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Published:2020-04-25Updated:2026-04-06Words:409,591Chapters:71/?Comments:5,538Kudos:6,020Bookmarks:1,659Hits:467,056
The Stormborn and the Stormbringer
SkilledWarriorKiwi
Chapter 37: Family matters
Chapter Text
The saddle was made from thick, hard leather. The seat was deeply curved and densely padded, the housing and skirt flared out so Daenerys could both sit upright or lie flat for hours with ease. Numerous pouches were drafted next to the pommel, able to slot in a warhorn and spyglass and other necessities. At the back housing of the saddle there was bags, large enough to carry supplies for weeks, along with tonics and bandages and needle and thread. The saddle was designed to be placed at the base of Ghidorah's midmost neck, wide straps securely wrapping around the thick scales of his neck and forged with the spines in mind to help the saddle be secured tight against him. There had also been rungs set into the straps, so Daenerys could scurry upon onto his back as it grew increasingly larger even when crouched.
Anchored into the dense leather of the saddle was a chain of Valyrian steel, forged to clip onto the belt she had made with Aemon's maester chains. Even if she was shot or knocked unconscious, she would remained anchored to the saddle.
Daenerys had removed some of Aemon's ashes from the jar in her chambers, giving it to one of the workers who mixed it with their dye. Once done the saddle was a dark, gleaming black with the padding and skirt a deep crimson. The Targaryen sigil was embedded into the side of the saddle with hundreds of droplet sized rubies while the stitching was in shining golden thread.
If it had been before their fight before Meereen Ghidorah would not have allowed himself to be saddled. But after having his mother fall from his back he submitted to Daenerys' request with barely more than a grumble. Though he refused to let the workers measure him, so Daenerys had to clamber over his shoulders and looping twine around his necks to give them the measurements. The saddle could stay at its size while the straps were designed to be easily altered to accommodate his growing size. While Ghidorah did not grow as swiftly as he had done so since first hatching, he continued to grow at a slow yet steady pace.
She could still ride Ghidorah saddleless, for quick or short journeys where she would not be in peril of being knocked from Ghidorah's back, but for longer flights she would have comfort and stability.
Once errand that had been completed, Daenerys insisted Ser Barristan begin training her in swordplay.
She was under no illusions that she would be the second coming of Aemon the Dragonknight, but she had no desire to shame herself or Blackfyre if she was attacked and needed to defend herself. There were places where her Queensguard or Ghidorah could not protect her so she wanted to be able to rely upon herself. She still remembered how helpless she felt, in that room alone with Strickland with no means to defend herself while Ghidorah was trapped outside and unable to reach her.
To her relief Barristan did not argue her declaration, as she knew full well how many viewed women-in-arms at Westeros, and proceeded to tutor her in the late hours before the sunset. Then she could bathe before going to sleep, her limbs and muscles tinging from exertion.
It quickly became apparent Daenerys had to treat Blackfyre as a true two handed sword. While a man like Barristan could wield the sword in one hand and a shield in the other, Daenerys was slight enough she was unable to do so, even with Blackfyre being far lighter than most weapons due to being forged of Valyrian steel. Barristan also had to alter his tutelage for accommodate her svelte form.
"You cannot brace yourself against other opponents due to size," Barristan explained to her. "Men are strong, sturdy and steady. You are small, fast and weak. You must learn how to fight in that way. Learn to divert the blows rather than blocking them, to weave around your opponent rather than striking at them head on."
Her first lessons with Barristan were largely dedicated to her stance, posture and getting used to Blackfyre's weight and length. Barristan would have her following her through basic forms, explaining how important it was for a knight to keep themselves limber before battle and to understand their weapon. Buckled nerves could cost a fight and training her muscles would have to be a slow, steady process. To do so too fast could cause damage or permanent pain.
He also got a rod of wood and would strike at her hands or limbs, so she would learn to never drop her weapon in combat. It also helped inure her to pain, as Barristan explained many battles were lost when a soldier flinched at the wrong moment or lost their weapon.
Growing up with Viserys and his increasing madness meant Daenerys had grown used to shutting off her reaction when struck or smoothing her face blank to the blows. Viserys would grow enraged if she cried, his slaps and clawing harsher as he screamed at her to be quiet. Dealing with Viserys' volatile, shifting moods meant that even with Barristan raising welts over her knuckles she would not drop Blackfyre, even if he sometimes did it without warning as she moved through basic stances to get her body used to the sword.
Then he escalated to trying to seize the weapon, explaining how some fighters would grab others to yank them close, to throw them off balance while disarming them and leaving them helpless. In this, Daenerys did not relinquish her hold, hanging onto Blackfyre's hilt grimly even if at one point Barristan outright held her over the ground.
She hadn't realized how strong her grip had gotten, clinging to Ghidorah's back.
But while Barristan taught her how to fight like a knight, Daario taught her how to fight like a sellsword.
