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Published:2020-04-25Updated:2026-04-06Words:409,591Chapters:71/?Comments:5,539Kudos:6,021Bookmarks:1,661Hits:467,442
The Stormborn and the Stormbringer
SkilledWarriorKiwi
Chapter 60: Empress of Essos
Summary:
🌟 I feel like I've hit the middle of this fic in terms of story/pacing! 🌟
Slowly getting there, one toe at a time. But anyway, a big thanks to you guys for following the story so far! I know my updating schedule is fairly crap lol but I appreciate everyone who's commented and read my giant fic 💖 ~
Chapter Text
Volantis was a chaos of fire and death when Ghidorah reached it.
The oldest and the proudest of the Nine Free Cities, the first daughter of Valyria. Mighty Volantis, grandest and most populous of the Nine Free Cities. Queen of the Rhoyne and mistress of the Summer Sea, home to noble lords and lovely ladies of the most ancient bloodlines but now was currently writhing with vengeance and freedom in equal measure.
The huge Long Bridge of Volantis stood high amidst the chaos, straddling the Rhoyne river and keeping the old and new districts of Volantis connected with many of the buildings upon it ablaze. The massive piers of the bridge jutted high into the night sky, the black stone gateways carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons, and other fantastic beasts along its arch. Several buildings and dozens of smaller shops were on fire along the Long Bridge but Daenerys noticed how many citizens were walking as if out for a midnight stroll.
The storm Ghidorah had brought under his swift wings quickly began to pelt the burning city with warm rain, Daenerys hearing the shouts and cheers of people below as Ghidorah soared over the Long Bridge with great flaps of his wings. As they passed the center of the bridge, she saw hundreds of spears jutting up with each adorned with a severed head. Within the middle of the gory prickle was an assortment of people in red- the priests of R'hllor, Daenerys knew, with the surrounding roadway packed with people listening to the fiery faith's chants.
Further in, the Black Walls of Volantis were still curled protectively around the district of Old Volantis- harder than steel or diamond, over two hundred feet high and built by the Valyrian Freehold centuries ago. However many of the grand estates of the Old Blood were aflame, a great crimson and orange beacon radiating out towards the Black Walls. Daenerys knew those who lived within the Black Walls were noble families who could prove unbroken descent from Old Valyria itself, but it seemed many were not spared the frenzy that had gripped the city.
As Ghidorah glided overhead, carrying the weeping clouds with him, she saw several great manses with flaming sacrifices piled high on their roof tops and lavish balconies or hanging over their walls. The inhabitants grouped around the pyres screamed and waved as the great golden dragon flew overhead. One rooftop they passed overhead Daenerys first thought the woman dancing within a circle of severed heads was clad in silken red, only when they swooped closer did she realize the woman was naked but completely covered head to toe with so much blood that she looked dyed crimson.
The air was hot and heavy, columns of smoke billowing up from the city streets so with the spreading storm the air was tropical. Dozens of ships were anchored in the large deep dock harbour of Volantis, with hundreds more flocked around the port and sea as if acting witness to the chaos. Nearly a quarter of those were engulfed in flames and Daenerys noted how the remaining had either the Targaryen dragon painted upon their sails or the burning heart of R'hllor. She was not particularly fond of that last one.
Daenerys saw the Temple of the Lord of Light; it was surrounded by a great inferno, that lit up the entire city of Volantis in huge walls of flame. So much more vast and grand than any of the other fires lit throughout the city. The towering spires, buttresses and towers of the temple were lit with crimson and orange from the dancing flames, while the immense tiled roof seemed to glisten and shimmer. The night sky and raging fire cast dancing shadows across the thousands of stain glass windows that pocketed the grand temple, all showing images of fire and death and rebirth with scorching hearts imprinted within. The highest peak of the Temple of the Lord of Light reached nearly as high as the apex of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, and a huge beacon of fire burned at its top.
Ghidorah circled around the temple with great slow strokes of his wings, the largest and most grand of any temple in Essos dedicated to R'hllor. Daenerys could still so easily smell the reek of burning flesh amidst the ash and salty sea, as well as see the thousands of bodies thrown into the raging barrier encasing the temple like a moat of fire. It had seemed the slaves had indeed revolted against their masters, and fed all those that opposed them to R'hllor's flame.
