. Daemon laughed, helping her up to her feet. Her hands fell to her back, waddling for a few steps before returning to her usual gait.
He pulled his arm around her, the sky was clear, the ocean was loud. The dragons swept close to the ground, racing in some twisted game of claws and flames.
“How goes your morning?” He asked her question.
“Well,” she smiled, as they took the staircase back to the fortress, “Better than any for ages.” He smiled, though solemn. Every morning since he had arrived, though a fortnight had well passed, he had seen her in sickness. Nights were spent at windowsills, afternoons cradled near the fire.
Fire. He hadn’t dared stare too hard into the flames, a strange coiling in his stomach dissuading him from the endeavour. She hadn’t either, for his comfort, perhaps, but he suspected that the woman he knew to be on the ship within sight had more to do with her reluctance to predict the deeds to come.
“Daemon, ēdrurys vēttan īlva dāryssy.” Dreams made us kings. She read his mind, as easily as she would a book, from his fleeting frequent gazes at her, at the ship, at her journals in her solar, his mind that tore itself at the fact that she was ready to flee, should she wish it.
“Yn ēdrurys gōntan mazverdagon īlva raelatys daor.” But dreams did not make us lovers. “Bona iksin vējes.” That was fate. She kissed him, hot, close, burning, her hands clutching his shoulders. She left him when they made it back to the Keep, making a home in the library away from questioning souls.
He sighed.
Chapter 28: Loss
Summary:
The Dornish Envoy; The Red Priestess.
Notes:
OOC EVERYONE I APOLOGIZE WRITER'S BLOCK HAS HIT HARD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Dornishmen who rowed in after noon were strange to Daemon’s eye. He had a great affinity for the Dornish, even if he liked denying it. Their wine began at dawn and stopped an hour before it. Yet their past with Meraxes, with his ancestress Rhaenys, put him in at dynastical odds with them.
His eyes remained on the ship at the horizon, treacherous to his sentiment. He anticipated a woman in Red to follow, but Naera made no such motion. He almost heard her whisper once. At dusk.
There were three soldiers, in leather armour, holding spears and adorned with the crest of the sun. Martell swords, Naera had whispered to him when the party crossed the threshold to the audience hall. Rhaenyra sat at the throne, sharp gazed and peace entreated. They escorted a man in golden silk, curly-haired and clean-shaved with sharp amber eyes and bronze skin. Identified as only a representative of House Martell, he had paid Daemon none of the heed that would be expected from a nobleman. He spoke with simple words in a thick Dornish accent, refusing stay and custom, thanking the Princess of Dragonstone for excusing their intrusion.
All the Martell Envoy asked was a word with the Silver Knight.
Daemon watched the resident Kingsguard, Ser Redmond or whatever the fuck his name was, frisk the soldiers for any weapons. He took their spears, and thin blades that two of them carried, cutting his hand on a pocket blade that the third had hidden. The Martell man had only a dagger, blunt and ceremonial, but Daemon suspected it to be poisoned.
Leave us, Naera had commanded after Rhaenyra departed, and not asked. He grumbled an insult, at which she raised her Valyrian Steel dagger, placably keeping it within hand’s reach. As soon as the doors closed, he crept along to one of the old passages in the Keep, taking the entrance from Aegon’s Garden to the side crypts of the Great Hall, where the Dornish held audience with his wife.
It was a dusty hallway, barred windows allowing him a peek into the solemnly lit stone throne room, another showing him the sandy beach were his dragon roared with Naera’s. Gēliax, she had renamed him. The beast swirled in the sand, roaring and gurgling flames and smoke, coughing pieces of bone with slithery, slimy entrails from old rotted meals. Where the fuck had he been?
“I offer the congratulations of House Martell, Princess.” The man in gold silk spoke, and Daemon watched Naera stand still, the picture of diplomacy in an ash black gown, red and silver scales at her sleeves, arms folded, “With this child, you usher a new age for your House, leaving your past with us behind.” Daemon crept closer to the window, seeing the Dornishman, when it clicked. Simple words, but the Martells were poets. She had written as such in all those lovesick letters to Rhaenyra. The man’s posture was stiff—far too stiff for a lord of any station, knighted or otherwise. This was a footman.
“I did love your Prince,” Naera spoke soft and clear, that old defiance that commanded respect leaking back into her tone. He’d have to get rid of that, Daemon smiled, but her words lost his confidence. Prince Raiden of Dorne and Princess Naera of King’s Landing. A match by the hand of fate, the citadel historians had praised.
Then, there was her.