He taught her the soft, vulnerable places upon men. Where to skewer a blade to disembowel, how to hide daggers up her sleeves to slip down to her hands to strike through helms to puncture eyeballs. Daenerys knew that much, still remembering Strickland's blood and flesh in her mouth and how even a fully grown man was felled within seconds from such a blow. Where his pulse had throbbed and the vulnerable skin of the throat. There were big veins hidden within the body, where if one was sliced then a man would bleed within moments. The most easy to find was the one within the throat.
Daario had his two blades, his Dothraki arkakh and his Myrish stiletto with their golden hilts of women. One for slashing and one for puncturing. Best to have one of each, he explained, for while many Essosi did not care for armour those that did still had their soft places.
The sellsword also taught her how to squirm out of grips, how to snap fingers when caught in a grip, of the easily buckled joint of a man's knee or how best to drive up a knee in the genitals or to spit in eyes. Of how to push up her hands and shove apart the arms of a man throttling her, how to drive the heel of her palm up at a sharp angle of a nose.
"Honour, honour means nothing when you're dead in the dirt," Daario scoffed, making no secret of the disdain he felt for Barristan's combat methods. "The way to win is to kill your opponent as quick as any in whatever way you can, unless you wish to make him suffer. I can teach you those tricks of how to make a man squirm as well if you so desire, my queen."
Daenerys kept her opinions upon that to herself; Barristan's record spoke for itself, in living through so many wars and she doubted the Tyroshi would beat the old knight in single combat. Yet she also understood Daario's method of fighting. She was no fool, she knew what would await her if she was ever captured by enemy soldiers and would do whatever she needed to break free as there were many places her son could not follow. Even if it meant biting out throats like a wild beast or clawing out their eyes with her fingers. But she felt there was a way to balance the two, to keep her honour yet also fight to survive. A blend of each.
I am not a knight so I cannot fight as one yet I am not a sellsword so I cannot fight as one. I am a queen yet ultimately a woman. I must fight to survive, as all other women have done before me.
To her surprise Missandei also quietly asked if she could join Daenerys with her more pragmatic lessons with Daario. The scribe explained she was no warrior, yet she would like to know how to defend herself if need be in any manner possible. Daario's methods suited that well, especially when Missandei chose daggers as her weapon, much like the Tyroshi's daggers which he showed her how to hide upon bracers hidden beneath the sleeves of her dresses. Something to protect her if she became cornered, something to keep hidden in plain sight until they were needed.
While the Naathi were well known for their peaceful ways to the point of refusing to even defend themselves or consume the flesh of animals, Missandei had seen far too much in her young life to stand idle if she were attacked. Life in chains made even the smoothest of stones jagged and Missandei stated she would rather cut her own throat than ever be taken as a slave again if that came to it. And much more cut the throats of slavers if they tried to do it again.
"I do not jape about peace," Missandei explained. "I wish for nothing more than to help bring about such a thing. Yet I refuse to do nothing to protect myself from those who seek to cause me harm or to stand idle while people enslave others. No, I refuse to die in chains and would rather die with a knife in my hand."
Daario approved, stating that a surprise attack was the most effective one of all. Missandei, with her willowy figure and flowing gowns and round soft features, would certainly be under estimated. A dagger to a throat or to a vulnerable joint would be enough for her to break free and escape, something she devoted her lessons to with her typical focus. While her butterflies slowly grew Missandei still insisted on knowing the basics of daggers, the blades long and narrow and light in her nimble grip. Daario handled such weapons effortlessly, showing Missandei how to flick the hilt across her palm and how to toss it midair to jab and slice. Though he did caution to not throw daggers unless it was the last option, as opponents could either grab the weapon or could leave one defenseless.
Missandei fared far better with the daggers than Daenerys, the Naathi rapidly getting used to the agility needed to handle the narrow weapons. Daenerys decided to keep some daggers upon her self as well, strapped to her thigh and another in her boot, but mostly she focused upon Blackfyre.
The days shifted and Meereen began to settle into a true peace. Her annihilation of the masters had finally removed the Harpy infesting the city and she received no more reports of cowardly acts in the dark ever since she held the trials. The blood began to dry and Meereen began to rebuilt, replanting the crops beyond which had been destroyed by the invading army. At the very least Essos had a climate akin to the long Summer still clinging to Westeros. Crops grew eagerly in the heat and passing rain as Daenerys focused both on letting Meereen recover while dealing with her own internal affairs, starting with the prisoners.
She interrogated the handful of captured ironborn from the siege but they all said the same thing; that their captain, Victarian Greyjoy, had his mind bent by bloodmagic. A black priest they'd fished out of the ocean, the only survivor of a shipwreck who'd warped the captain's mind. There was also talk of a dusky woman- some strange slave or pet she was unsure considering the accounts of the captives -who the captain kept locked up in his cabin. She'd been annoyed when she heard them recount how the captain intended to take her as his bride. Why anyone would think she would ever consider the hand of a reaver she did not understand but perhaps they put too much stock in the rumours of the masters.