Great stakes had been set up just before the temple in the courtyard, at the top of the lofty stairs. There were hundreds, thousands, of the stakes and hundreds, thousands, of people had been crucified upon them and each and every stake was burning. But Daenerys' focus was on the man who was standing in the yawning doorway of the temple of the Lord of Light. More red priests and priestesses were flocked within the courtyard, unbothered by the burning stakes around them, but it was the man who drew her gaze.
Flaring out his wings, Ghidorah hovered high in the air before the immense temple. The heat of the fires was radiating upwards, bringing with it the smell of burning meat and blood. Ghidorah's wings flapped, making the flames below coil and dance but must like the rest of the city even the downpour of the storm barely managed to damper the smaller fire and left the greater infernos untouched.
Daenerys could hear it, beneath the dull boom of Ghidorah's wing beats and the roar of the inferno below. The chanting, reciting the prayers to the Lord of Light, in a great swelling chorus that seemed to echo and thrum through the air like the distant rumbles of a thunderstorm. Sung by thousands of voices strewn across the burning city.
She could feel the blood magic in the air, sickeningly strong and reminder her of the aura from the dying Citadel. A strange wave almost like heat, buffering against her skin and trying to seep into her flesh, through her muscles and into her marrow and brain. It felt intoxicating and Daenerys had to resist the allure with great struggle. Ghidorah held no such resistance and the magic seemed to radiate through his gleaming gold scales, giving the edges a strange crimson highlight even as his red eyes glowed like falling stars.
"Empress Daenerys! Bride of Fire, beloved wife of our Lord R'hllor!"
The voice was high and clear, so easily heard over the chants, the flames, the screams of the dying and the flap of the great golden dragon's wings.
The man, his voice still so clearly heard to the point she thought perhaps it was enchanted.
With the eyes of Volantis watching, Daenerys bade Ghidorah to descend just before the great steps leading up to the colossal cathedral. The stairs were completely engulfed in flaming corpses, so many bodies piled upon one another they resembled a lumpy carpet. The flames danced and heaved as Ghidorah landed, gusts of air from his wings sweeping across the blaze but much like with the storm above did little to dampen the inferno.
The ground shuddered as Ghidorah landed, folding his massive wings so he was on all fours. His tails swept through a nearby pile of burning heads, sending them rolling off down the street, before he settled down his belly so Daenerys could climb down off his back.
She already knew what she had to do, before all of the red priests and their fiery god. To prove herself as the Unburnt and Bride of Fire.
So, steeling herself and her sense of smell, Daenerys began to climb the body-laden stairway up to the entrance of the church devoted to R'hllor where the first servant awaited her. The fire did not harm her, but the bumpy surface of the partially burned bodies made it difficult for her to ascend and she had to concentrate on not falling over. Her Valyrian armour was impervious to the heat but her crimson cloak was not as fortunate. Daenerys could feel it ignite, even as her armoured foot sank into a partially burnt ribcage. The stench of burning meat was suffocating, and the crimson, golds and oranges of the fire made it difficult to focus.
A part of her just wanted to lay down, fall upon the burning dead and fall asleep surrounded by the enveloping flames and glorious warmth. She had to fight off the hypnotic light, to keep herself climbing up the staircase of bodies even as she stumbled forth blind in the inferno.
Through the roar of the bonfires Daenerys could still hear the chanting. The prayer for the Lord of Light, undulating through the city until it felt like a lullaby to all who died.
Up and up she climbed the burning dead, partially melted and roasted flesh clinging to her boots and scorched bones snapping beneath her steps, until the golden flames began to flicker and she could see the immense vague form of the temple of the Lord of Light and the far slighter silhouette of someone waiting for her at the apex of the stairs.
Daenerys reached out and someone caught her hand.
She stumbled free of the fire, the air feeling like a slap of icy water against her skin and making her gasp. Blinking rapidly, her eyes shifting from the brilliant dancing light of the fire to the cold forms of the world beyond, Daenerys knew the man who held her hand in a tight grip must be Benerro. The High Priest of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth and Light of Wisdom. The First Servant of the Lord of Light and Slave of R'hllor.