He watched the Martell ship in the distance, anchored near the Isle but still within the Blackwater. He feared Naera when she turned this way. Cryptic, independent, defiant. As though she knew the world in her twenty-and-five years better than he did in his thirty-odd. He had caught her reading her journals from the Shadowlands, watched her eyes linger over the portrait of the Priestess, all red, cursed, beatific, sure, and if he tried, he could even find her beautiful.
Naera had smiled at him, sad, sad, as sad as she had been when he first met her after her time in Essos, yearning and longing for that pesky thing she called freedom. It made him angry, or rather, he thought that it did—but there was no fire to his anger, only a sinking sadness.
Would he lose her again?
She continued, “More than anything or anyone I had loved before him.” Before him.
The silken man said, “We know that.”
Naera did not seem fazed. Her lilac eyes had retained that frozen amethyst quality, a clarity of thought that bled into an estranged clarity in her eyes. Her silver hair waved a frolic as she tilted her head at the guardsmen who surrounded their ‘emissary’.
“Why are you here, Prince Qoren?” His heart dropped. The third escorting man, the one with the sharp blade Redmond had committed follies with, stepped forth, the other guards and the man in gold silk stepping back, kneeling before him.
Qoren Martell. Prince of Dorne.
“It relieves my heart to know that we have not yet grown so estranged or distant that you may not recognize me, Princess Naera.” The man was young, younger than Naera, with the same sun-bronzed complexion that the footmen carried, yet he spoke with a softer accent, his words were better chosen, his posture more dignified. Royalty.
“It relieves my heart to know that you have not yet grown so daft as to walk into an enemy monarch’s Keep undisguised.” She smiled in a kindred, warm gesture—siblings meeting years past. She opened her arms, sheathed dagger still in hand, and the Prince of Dorne embraced her.
Daemon had no thought to speak, but his jaw tightened. A Dornish Prince—nay, the Dornish Prince, the reigning ruler of the peninsula of sand, in his Keep. His love’s reminder of an old life, within proximity. He knew not what to think, much less what to speak.
When they parted, Prince Qoren smiled. “Ask what you wish to.”
Naera grimaced, her glowing features contorting in a gritting of teeth, a flare of her nose.
“And what is that?” She asked, taking three steps away from the foreign company to stand directly in the stream of light that fell through the stone ceiling. It fell on her face, but didn’t outshine her, only made her hair glow a pure gold at the forehead that faded to a splendid silver near the strands, made her skin sparkle clean.
“Ask what it is your duty to ask.” Qoren followed her with two strides, chocolate eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Duty.
Duty with the Dornish?
“I cannot,” Naera said, turning her face away from her once almost good-brother, “You know that I cannot.”
“And you know that if you ask us, we can safeguard a victory for those who wear Black in this war that comes.” Indeed. Rhaenyra’s war. Daemon recalled the tale of the Asshai’i amber merchant, the exploit of Rhaenyra’s deeds. It was Naera’s duty, as her sister’s sworn sword. By whatever means necessary, gain support for her faction. Win the war.
“There shan't be—”
“I have never known you to remain in delusion, Princess.” Peace is a delusion. Prosperity, an illusion. If the axes weren’t swinging, they were simply being sharpened, Daemon knew. His thoughts flittered back to the Stepstones, the fact that the very man who stood before his wife now ruled his old kingdom. “All you need do is ask.” Prince Qoren paced away from Naera, giving her room to breathe, time to think.
Daemon wished that he could speak up—that he could call out, offer a hand, take this deal, win this war. The offence of Rhaenys’ death be damned—the Dornish knew how to war with Dragons. They knew how to slay a dragon. Vhagar wouldn’t fall to any dragon of this age, except, perhaps, perhaps.
He thought of the wild beasts in the Dragonmont—Sheepstealer, who terrorized the fishing village in the north of the Isle. Cannibal, who rested on the corpses of his kin. Vermithor, ferocity incarnate. A dragon as grand as Vhagar, the Keepers stated.
Perhaps.
Naera shook her head, “All I shall ask is that you do not support the Greens.” Naera wouldn’t. By whatever twisted morality she had adopted, had ingrained within her, across her years in the East, she’d never exploit the Dornish, even if it was a fair exchange. Not when it may cost the Rhoynar their freedom.
Prince Qoren stepped towards the doors.
“As you wish, Princess.”
Naera bid him farewell, and remained in the hall, staring solemnly at the dagger in her hand.
When he made the rounds and returned to the Hall, she stood the same, tracing her hand over the dagger, the ornate silver-steel scabbard, the dragon’s jaw parted over the dead sharp blade.