It did also confirm how information about her still traveled at a steady pace to Westeros, as even those at the far reaches of the continent at the Iron Islands knew of her. It was a mission, the prisoners explained, that the new King of the Isles of the North gave his brother. Euron Greyjoy, who was the man who wished to offer Daenerys marriage. To be his rock wife, his true bride. Victarian Greyjoy had disobeyed his king, his mind twisted with the strange priest coming aboard who scorched his arm, and wanted Daenerys for his own and was willing to use the horn, Dragonbinder, to force her into it.
Daenerys questioned them further but none of the captives knew anything about that terrible horn beyond some basic truths; Euron had it sounded it before, at the Kingsmoot on the Iron Islands and the man who had blown it died with blistered lips and the tattoo upon his chest bleeding. Daenerys could well remember the noise that horn made and did not dismiss their claims. They only knew what Euron said, that the horn was made from that of an ancient dragon horn and he had claimed to find it upon Old Valyria.
That Daenerys showed disbelief in. None sailed to Old Valyria. Or those that did never returned. It was a cursed place filled with demons and twisted beasts so she dismissed that particular claim about the Dragonbinder. But the weapon still held fast in her mind, remembering its hellish scream. Then Ghidorah's answering one and how when Daenerys fell from her child's back all she could see was that golden star shooting across the black tapestry of the sky before she was sucked into that other worldly dream.
She complained about it later in her chambers, having finished a late lunch out on her balcony after she had questioned the ironborn.
"What use is there in the Iron Islands?" she asked Barristan. "From what I know it is a rocky crag, with no trees and abundance of ore and on the far side of Westeros. Why would this Euron Greyjoy think I would accept his hand from a world away?"
"The ironborn are a craven lot," Barristan replied. "Reaving and raping and stealing are their way of life. If what the prisoners say is true then Euron Greyjoy sought to steal you away as any pirate would want."
"With that horn."
"An unholy thing. It is best that your dragon destroyed it."
Ghidorah hadn't cared about it either way. He just seemed to think the horn had been a challenge and had responded in kind before vaporizing the ship and her crew. He did not care to think more upon it as the object was destroyed.
Daenerys meanwhile was wary of that thing and what other objects out there akin to it. She took a sip from her goblet of sweetwater, looking out over Meereen. The air was warm but dry, puffy clouds rolling across the sky. Off in the far distance she could see Ghidorah, even if he looked no bigger than a bird yet she recognized him nonetheless.
"Do you believe he could have found it on Valyria?" she asked the knight.
"There is nothing there but demons and ghosts," Barristan said. "Anyone who enters the Smoking Sea is never seen again. I still remember when Gerion Lannister, Tywin Lannister's younger brother, took an expedition to Old Valyria in an effort to retrieve the House's Valyrian greatsword Brightroar which had been lost in the smoke when centuries ago the Lion King Tommen Lannister took a great fleet to pillage Valyria after the Doom and never returned. Gerion followed in the steps of his ancestor and even a decade later he has never returned from that accursed place."
"Did not one return from Valyria?" Daenerys questioned, remembering the many books she'd devoured about her House. "A daughter of Aegon and Rhaena? She was a rider of Balerion I heard tell."
"Aye, Aerea Targaryen. That was a tale well known in the Red Keep even if it is surrounded by mystery and rumours," Barristan looked troubled, the deep lines upon his face thickening further with his frown. "She was indeed one of the riders of Balerion, after Maegor's death upon the Iron Throne. Apparently the Black Dread took her to Old Valyria though none could say why; she would have only been a young girl, perhaps Balerion refused to obey her as he did his past riders who were well grown when they claimed him, and he simply returned to what he saw as home as he was the only one of the Conquest dragons to have been born on Valyria."
"She was stricken with sickness when she returned. A great fever."
"Something even worse than that, Your Grace. Specifics are unknown and any written tales destroyed but rumours and stories persist as living things through the generations in the Red Keep, even within the Kingsguard. They say there were living things within the girl, eating her alive and she died shortly after returning to Westeros. It was after that monstrous happenstance that King Jaehaerys declared any Westerosi who visited Old Valyria would be executed. Perhaps he feared such a thing could become a plague akin to Greyscale and spread to others."
Daenerys stared down at her goblet, at the delicate patterns carved into the metal. They resembled vines with delicate blooms, wrapping around the cup and slithering down the stem.
"Balerion was injured on Old Valyria."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Something upon that accursed isle managed to cause the Black Dread to bleed. I would not want to fathom it."