Tall and thin, with a shaven head and robes of red. Slave tattoos of flames completely covered his cheeks, chin and bald skull, almost like a mask. But despite his appearance, with his narrow and tattooed features, he was looking at Daenerys with an expression of such consummate love she felt herself blush. It was a look of complete and utter adoration; the way a father would gaze upon his firstborn son, a mother upon her newborn baby, a knight to his liege, a child to their parent, a princess to her secret lover, a man to his wife.
A man to his god.
Daenerys could see the burns upon Benerro's hands as his fingers curled around her own- some old, faded, while others were shiny and new. All it would take was a tug and Daenerys knew Benerro would willingly walk right into the inferno with her. Even now she could see how the edges of his robes were beginning to smoke, the skin upon the back of his hands starting to peel and blister. The man held no fear of fire, even as it burned him.
Shaking off the thought Daenerys stepped further from the reach of bonfire and up onto the great rise just before the temple of the Lord of Light with Benerro still holding her hand.
Meanwhile Ghidorah was also moving, his great winged forelegs splintering stone as he crawled over the steps and into the courtyard. The fire licked at his scales, giving a sharp crimson edge to their glittering gold but he was unbothered by the flames caressing his hide. His tails swept over the burning steps but did not knock aside the pile of flaming corpses.
Benerro's gaze shifted to her child but did not lose any of its fervent gleam; if anything it intensified as he beheld the golden dragon.
"The beloved bride of R'hllor the Red," Benerro said as he cupped her face in his burned hands. "His mortal wife, sent to us in preparation for the greatest of all nights. R'hllor speaks in a language of ash and cinder and twisting flame, through blessed fires, and has told me of his chosen bride. Lord of Light, protect us. Light your flame among us, R'hllor, in the form of your bride of fire. Light your flame among us, R'hllor, in the form of your gift of a dragon light made living. Your coming is the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy, birthed in fire and blood to wake dragons from stone."
More hands touched at her armour, stroking her hair, as the horde of priests and priestesses descended upon her. All clad in robes crimson and scarlet like a field of roses strewn before the immense temple and surrounded by flames on all sides. Many had flaming tattoos upon their faces, much like the guards of Kinvara had possessed.
"There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world," Daenerys could not tear her gaze away from his, even as Benerro continued to speak, "Azor Ahai stands before us, beloved of R'hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Bride of Fire!"
The bloody heat of the burning city seemed to swirl around her, soaking into her even as the chants of prayers to the fiery god swelled up into the air alongside the huge plumes of smoke, and Benerro leaned forward to press a searing kiss against her forehead.
"I'll wonder if I'll ever forget the smell of burning flesh," Daenerys said. In the morning sun, the distant ocean was shimmering like glass.
"It does seem to be persistent," Missandei agreed, settling down next to her in a swirl of crimson silk. "But as with all things, one day the fires will cool and the blood will dry. The scars will still be there, but the grass will begin to grow again."
Daenerys let out a low hum, her legs dangling over the edge of the courtyard outside the temple of the Lord of Light. Below the stairs were laden with burnt and blackened bones with thick sweeps of ash. The heady blood magic clinging to the city had kept her alert and she found herself not needing sleep. Instead she had spent most of her time inside the great temple, surrounded by the braziers and torches and the huge kiln at the heart of the temple that housed a flame taller than a house. Daenerys had wavered between listening to the sweet noises of the flames and being mobbed by those of the red faith, being embraced and kissed more times than she could count. Through it all Benerro had remained close to her, his voice carrying so easily through the temple as he proclaimed her presence and spoke of the Long Night and how they must prepare.
He also spoke of the Great Other, Kinvara having carried her warning well, and Daenerys heard many side discussions from the priests and acolytes about the potential of such a confrontation but the fervent faith of the temple did not falter. If anything it had escalated when Daenerys had approached the huge kiln and had touched the raging bonfire within and the flames had briefly changed from golds and crimsons to a shimmering white with rainbow flickers. Daenerys had felt some of her lingering anxiety and grief ease when the flames had changed colour, knowing she had not lost Aethaer's favour. Or R'hllor, as Daenerys felt that perhaps those two gods were one in the same or simply different parts of one like the branches of a tree.
Still, she had thought long and hard over Missandei's words of there being other dragon eggs in the world. For all she knew some had been left by the wild dragons of Dragonstone before the Dance destroyed them all, left in caves and crevasses only wings can let one reach, or perhaps even at Silverwing's last lonely roost of Red Lake.