“What is it?” He forced her to leave her speculation of the dagger, leaning his forehead against hers, holding her waist. He felt the need to be closer if only to ground her, remind her nearly constantly of what he had built with that.
“This dagger,” she pulled away, holding the blade under the light. “Where did you get it?” It sparkled.
He had given it to her the first time they properly spoke. Back in King’s Landing, in the Godswood.
Daemon took the dagger from her, spinning it in the air, catching it again. He had found it in Pentos, during one of his many exiles. He’d wagered for it, a duel to the death with a young sellsword of the Golden Company. The Valyrian Steel dagger and Dark Sister. Winner keeps all.
“Pentos,” he handed it back to her, “Why do you ask?”
“Daemon,” she laughed, “I think that this once belonged to Visenya.”
When dusk came, the family had convened for an early dinner, celebrating the return of Geliax, where the kids argued about the might of their dragons and the speed of their wings. Around the table lay empty the chairs for Daemon and Naera, and even the maids knew not where the pair had fled.
“Leave them,” Laenor had advised, scrunching his nose at the idea of catching the pair at an amorous juncture, and Rhaenyra hadn’t argued. The children had hardly noticed.
Naera knew that he would try everything, everything within his power to coerce her into staying. His child was within her, he’d remind her, their bond was eternal, he’d insist. So, perhaps just to allay his anxiety, when dusk came close to falling, she had taken his hand and dragged him to the sandy beach with her.
The wind swept his hair astray, even when it reached only his shoulders, and he squinted in irritation at the setting sun. The sky was blown to the shade of a tangerine, ripe and orange, streaked with wine red, and at the far edge of the water, the sun crept as an orb, golden and sinking through the waters.
His hand was as warm as hers, but her hold was tighter. A lone raft swept towards the isle, bobbin in sync with the currents. She could see a single person adrift on the distant boat, dressed in red, red as blood.
He stood at the edge of the sand, watching, fear growing in the pit of his stomach, dark, grotesque tendencies flooding his instincts again. He breathed, calmed himself, took one long look at his lady wife, at the way her skin refused to give up a sparkling sheen, the crystal clarity in her eyes worth more than all the world’s diamonds collected, and let her go.
Melisandre of Asshai thought that she knew much about the ways of the world. But she also knew that this was her ignorance.
All her life, she had known loss. The oldest loss had been that of her freedom. Melony, the one who must not be named whispered in her ear every night, pulling her into his embrace. Melony, is what she had once been called. A young girl with red hair, too young to fuck, though some had tried, no, a young slave with red hair, sold to the Temple at Asshai.
She remembered being told that it was her eyes—red eyes, that urged a passing Red Priest to make the purchase, and she had risen the ranks of faith simply from her long, persistent acknowledgement of the truth. The Lord of Light had saved her, rescued her from a life as a dainty whore, plucked her from her written fate and dropped her in the light. The Lord of Light had saved her, so she must do his bidding.
She remembered the coldness within her, that eve, in the cells, before she had been saved. She remembered that sense, a chill in the breeze that warned of loss, unthinkable, eternal loss—a loss she had soldiered through without a single tear spent or a single word spoken.
She had lost her will in exchange for a purpose. The journey was long, it was hard—the fire burned her eyes, the ruby charred her throat, but she must journey even further. She had longer to live, farther to strive if she was to repay her debt.
Now, as she sat on a wooden raft big enough for two, rowing her way across the Blackwater, she knew not what was to come. The lord of light had sent her West, and asked him to retrieve her lover—but this feeling, this estranged heft in the air reminded her of loss, loss and even heavier loss. She felt as she had before she lost her freedom.
R’hllor had shown her too much of what was to transpire this eve, made her listen to words that crushed her heart, made her watch scenes that broke her resolve. But that had been days ago. Now, she visited the Isle to only hear what she knows will occur, to see what she knows she shall, and the pain had mellowed into a haze. She felt no remorse. She felt no anger.
The Isle of the Dragon floated discordant in the blue waters, rocks streaked red with lava, the songs of dragons in the air. She rowed faster. Her hands ached; her skin blistered. She rowed faster still, for the sun was setting on the world, and she had made a promise.
When the Isle became clear to her sight, such that she could watch the span of sand, and feel the Blood of the Dragon pulsing in the veins of the royalty that resided within, she couldn’t smile.
She wondered if her visions were to come true today. Whether she’d lose it all again, today.
The sky burned orange, clouds the colour of gold streaking the sun.