She let out a thoughtful hum, eyes straying back to the horizon stretched out beyond. Old Valyria, enshrouded by myths and rumours and death. Her House only escaped the Doom due to Daenys the Dreamer and her powerful prophetic dream. Was it so dragons would be alive, to fight the next Long Night? The Dance saw to that but Daenerys had managed to keep her family's legacy alive with the birth of her child. And Kinvara had been quite sure that Ghidorah was a gift from the Lord of Light, with his unique appearance. Daenerys wondered if the red priestess knew anything about Old Valyria.
"Then I think this 'Euron Greyjoy' was simply embellishing himself with claims of taking the horn from that ruin," Daenerys decided. "Perhaps he thought that tale might intrigue me, if his brother had acted in his wishes rather than using the horn against me. But regardless, I have no interest in marriage, especially from a barren isle."
"There is still the Dornish way," Barristan offered. "The proposal from Prince Quentyn changes much and Dorne is a land with merit."
"It changes nothing. The secret deal was for my brother's hand and he is long dead now."
"House Martell is ancient and noble, and has been a leal friend to House Targaryen for more than a century, Your Grace," Barristan told her. "I had the honor of serving with Prince Quentyn's great-uncle in your father's seven Kingsguard. Prince Lewyn was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Quentyn Martell is of the same blood, if it please Your Grace. They also hold no fondness for the Lannisters, they suffered as much grief at the hands of the lions as your own House."
There could be truth in that, something she pondered as she stared into her goblet. The prince had seemed pleasant and well spoken enough when he met her, if not nervous. That she could not fault him for and she briefly wondered upon how she would feel if she accepted the boy's suit. If she did indeed take him for her husband, in all manner that word entailed.
She should be eager with anticipation for any potential wedding of hers and the night that would follow. She remembered the night of her first wedding, when Khal Drogo had claimed her maidenhead beneath the strange stars of Essos in the heated night. She remembered how frightened she had been and how excited. Even once Drogo had perished, when they had been crossing the Red Waste and beyond she had been offered bedmates from the likes of Irri, Doreah and even some of the men and other women in the khalasar. It would be an honour to please their Khalessi, the Mother of Dragons, they had said as they gladly offered themselves to her. She had declined, as her time was spent tending to her newborn child and then everything had moved as swift as a river so she had no thought to it; the Undying, the Unsullied, taking Yunkai and then ruling Meereen. She had no time and no inclination to invite any into her bed despite remembering the pleasure, and knowing many would eagerly take the chance to slide into her sheets with her such as Daario. But she still remembered how it felt to be touched, the warmth of another body. Strong arms gripping her, lips nipping her flesh.
Would it be the same with Quentyn, a slim nervous youth with such forgetful features? No, it would not. She was not a naive girl anymore, and he was not her sun-and-stars who had died with his hair uncut and rode now through the night lands with the Great Stallion, the stars as his gleaming khalasar. So rich even his slaves wore collars and she wore a heavy golden torc inscribed with ancient Valyrian glyphs on her wedding night.
You stupid little whore, calling yourself Breaker of Chains yet you still love your savage husband who raped you to tears over and over until you wished for death and who carried a horde of slaves. Yet you still call him your sun-and-stars when you were just another one of his slaves. Until you thought you'd fucked obedience into him and believed claiming your own slaves would save them. He cared only for the bastard in your belly and he would have stolen your dragon the moment he was hatched and left your worthless body behind.
The scathing words of the shade of Viserys with gold boiling his flesh, as he stood before her in the dream when she fell from Ghidorah's back, sliced through her reminiscing like a knife. She could near smell the burning flesh, how heavy her belly had been in that tent at Vaes Dothrak with Drogo before the golden crown.
Her sun-and-stars. The man who brought her like cattle. A man took her relentlessly each night after their wedding night and ignored her tears until she wanted to die. Who did not care to learn the Common Tongue to speak to her, until Irri taught her enough Dothraki so she could speak to him instead. A man who protected her and held her fondly, who called her the moon of his life. Who trusted the maegi to tend to his wound because Daenerys insisted it so and the woman poisoned him and killed their child within her.
Her husband, her owner. Her sun-and-stars and her captor.
Who would have stolen Ghidorah without a second thought, once Rhaego died within her and her womb became as barren as a desert. He had made a Khaleesi of her yet a Khalessi was nothing without her Khal.
Daenerys' hands tightened around her goblet, taking several sips as she regained her composure. Drogo was dead and she had her child, to dwell upon the past caused nothing but unrest and doubt.
If I look back I am lost.
"As my parents wed for duty, yet you said much sorrow came from their union." Daenerys said, staring into the sweetwater with a frown upon her features as she pushed her rancid thoughts aside, "What of my brother Rhaegar, did he wed for love or duty?"
The old knight hesitated. "Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her."
Fond. It was word which spoke volumes of their marriage. Perhaps she could grow fond of Quentyn as well.