But those were thoughts for the future, for Daenerys would still need to wrestle control of the remaining slaver cities. Even with Volantis revealing itself in a bloody new birth upon her arrival she felt the rest would not be so easy, but with the vocal support of the red faith she knew a great advantage had been taken just the same. They have proven very willing to listen to her, but Daenerys knew she would have to keep a close watch upon them; she would not permit them to burn people with wanton abandon. Volantis she would forgive, knowing such a blood beginning was the only way the city could move forward and what it had been bubbling towards for years, but having felt the fire, felt the magic she was unnervingly aware of how easy it would be.
How easy it would become to emulate Old Valyria.
Yet at the same time whenever her thoughts strayed to such horrible things she remembered the Smoking Sea with its graveyard of ships, the deep mines of the Fourteen Flames and the carpet of bones she had been forced to crawl over, the demon in the pit and the Child, the shade in the room filled with tormenting memories, the twisted streets of the ancient city of the dragonlords with its twisted animals and draconic priests.
The words etched in that tower in the mines, surrounded by death and gemstones.
The Old Valyrians had indeed drowned in their hubris, the civilization so advanced and grand but was obliterated in an instant. Daenerys was torn between cold satisfaction and a sense of loss over the Doom, as Old Valyria had so much to offer even when she simply picked through the scraps but at the same time the price for such a thing was far too high for Daenerys to condone it. Terrible and powerful was bloodmagic but she had seen firsthand what the cost truly was.
Even if her blood still felt hot and bones so strong in the left over smog of the blood magic frenzy and sacrifices of Volantis, that innate part of her which yearned for the fire and blood and always would. She had to wonder how much of it was tied to her being a dragonrider, as Ghidorah's body seemed to steep within the magic and hungrily want for more. She had to tug his saddle wider in her night in Volantis, much like how he had grown after the Citadel's collapse. Perhaps that was why none of the Targaryen dragons had ever grown as large as Balerion, they had not the fire and death to fuel their growth; Vhagar had lived through the Conquest, she had Visenya as her rider. She had benefited from the years of bloodshed and then laid languid in the following centuries of peace. With the Dance the heavy bloodshed had been quick, not drawn out enough for the dragons to suck upon the fire and blood.
And Daenerys had to wonder if the Valyrians gods had prevented such a thing in a war between dragons, if their disapproval was so great. Speculations that would never be answered, only unsatisfactorily brooded upon.
Either way, Daenerys had spent the night in Volantis within the odd fevered dream surrounded by raging fire and those of the red faith. Eventually she had managed to separate herself from the crowd, only to realize she had spent the entire night within the temple. Ghidorah had remained outside in the courtyard, feasting on the burning dead until his belly was finally full- an achievement in on itself, and when Daenerys had walked out into the dawn only his right head was awake. Ghidorah had also spent the night with an audience of faithful, talking loudly about how marvelous the golden dragon was and what a fine gift he was from the Lord of Light to his mortal bride while complimenting every aspect of Ghidorah's form.
Now though the crowd has dissipated except for a determined few who remained scattered about the courtyard, though they seemed preoccupied with prayer and contemplation. Daenerys had let them be as she stepped out her son's long spiked tail until she reached the end of the courtyard and had sat down with her legs dangling over the stairs.
Kinvara had come by earlier before Missandei had found her, bearing a small package and several dishes of food and drink. Daenerys could not bring herself to eat the pork chops sauced in honey and cloves, nor the braised boar peppered in spices and lemon nor the charred dog ribs with its thick black sauce as the smell was both tantalizing and too familiar, and ended up feeding those to Ghidorah. Instead she chose to eat the fried fish with flaky white flesh served on slices of roasted bread and the cold fruit soup, finished with a small wheel of pungent white cheese. For the drinks she ignored the flagons of spiced wine, mead and brown beer and instead chose the coconut water, which was the juice from some odd hairy fruit of the Summer isles.
Now Daenerys took a hearty gulp from the flagon, the fresh taste and smell helping to fend off the lingering stench of the city. Some parts were still smoldering with smoke a persistent haze overhead despite the ocean breeze but the city itself wasn't at risk of burning down anymore. She offered the flagon to Missandei but the scribe declined with a silent shake of her head.