She left the raft in the water a foot deep, trudging the salty, sandy mess till she stood in just an inch of the sea. She stood on salt, a stain of red against the pale ocean—a drop of blood on ivory skin.
There she was.
Silver hair, lilac eyes. Her Targaryen Princess, wrapped in black and red, is a pure token to her heraldry. She walked, tempered steps that made her dark cloak billow behind her, as swept with the wind as her silver hair.
We shall meet again, ‘tween sand and salt.
A wave brushed past her feet, swallowed the hem of Naera’s dress in its muddy current, and they stood before each other.
When the sun dips below the horizon.
The sky darkened, the orange sun sinking into the water to the west. The golden hour drowned. Naera stared into her eyes—rubies meeting amethysts, but there was no lust, no fire. Only wistfulness.
For hours spent in the delight of your embrace.
Naera fell into her arms, and Melisandre took a long breath of fire and brimstone, ink and paper, and something more—something sharp and metallic, different from anything she had known about her love before.
Changed. Melisandre realised. Her love had changed.
She carried a dagger of Valyrian Steel, ornate yet dangerous. She stood taller, and her eyes were brighter—not blown black with admiration as she had long known her eyes to be, but burned instead into glass.
“My love,” Melisandre smiled, wistful, aware of how things were inevitably to pass, “Do not fret,” and kissed her lips, slow, calm, nearly chaste, and held her, warm, eyes closed, eyes dry. Losses made her weep no longer. She had a longer war to fight in, and a longer life to survive.
“Do you remember when we first met?” There was warmth in Naera’s words, despite the coldness in her words. Why dig up memories that pained? “In the Dothraki Sea, in the slave cells of Vaes Dothrak?”
“Yes,” The Red Woman recalled the day with perfect clarity. A white-haired woman in the cell next to hers, biting and struggling against the cell’s bars, futile, Melisandre had thought.
“I did not mean to save you,” Naera confessed. She had been walked out of the cell, named a witch for her hair, a beast for her tongue. She had named Melisandre her accomplice. She had saved her from the fire. “I only wanted you to owe me safe journey to Asshai.”
Melisandre laughed. “But I left you behind.”
“Yes,” Naera smiled, but her eyes refused to follow, “and I must leave you.” The Red woman closed her eyes. “I cannot return.” Naera confirmed. “My—” No.
“Shhh…” Melisandre pressed a finger to her lip, held her jaw, touch tender, “You shall return to my side one day, my love,” in life or in death.
Her eyes flickered to Daemon, off in the distance, his gaze trained on the woman she held. Love is a fickle thing, the Other echoed in her mind, distant, frightening.
She met Naera’s eyes again, “But today is not that day.”
Naera fell, dragging the priestess down with her in sobs, and cries, apologies and promises, but Melisandre listened to none of it. She had no need to. She had heard it all in her dreams already.
“Thank you,” the woman once called Melony told the Silver Knight, “Thank you for letting me love you.”
Notes:
OK SO THE ISSUE HERE IS
Mels already knows what is supposed to happen, and that is why the reconciliation is so dry. Ik this was the easy way out but nothing felt /right/ for them to do other than them not saying what needed to be said--ergo, they both knew what was gonna happen anyway.
Chapter 29: Complete
Summary:
Aemond's desires come to truth as Daemon and Naera wed in the way of old Valyria.
Notes:
NSFW Content! not THAT explicit, only vague kissing and fondling, heavy implications, suggestive themes, etc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aemond knocked tentatively on the ebony door, feet shuffling as he turned to his back, then each side, not at all calmed by the endless echoing corridors of the Keep. In his hand he held an ornate box that lay carved with ancient Valyrian runes—the result of his escapades in the King’s Stores, that he had taken it upon himself to deliver to his uncle and half-sister as a marital gift.
And then some. He had a question to ask, assistance to seek from the person he had grown to trust may understand. His half-sister was as selfish as he felt, he knew, and his uncle her husband even graver in his deeds. They were the perfect match, in a way—blood and fire, the epitome of what it meant to be Targaryen. The world would know no peace.
“Come!” He heard Naera scream from within, and he turned the heavy door on its hinges, silent. And entered the solar. It was strewn adrift with papers and letters, books and fresh parchment. Pots of ink sat beside collections of quills, ornate and rough-spun huddled alike, beside bottles of Dornish Red and some strange concoctions in twinkling glass bottles that ranged from the looks of curdled milk to liquid jade. He could smell ginger, at his first step, lemon at his second, and ash and embers when he sat.