"I know little of Rhaegar, as a person he was. Only the tales Viserys told and he was a little boy when our brother died and we were forced across the Narrow Sea. What was he truly like?" she asked.
The old man considered that for a moment before he answered, "Able. That above all. Determined, deliberate, dutiful, single-minded. Yet while he held great skill for combat he held no love for it, preferring the strings of his harp over the hilt of his sword."
"Pray tell me more, Ser Barristan."
"As you wish. As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault," Barristan said, voice becoming distant as he remembered. "He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children and instead kept to himself. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father's knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again, that he would be shunted off to the Citadel to spend his days drooling over scrips and books of years past the moment he was of age. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been and he refused to say any upon it, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, 'I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.'"
"And he was," Daenerys said, smiling. She knew Rhaegar was said to be a graceful warrior, clad in his suit of armour with its dragon of rubies. Much like her own sigil now upon Ghidorah's saddle.
"Indeed. But he always preferred his music over sword play. Many times he would go from the Red Keep to the streets of King's Landing and would sing to the smallfolk, to walk among the people."
"He sang to them?" her smile widened.
"Yes. Rhaegar would pick a spot near the other mistrals and would sing. I would stand guard and...collect the money given to him."
"He was that good?"
"Very good. He loved singing, especially with his harp."
"What did you do with the money?"
"Well once he gave it to a fellow mistral down the street," Barristan's blue eyes were sparkling with warmth from the memory, "Once he gave it to an orphanage at Flea Bottom. And once...well, he got immensely drunk."
She laughed, trying to imagine her beautiful, graceful older brother drunk enough he had to be dragged home by the Kingsguard. Probably clutching still at his harp, silver gold hair in disarray.
Daenerys had to wonder, what would he think of her? Would he be proud of her, of her son? Of what she'd achieved in Essos?
But then she heard Jorah's voice, just as clear as when he uttered them upon the Walk of Punishment.
But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.
Even in those moments she missed Jorah's steady presence. Ever since she had banished him there had been a part of her longing to see him again, despite his treason and his lies. She had to wonder where he was anymore, if he'd left Essos entirely or if he was still out there thinking of her.
"Tell me more of Rhaegar, Barristan," Daenerys said, wanting to brush aside her longing of Jorah, "Tell me more of the man he was, what he was happiest doing. What brought him joy, his smiles, his laughter."
"He was...perhaps, I feel, it was not in Rhaegar to be truly happy," the old knight said carefully.
Daenerys blinked, mirth fading as she asked, "Was he indeed so sour behind his princely mask?"
"No. But there was always an air of melancholy around him. A sense of doom, as he was born in grief, Your Grace. A shadow that followed his every step."
"Summerhall." A tale Viserys told her only once.
"Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best and the least," Barristan said. "He would go there from time to time, to those blackened ruins nature had reclaimed with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved."
It made Daenerys think of her own dream of Summerhall, when she'd been cloaked in scale and fang and flew upon great leathery wings. Seeing the burnt scar across the land, the heaping piles of bones and the cracked open dragon eggs. Did Rhaegar see that when he visited the place of his birth? Did he hear the phantom screams, the shades of flame?
But that had been an old wound, something Rhaegar had been born with and not something he caused himself. The true injury was one she did not know much of yet she knew Barristan did. So she could not help but ask, even if she felt the question could cause pain for Barristan had witnessed it and the carnage that followed.
"What of the tourney?" Daenerys asked quietly. "One where he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty. Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?"
"It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother's heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate."
"Then why would he do such a thing?" Daenerys demanded, suddenly angry. "Why would he spite his loyal, faithful wife so publicly if he cared for her? Why would he shame her so if she treated him well? You told me that Rhaegar was the greatest man you had ever met. So why did he scorn his wife so? Betray his children? Steal away another man's betrothed?"
She had to think how she would have reacted if Drogo had taken another wife. It was not uncommon in Dothraki culture for Khals to have multiple wives even if Drogo never held interest for another. Would she love that fellow wife as a sister or would she be shunned, shunted aside and instead shared with his bloodriders as his new wife took the place of the favourite?
In that moment she had to think how utterly humiliated Elia Martell must have felt, to have her husband so publicly dismiss her in favour of another woman.
And she paid the price. Rhaegar may have died from the Usurper, spilling blood and rubies in the water as he fell, but it was quick. Elia had been trapped within King's Landing, hearing the Lannisters torching the city outside the Red Keep and hiding. Only to have her door smashed in, watch her babe get torn from her arms and dashed against the wall before being raped by her child's murderer who still had Aegon's blood wet upon his hands then cleaved asunder with a greatsword.
Perhaps Aegon's blood. If Strickland's wild claim held true. But did Elia know her infant had been traded for another? In her panic, Daenerys could easily see Elia not taking the time to properly inspect her baby, if that switch had happened when the Lannister army was sacking King's Landing and she knew Tywin Lannister wanted her dead for her marrying Rhaegar and not Cersei. She could see Elia running into her chambers, bundling up the baby with flustered, frightened movements before the door was struck down and the Mountain appeared. Did Elia know her daughter was also dead when she was seized?
Suddenly Daenerys was so glad for Blackfyre at her side and the knives hidden within her clothes, the callouses slowing forming upon her hands. Rape was a vile threat all women faced, even a princess of Dorne was not exempt and nothing was done to her raper and murderer. No, instead the Mountain was praised by the Usurper, and Lannisters welcomed into his court. A worthless king and a worthless husband who, if rumours were correct, also beat his wife and was unfaithful to the point he had bastards aplenty even before the rebellion. Did Lyanna know this fate awaited her? Was that why she ran away with Rhaegar? Perhaps they had just acted in passion, unaware of the death and misery that would follow.
Meanwhile Barristan was silent for so long Daenerys thought he was going to ignore her question until he sighed, suddenly looking so tired and old and broken she felt the urge to hug him.
His voice was full of pain as he answered her, "Rhaegar was the finest man I have ever met. Yet he was exactly that; a man. And I do not believe there will ever be a man or woman who can reach the end of their lives and say truthfully they had never made mistakes. That they never had things they regret or whisper poison in their minds. Things that keep them awake at night. Everyone makes mistakes and Rhaegar's cost him his life, of his own and the woman he loved and his family and his House. I do not believe he foresaw such a thing when he took Lyanna and he is not here to explain his reasons. Even myself, with my long years of service...there are things that make it hard to sleep, faces I see at night I wish I could've saved...and some I wish I didn't."
Daenerys stared at Barristan, shocked at the raw emotion in his voice. She caught the shine of unshed tears in his eyes and quickly rose from her seat, giving in to her impulse to embrace him. His white armour was cold against her cheek and hands as she pressed herself against the old knight, arms unable to wrap fully around his broad form. She could feel him start, the breastplate her face was pressed against jolting slightly as he reacted in surprise, before feeling gauntlet-clad hands gently press against her shoulder blades as Barristan returned her embrace.
Because he was right. Daenerys had her fair share of regrets in her short years. She had made mistakes, people had died because of her actions, her own child killed due to her folly.
So while her brother Rhaegar had been kind and noble, he had made mistakes just as she did. As anyone did. Only with him, he did not live to correct them. Instead he died with them and any regrets he had perished as well.
Gently she disengaged herself from Barristan, the air around them melancholy and heavy with memories unsaid.
"Dying is easy yet living can be hard," Barristan said to her. "Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love in defiance of their father's wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies when he might have made fast friends. He could have tied the Targaryens to all the great Houses but instead was met with resistance and bitterness. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire and grief. I speak only of the perils of the heart, Your Grace, and the perilous position you are in. I understand your hesitation and have seen the grief rent through choices of love. But even such as duty, as the Mad King and his woeful queen with their marriage showed all too well."
"The Mad King?" Daenerys said, a sneer twisting her lips as she stepped away from him. "The Usurper called him that, the Usurper and his loyal rabid dogs. Are you here to parrot my enemies lies?"
"Your Grace, if I can speak freely. I served as your father's Kingsguard since the beginning of his reign. Your enemies did not lie."
She paused, a part of her wanting to snap at Barristan to keep his mouth shut. Long years of hearing Viserys ridicule and rage against those lies about the Mad King and their House. Lies to undermine the last Targaryens.
Yet Barristan was humble and true, he had not lied nor led her astray yet. So after a moment of silent staring she beckoned for the old knight to continue.
"When the people rose and rebelled against him, your father set their villages and towns aflame," his voice was grave, his eyes never wavering from hers. "He burned sons in front of their fathers, he burnt people alive with wildfire and laughed at their screams. His efforts to stamp out any dissent resulted in the rebellion that killed every Targaryen except two. I am no maester to quote history at you, Your Grace. Swords have been my life, not books. But every child knows that the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. Your father was not the first of these. King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land."
"I am not my father," Daenerys tensed, nails digging into her palms. "And I have not seen any proof of these gods, even if the Red Faith claim I am the bride of one."
"True," Barristan inclined his head. "But your father's madness did not erupt from nothing. Others such as Aerion and Baelor. Forgive me, but your brother Viserys was young and protected by his mother so he saw little of how his father truly behaved. And at the start of his reign Aerys was generous and charming, so many lapses was forgiven. Until it was burning before everyone. But I can assure you, Your Grace. As someone who witness King Aerys and his madness, I have not sensed the taint within you. Viserys was very much your father's son. But you are Queen Rhaella's daughter, just as Rhaegar was her son."
"Rhaella...My brother had to sell her crown to feed us. That was the day he died as my brother, leaving only rage."