Naera sat on her chair, eyes trained on a letter. She read it, expression bearing a soft frown that he realised was the natural way her lips fell, until she smiled, crumpled the pages in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Good morrow, Aemond.” Aemond turned to the window, one good eye watching the sun make its descent into the waters.
“It is to be evening soon, sister.” Naera followed his gaze to the window, to the haze that would soon be ushered with twilight. Her face glowed differently, he saw. Much had changed since they last met, even if only a moon had turned. As for him.
He’d made his moves carefully, spent stollen moments with the object of his every desire. He’d plucked her flowers she had never held before, told her tales of truth and sometimes even of valour, stollen kisses under the cover of shadowy night, and held to his stealth for protection. It wasn’t enough.
“Ah.” She turned to the door to her chambers, and said, aloud, “The sun sets soon, make some haste, dear groom.” He saw that she still wore a gown of black silk, not the garments of their tradition. He heard laughter from the other side, slurred words in their mother tongue that Aemond couldn’t quite decipher, but he recognised that Naera sat blushing and silent afterwards.
Blushing, for all her warrior-like ways. It was rather different from his sweet true sister’s blushes. Naera seemed scandalised, mischievous, a light flush of red on her cheeks, an embarrassed smile on her lips, but Helaena, Helaena blushed so red he feared he’d have to fetch a maester, turned so high and brilliant, eyes sparkling, lips chapped together that he--right.
He set the box down on the table, “A gift to commemorate your union.”
Naera smiled, inching the box closer to herself for a look. “Thank you—” but the door opened with a shudder.
Aemond’s uncle walked in, scuttered, rather—his steps were hasty. He was dressed in traditional garbs—red and cream, his silver-white hair left free to hang an inch above his shoulders, Dark Sister in her scabbard in his hand.
“No,” Naera covered her eyes, “A Tyroshi priestess once told me that gazing upon your betrothed on your day of marriage is considered ill-luck.” A burst of laughter left her lips.
“And a Valyrian book once told me that I may gaze at my wife as often as I wish.” Daemon left his sword on the table, snatched his wife’s hands away from her face and kissed her lips, with lust and haste, then kissed her forehead, and ran out the door. Aemond watched his back as he left, baffled as to when he had retaken the sword.
“I closed my eyes!” Naera screamed after him. Still laughing, she turned back to Aemond, “What can I do for you, brother?” Brother. He smiled back at her, unable to stop himself.
“Tell me, sister,” he breathed, licked his lips, hesitant. That is why he’d come, he knew. Sure, pay respects to his favourite family members after Helaena, congratulate them on their union, but there was always the other cause. “How can I take her?” Her, her, her; his Helaena, splendid, ethereal beauty wrapped in a promise of treason.
Naera sighed, and he was glad that she’d understood without him having to spend more words.
Naera poured him a cup of wine, water the colour of blood settling into a silver cask, like rubies spilling from a dark slate. Naera froze as she filled it, eyes distant, lost. Then, she asked, voice betraying her dreamy loss of the moment, “Does the Trident have Green Waters?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head, handed him the cup and returned to her chair.
Aemond swallowed the wine in a breath, eye not leaving his sister’s face. She had paled, that sickly palour returning to her face. She blinked frantically, sipped a cup of water.
“You cannot take her, Aemond,” Take what you want, she had told him some moons ago—and he realised his folly. It was akin to a jerk to wake him from a long sleep.
Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t take her, how could he? Where would they go? What would they do when men came seeking them? Had he been so blinded by his love, that he’d forgone all practicality? He’d hoped that she’d have an answer but—“You can maybe ask her.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a ghostly pain returning from under his eyepatch.
Naera sighed, “A maiden’s word must be your shield if you intend to have her.” Rapers went to the Wall at best, to the headsman at worst. Disgraceful.
“I do not mean to defile her,” Aemond defended, “I wish to wed her—to—” to see her wear the garbs Naera would at dusk, to drink her blood and hold her hand and vow to protect her for all their lives. That was what he wanted.
Naera refilled his cup, “I know, and she knows. The world does not.”
“You could—”
“What?” His sister’s eyes grew cold and cruel, her voice tuned to injure, to pick at his folly and tear him a regretful wound, “Tell the world that you love her? It isn’t so simple.” Aemond looked down, unable to meet those crystal eyes. Every word she spoke was true, and that hurt. Leave the world, he thought, Mother is the one we need to convince.