"She loved you much, Your Grace. Even before you were born. As the queen, she was always mindful of her duty to her people and she would be proud of what you have achieved here," Barristan said gently.
Tears sprang to her eyes but did not fall as Daenerys nodded, the bells in her hair chiming softly. "A queen must listen to all. A dragon queen even moreso. A lesson I learned late but at least now Meereen is healing even if there are still sharks circling in the distant shores."
"Indeed, Your Grace," Barristan agreed. "That is why I do still suggest Dorne, in marriage. Their custom is the eldest inherits Dorne, not the eldest son. Prince Quentyn will not treat you poorly on that regard. And if...if this Long Night will come with the Others as you believe, then Dorne is one of the kingdoms least ravaged in the War of the Five Kings. One of the greatest Targaryen kings was one who ruled in equal with his wife and queen, and one of the next was who brought Dorne into the fold through marriage."
"You push me west yet again."
"A whole and healthy Westeros ruled by a strong and beloved queen and king would be the best position to fight a Long Night," Barristan said. "As now it is still fractured and bleeding, divided. Any invading force would find it quite easy to add more blood to the ground."
"I have made the rules for my hand clear," Daenerys said. "They must get past my son before they get to me."
"With all due respect to both yourself and your dragon," Barristan said in hesitant tones. "I do believe politics are not a well familiar issue with your dragon."
"Perhaps not, but if a second Long Night is approaching the world then if I must take a spouse I want one of unbreakable spine and strong wit. While the prince seems sweet he did also seem..." Daenerys trailed off, unsure of how articulate her feelings kindly.
"Untried?"
"Yes. But regardless, Dornish food is said to be quite delicious."
Their conversation ebbed to lesser things after that, Barristan speaking of the spicy cuisines of Dorne and Daenerys talking of the odd dishes she'd tried in Essos, even in the likes of Qarth. A different palate compared to the rest of Westeros. Eventually he bid farewell, Daenerys granting him leave to attend to his assortment of squires. At least now she would have a worthy blade to anoint them if any would become knights.
When he was gone she spent some time looking over the various reports of the supplies within Meereen, pleased that their plunder from the broken siege had done well to replenish their holds. The abundance of animals for meat the invading had brought would do well to stave off any hunger as they waited for the crops to grow. The waterways for the bean fields had also been completed with their fortifications and banks, bringing much needed water without the use for barrels or mules to carry them from the river or wells.
Then again considering Ghidorah's stormy wings, Daenerys felt she could simply use her child to stir the weather sour with rain if drought became an issue.
She paused in her reading, gaze traveling to the seal off to the side of her table with her other supplies like quill and ink. She picked the seal up, inspecting the Targaryen dragon etched upon it. Her conversation with Barristan was still a heavy shroud over her thoughts, thinking of Rhaegar and Old Valyria and the dragonlords before her. And the Long Night. Did not Missandei say there was a myth from Yi Ti speaking of such a thing? How far had the darkness reached last time? Is that what Rhaegar read in his books, that pushed him to learn the sword when he showed no interest beforehand?
Perhaps Barristan was correct in pushing her west, but she would not abandon her people. Now Meereen was healing and once the wounds became scars she could cast her gaze west towards the Iron Throne. She would have to make her bloody way through many slaver cities however, such as Volantis and Lys. Not just to free those in chains but to prevent her from being attacked simultaneously from the front and back. Though what Kinvara said the red faith were loyal to her, so perhaps they would be of aid when she reached their city? Daenerys did not know enough of the Essosi religion to be sure.
She would also need to take Ghidorah to see the remains of the cities he destroyed. And to also verify if New Ghis had indeed fallen.
When Missandei come some time later it was with news of her butterflies. And it confirmed Barristan's earlier words of Westeros descending further into chaos. Tales of a great pirate fleet lurking with the Stepstones, of ironborn raids along the western edge across the Reach heading towards Oldtown, the pillaged Riverlands and sullen North locked in internal strife, of King's Landing with the faith militant rising. Most of the report was general events rather than specifics but Daenerys knew such information would take time to cultivate true and detailed. At least she'd given Missandei unfretted access to Meereen's treasury, to grease hands and loosen tongues when needed.
Chaos indeed, even Dorne was restless after the death of Oberyn Martell. Perhaps she should invite the prince of Dorne to supper and ask his thoughts.
When Missandei smoothed out one of her sheets of parchment, inscribed with glyphs of a language of her own making, Daenerys could see the supple leather braces upon her forearm beneath the billowing sleeves of her dress. Slipped within would be her new daggers. Daenerys made a mental note to start searching for Valyrian steel daggers for her friend to use. Or perhaps even forge a dagger from Ghidorah's teeth. She still had some of his baby teeth but he occasionally lost more as an adult, fangs longer than her finger.
Once the scribe was finished with her report Daenerys tapped a nail on the tabletop, letting out a thoughtful hum, "It seems Ser Barristan was correct. Westeros is consumed with inner strife."
"Indeed, ever since the War of the Five Kings it seems the fighting continues even if all the kings are dead except one."
"What about far to the North, the Wall? Have any of your butterflies reached there."
"Not yet, Your Grace. The North is broad and scarce and cold."
"...And what of Aegon?" Daenerys asked. "Has there been any news of him?"
Missandei's full lips pursed slightly, "Some. But I cannot be sure if it is true or rumours and nothing about this Aegon Targaryen personally. If he is indeed in Westeros then he is either unknown or hiding his identity. Yet I have heard whispers of the Golden Company landing upon the stormlands. It is said Griffon's Roost has fallen and there are elephants seen roaming."
So that confirms Strickland's own words, his claims the entire company had set sail and landed in Westeros.
Daenerys mulled it over for a long moment, eyes darting to her seal and the dragon etched within. She could formally send a letter, acknowledge this Targaryen. Or even demand answers. Demand proof. Demand to know why he hadn't come to her.
"If you can..." she began slowly, thinking hard before saying to Missandei, "Send a missive to this host but keep it vague, easily dismissed yet hinted so towards me. If he...If he is indeed kin, he should answer me. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing."
Because there was no real way for this Aegon to prove himself to her, that he was indeed Rhaegar and Elia's son. Yet at the same time how could she dismiss it? The tale seemed fanciful but then again her own was just as outlandish and unbelievable. Then again if he is with the Golden Company they most likely had already learned of her killing Strickland and the man's son was with the host at Westeros. Maybe he already thought her mad? But she wanted to reach out just the same. To see if he would react to her but she knew she needed to be careful if it was indeed a trick. A trap.
"If you wish, Your Grace, I can draft up a letter and you can confirm it before I send it with my hawks," Missandei offered.
"Of course. Bring it to me as soon as you are done."
Missandei smiled and made to rise in a shimmer of silks before hesitating, seemingly thinking over something before she asked, "And if I may be bold..."
"Speak freely."
"You seem bothered by something, Your Grace. May I ask why? Is it the siege, the aftermath? Or Aemon? This Dornish prince?"
Daenerys blinked, unsure of how to answer. She had seemed out of sorts but when she thought upon it it seemed like a combination of everything. Aemon and his recounts of the Others beyond the Wall, of her claiming Blackfyre and ripping a man's throat out with her teeth, flying into battle against an army of tens of thousands with only her son, that horrible screaming horn. And that dream, filled with golden visions and strange monsters and burning buildings and dying dragons. She had not told anyone of that, not even Missandei. And now, looking at her friend's open features and warm golden eyes, Daenerys made her decision.
She told Missandei about her dream, about that strange golden beast in the sky that seemed to be made from light and the things she saw after that horn sounded and knocked her from Ghidorah's back. About the creatures she saw, the one with blades for arms, the spiked backed creature, the giant kindly moth. She told her of the dragon she saw at the ashes of Drogo's pyre, of her own draconic self flying to Westeros. Of the scorched remnants of Summerhall, of the field of bones and ghostly screams. Of King's Landing drowning in green fire with a dragon skewered upon the spikes of the Iron Throne. Flying across the Wall with corpses and another dragon strewn across it, flying over the Land of Always Winter and seeing the Others down below with their glowing blue eyes and awful beauty.
Then being struck in the throat with a spear of ice and falling to her death.
"I don't understand what it means but I feel as if it is important. Or it was at the time," Daenerys confessed. "It did not feel like a dream. It truly felt as if I was scale and wings, that those things I saw were real. Even other lucid dreams I've had did not feel the same."
"I cannot say for sure, Your Grace," Missandei said, looking thoughtful. "Your House seems to have it seers but I have never witnessed such a thing myself. My own dreams could be wild and strange but this seemed beyond that."
"Perhaps that moth was the Lord of Harmony. It was kind and gentle with me and I thought it was indeed a butterfly when I saw the small one. It led me home safe through the dark."
"Gods could be unable to be perceived by mortals. Who can say for sure? But with the Others...I have requested several books about Northern legends and more about the Age of Heroes from Westeros as it seems we must fall back to such things," Missandei said. "Though they may take time to bring to Meereen by traders. The Citadel of Westeros guard their text diligently even if many within are one of a kind."
"Could one be perhaps bribed to make copies of the books and send us forged pages?"
"Perhaps. I would need to ask. Yet with that ironborn raids I cannot say how secure that would remain or if it would bear fruit."
"Do what you can. And see if you can reach towards any traders of Yi Ti as well, if they have more information upon their version of the Long Night. We must cultivate information from all sources."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Daenerys heisted before reaching out a hand, gently linking her fingers through Missandei's own. The scribe squeezed back, grip firm.
"And Missandei...Please, call me Dany when we're just with each other."
"Of course, Dany."
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