“You can only love for so long without being loved, brother,” Naera sighed, chin dropping to her palm, elbow banging against the table, “You can only run if she wishes it also.” Run with me, Helaena. We’ll wed in the faith of the Seven or that of the Valyrians. We’d be one heart, one soul—just say the word.
“She wants me, I am certain of it.” She hates Aegon and knows well that their days near quickly. If only Mother saw through her schemes.
“It is only mother, even the King—”
Naera shook her head, “Fuck the King,” he smiled at her brashness, “fuck your mother and your cock of a grandsire,” he felt a pang of shame after the moment passed. He hadn’t defended them, he realised. He agreed with his sister. His mother, fuck Alicent, who wouldn’t see past the grey shroud of duty to gaze at the world in all its colour. Love was the colour he wished to see, he reminded himself. He had caught a glimpse, now he wanted a full look. “Aemond,” she summoned his wits back to her, “Ask her, confide in her, and run, together.”
Dusk hung heavy in the isle of Dragonstone, a curtain of fog descending on the shores as fires were lit and the Blood of the Dragon gathered near the volcanic crypts. It was a cacophony of red and black, the colours of their heritage—silver hair and purple eyes, fire in their veins, all gathered in respect or obligation.
The priest fanned the coal and flames, ornate chalices and candles gathered by Rhaenyra arranged on a block of rock marbled with red and yellow—it was a slab of frozen fire mined from the haunted crypts of the Dragons.
Daemon could hear them murmuring through the fog from where he stood on the sandy beach. He could make out the Hightower cunt’s voice, could see her black gown flapping in the breeze even through the fog, and it only irritated him. The Blood of the Dragon had gathered, so why, pray why had the stupid lanterns joined in? His robes were scratchy and cold, the calm breezes did nothing to allay his urgency. The sun was falling into the sea, a streak of gold and saffron following it, and the mists grew pink and red as though the sky itself bled. It was time
The waves rustled the sands calmly as she took his side. Wrapped in a robe nearly identical to his—cream and ruby, adorned with gold, an ornate headdress laid between her braided silver locks. Beautiful. The curve of her nose, the pink flesh of her lips, her eyes—crystals clearer than diamonds painted blue and red, gods.
His ire vapourized, that familiar panging of his heart returning, thud, thud, his heart now beat only for her, it seemed.
He took her hand wordlessly, her chilled touch sending shivers through him, and in his mind, he spoke a prayer.
Let me hold this hand forever.
The rocky shores bristled against her bare feet, reminding Naera of the time she had scaled the ports of Asshai from the rocky ends. It hurt, but it was worth it. Daemon’s hand was warm in hers, his grasp tight and binding, as they crossed the threshold to where their family waited.
The fires flared when they made it to the clearing, the sky reddened like a maiden’s blush—if the Gods could betray more of their intentions, she did not know how. With the cold of the fog and the warmth of his hand, the serene calmness of this event came a gradual understanding that this was right. She was meant for this—to be his, to hold his hand, to wield her sword for them, to sleep and wake and live beside him. Her uncle who had never cared for her, but now he cared not what the world said as long as he could have her.
Her family stood around the flames; the two branches of the house split over the priest. Viserys stumbled close, wilting hair and face, though he had a guilty smile on. He’d done this in some hope of companionship, but it had grown into a sickly sort of love, he knew.
He took her hand, clasped it in his cold damp one, and pressed a shuddering kiss to her forehead. Naera smiled at him, and watched him return to Rhaenyra’s side—Rhaenyra, who smiled in a way most disillusioned, who stood with her husband, her sworn guards, her children, her court, choosing war even in that moment. Across the priest was Alicent, face contorted in distaste for such old ways, her children at her side, all in red and black, a treaty of peace. Aemond gave her a curt nod when she met his eye, a tingling smile on her lips.
The priest—one of the old Keepers of the Dragonpit who still followed those old doomed gods—began his droning, hymns sung to Meleys, the goddess of love and fertility, to Teraxes, to Balerion—to nearly every god, but Naera cared not. This had been the scene, she knew—Daemon shrouded in fog, silent and still, calmness in his eyes.
The priest handed him a blade of obsidian, a shard of glass as black as night that glowed in its shadowy beauty. He ran it down her lower lip, skin splitting instantly, blood pooling. He dabbed his thumb on that red, red, red beauty, and smeared a straight line on her forehead.
I name you woman, fire in your veins, it meant.
She took the blade, and did the same for him, his blood warm against her thumb as she drew three bent lines on his forehead.
I name you man, blood in your nature.
He traced the dagger over his palm, striking a wound deep and true to stand out amongst all the thousands of scars that he brandished. A line of red dripped down his skin. Naera traced the same wound on her own palm—Of my own will, I thus give you myself, and their hands joined in a flash of pain and flame.
The priest began, “Hen lantoti ānograr va syndroti vāedroma,” Blood of two joined as one, lifeblood dripping to mingle and mix, tethering them to each other.
The priest wrapped a ribbon the colour of night and light over their held hands, blood dripping down through the binds.
“Mēro perzot gīhoti elēdroma iārza sīr,” Ghostly flame and song of shadows.
He handed Naera a chalice of stone and glass, as dark as night, and she tilted the vessel till salt and iron flooded her tongue. Our blood to bind.
“Izulī ampā perzī prumī lanti sēteski,” Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires.
Daemon mirrored her acts, his face twisting as their blood laced his tongue. He swallowed it bravely and watched Naera’s eyes. Close, so close.
“Hen jeny māzilarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.
Naera breathed, breaking into a delicate smile again, “I shall be your side forever.”
He took her other hand, eyes never leaving—lilac and lilac, crystal clear and shallow pools of glass. “I shall hold your hand forever.”
“Synroro ōñō jēdo ry kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time of Darkness and Light.
She inhaled, cold, wet air flooding her nose in a rush, and she gazed, gazed, gazed at him, his eyes that refused to leave hers, the wealth of his wisdom yet to be cultivated, the gift of his existence forever claimed by her. She said, “I will defend you.” Against the night, against the light, against whatever was to come. Against every wish to exile, every spat with the greens, every ill word with the King, she will stand by him, she will protect his honour as though it was her own.
He smiled, though both love and mischief twinkled in his eye, “I will warm you.” When the night was dark and full of terrors, when the end came and she will faltered, he shall be with her, he shall give her fire and light. He will warm her bed and hers alone, warm her body when the cold came, warm her spirits over every loss and share her joy over every victory.
Naera said, “I will give it all up for you.” Dorne, Volantis, Pentos, the Dothraki Seas, Asshai, and her dreams—Yi Ti, the Jade Sea, whatever lays east of the Shadow, the very wonders of the world could be laid abandoned. She loved too easily, but even the gods had proclaimed this union as perfection.
“I will never hurt you.” Not as he once had, no, never. He will never disappoint her, never let her down, never leave her behind, never let her think that he could survive without her.
“I will love you.” Daemon’s heart lost a weight he did not know he bore, a delightful, fiery blaze in his chest, a joy uncontainable. His, his, his. She was his, every flicker on her eyes belonged to him, every mocking word his, every act of bravery, every witted word. He loved already, but he could love better, now that she loved him also.
His hand flew to her face, thumb smearing the blood at her lip, red, red, red, and to show that he cared, that he loved, that he was willing to understand, he said, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”
She leaned on her toes and kissed his lips.
His laughter would be her lifeblood, she realised as his heaving breaths reverberated through her chest, made her feel warm, made her feel him, his spirit and not just his body.
“D’you know what they’ll all say,” he spoke into her neck, his nose breathing cool air over the red mark of his bite, “When you grow round and great with my child, again and again?”
She laughed, a fleeting giggle morphing into a ridiculed laugh, “What?” He pulled her into a different corridor, away from their chambers.
“The Princess must really love her uncle’s cock,” the vulgarity made her roll her eyes.
“Maybe they’ll think that the prince has no control over himself,” Naera challenged, “Keeps getting his sweet niece with child, the poor woman.” He pushed her against a wall, the cold stone of the corridors of the Keep making her flush and hum, and his hands roamed her flesh like a man starved.
Their lips met, tongues melding, breaths fading until the newly wedded couple panted for breath.
“Poor woman?” His eyes twinkled with the sort of courage that came with deeds best not committed.
“They needn’t know,” she kissed his cheek, arms winding around his neck. “They needn’t know that the idea of bearing her uncle’s seed fills the niece with a selfish joy that she cannot account for.” With a deft flick of his hand, her robes parted, rough linen tearing aloud.
“Oh, but the uncle knows,” he descended on her neck again, “He knows very well how much his niece loves having his spend in her womb.” He hoisted her legs up, lips falling to her breasts.
“Yes, oh, yes he does,” she moaned, wits departing her, fingers tugging at his hair, leading him to the other breast. He complied greedily, nipping, licking, kissing the flesh, leaving red and purple marks on every patch of free skin.
Her garbs were torn and ruined; her headdress abandoned in the hands of Laenor before they had scurried to the corridors in some mad bout of lust. Gods, lust was only one word for what she felt. She felt charged, as though lightning had struck her very soul. She felt fiery, as she often did when he stood beside her.
One kiss to his lips and the sentiment had caught on as a candle flame blazes into an arsonist’s dream.
Now her swelling flesh was in his hands. She had lapped away the drying blood of his lip, sucked at the tear in his skin till the wound was raw, and now, she was at his mercy once again.
“Daemon,” she called, making him stare into her eyes with his own, lilac flowers and bloody amethysts. Beautiful. His hair was tousled, red streaking his forehead, but his eyes, those eyes that were over a decade older than her own yet were livelier than she had been just moons ago.
“Naera,” he called back, as had become their ritual, and she recalled the sweet bliss of hearing her name from his lips again. Completion, he made her sound complete, made her believe that she could conquer this new land that was marriage and slay this new demon that was mistrust.
Footsteps.
And the moment broke, but he was smiling as he leaned his face close to hers, covering her form from view.
“Fuck off,” he chastised behind himself, swaying his wife slowly. “Can’t you see—” but Naera put a finger to his lips, her eyes trained over his shoulder. Daemon turned tentatively, half-expecting his brother or the Hightower cunt or the cunt lord of hands but no.
He hugged his sweet wife tighter as she gave a subtle nod to Aemond, her half-brother—his sister Helaena’s hand in his, her face caught blushing a bright red, as they rushed through corridors and passageways, hastened and cautious. When their footsteps echoed away, Naera laughed.
“The Hightowers fall on our wedding after all.”
To be, or not to be…
…continued
Notes:
This is the end! HAHAha
I am now waiting for HOTD S2 to hit the screens so that I can write the Dance with the changes the Silver Knight would bring, but I don't know if I will continue writing this. I want to, certainly, but life has grown rather busy, as is obvious by my hiatus last year.If I do continue, this is my plan for future work:
A historical account with some snap-shots of Aemond and Helaena's relationship
Dance of the Dragons with Naera involved.
An account of her travels through Essos, perhaps in the form of some conversations with Daemon or in the epistolary form by piecing together letters and journal entries and conversations with Rhaenyra and Daemon.Tell me if you have any suggestions regarding the above, but know that I will not be readily available post 3 days of publishing this last chapter due to personal reasons.
I have also published a one-shot sort of thing for Visenya Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon if you'd want to check that out.
I started this all intending to write a Game of Thrones fanfic, a typical rewrite-the-bad-ending. The idea was something like this:
Rhaenys, daughter of Rhaegar and Elia survives the Sack of King's Landing (she is rescued by the Dornish). She is raised in Dorne by Oberyn and Doran and returns to play the Game of Thrones pretending to be Oberyn's bastard son. She'd stop him from spiralling out of control in Tyrion's trial by combat, and they'd travel from place to place so that she could better understand the land she was born to rule. I wanted to play on Dany's slight gay-codedness in the books by making her later marry Rhaenys who publically pretended to be Aegon (as she had all the support of the Westerosi Lords due to some plot-defined reasons) out of convenience, but it would later end up as a romantic situation.
This is OBVIOUSLY a very rough idea, but please let me know if you'd like to read something of this sort from me. I'd be open to collaboration if you're willing to wait for, WELL, a year and a half (again, personal reasons).but apart from this, thank you very, very much to anyone and everyone who took the time to read this fanfic. It was my longest commitment to date, and in a franchise that I have found to be hopelessly addictive. I am glad to have received all these kudos and comments and would encourage you to comment further. Though I will be online infrequently, I will still try to make an effort to be present to read and reply to your comments. If you'd like to reach out, contact me on my Tumblr where I'll try to be active once every week or so - https://www.tumblr.com/chromiumagellanic06
Once again, THANK YOU for all your support and your time. Let me know if anything above interests you for a future read, and comment any suggestions/requests below also. I treasure every word I hear from this community and would love to see more :)
Thank you
Chapter 30: #Update
Chapter Text
Hello
Facing a dilemma as to where this story should go
Kindly visit my Tumblrand let me know what you think
Chapter 31: #Update on Edit
Chapter Text
Hello
I’m back.
Surprising, I know.
I’m working on some minor pretty major edits to this storyline to better fit my plans for
drumroll please,
The Dance of Dragons
Naera edition.
Idk how much of a readership this fic has these days, but kindly proceed to my Tumblr or this comment section to
1. Ask questions
2. Tell me about anything you would like to see in the story (the edit of this fic or the sequel)
3. Berate me for my disappearance
4. Literally anything you want to say
thank you
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