"One day the grass will grow," Daenerys finally said, her thoughts still shifting and coiling like heavy morning fog. "But for now it seems we must bathe in fire and blood even as we continue westward."
"And ever more close to Westeros," Missandei said.
Daenerys fell silent at those words as she took another gulp from the flagon. Ghidorah shifted, his scales scraping across the stone from where his immense form was coiled behind them. Distantly she could hear voices, the creak of wagons and the occasional shout. Volantis had not slept much through the night either, and with the new day came the arduous task of cleaning up the remnants of the upturning of the city. At the very least the excessive burnings meant the citizens would not have to fear much for a plague bearing down upon them.
She wondered how King's Landing would compare to the vibrant cities of Essos. To Qarth, to Meereen, to Volantis. She wondered if it would be as easy to defeat upon dragonback.
"You have the army," Missandei continued, once it became apparent Daenerys would not speak. "From sea to land, Dothraki, Unsullied, freemen, Westerosi. You have the ships to sail them and you have your son, who now even Scorpions cannot prick the hide of. What are you wary of the closer we go to the west, to your birthplace? Do you believe you are unprepared to take the Iron Throne once we wrestle the other slaver cities to heel?"
"I feel prepared indeed," Daenerys agreed. "And I have not forgotten what it means to be afraid. However..."
She looked back out towards the sea and how vast it was; even when she went to the grave it would remain and out in the harbour she could see ships bearing the Targaryen sigil, the flaming heart, the twisting kraken. Yara had not spoken much of Westeros itself besides the Iron islands and even then the woman had been polite as they discussed their terms of alliance with one another. The captain had been genuinely bewildered when shown the journal about the Valyrian Witch King, citing no knowledge of such a thing but also admitting she was not an ardent follower of the Drowned faith even if her uncle was supposedly the head of the order. Still, Yara had recognized the phrase as one belong to the prayers of the Drowned priests as Ser Barristan speculated, even if she knew not the connection between the Iron islands and Old Valyria.
Regardless Yara had been invaluable with sorting out the logistics of their ship travel; Daenerys had scouted out the demon road, which stretched all the way from Meereen to Volantis. The most infamous part of the demon road, and where it gained its name, was the route passing underneath the Painted Mountains westward and north of the Old Valyrian peninsula, far south of the ruins of Mantarys. While inspecting the route, Daenerys realized the heavy danger of the path was due to the inhabitants of that area. Many of the creatures she spotted in the peninsula dwelled within the overgrown forest and brambles, thriving in the massive lake and surrounding swampland where the Sea of Sighs spilled into from the mountains. The huge flightless birds, the elephantine creatures, giant crocodiles and immense snakes and dragonflies the size of dogs. Little wonder only the brave or foolish dared to cross through the demon road, instead usually taking the longer route north along the back of the Painted Mountains or traveling by sea.
That was what Daenerys chose, and let Yara coordinate with the captain of ships to prepare for the journey. Daenerys had gone ahead with Ghidorah to Volantis, at Kinvara's assurance that the city 'would be ready' for her arrival and indeed the red faith had been waiting. But Yara was someone Daenerys was curious about and willing to listen to especially since her sister Asha was ready to cast aside the Old Ways of the Ironborn and embrace peaceful expansion with Daenerys' support. Even if the thread between the Witch King and the Drowned God baffled them both.
Still, it seemed to Daenerys it was another thing beckoning her west. If she could find the source of the Drowned faith with her support of Yara and Asha, and see if it was connected the same way the Child seemed connected to those beyond the Wall. And to see her home country, where her ancestors had come to settle with their dragons and where they died.
Next to her Missandei continued to watch her with calm, golden eyes but the scribe made no attempt to urge Daenerys to speak before she was ready.
"I want the Iron Throne," Daenerys finally admitted, trying to calm her thoughts. "From the earliest memory I've ever had, I remember yearning for it. My brother would tell me about it and the Seven Kingdoms, every day and every night. Our land, he would say. These places he talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Winterfell and the Wall, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to me. Still are, in a way. Stories, tales for a little girl curious to know her homeland. They are the far off distant places. The strange places of the Sunset lands."
"I feel the same way about Naath," Missandei said, her golden eyes unfocused as her fingers toyed with the numerous rings adorning her elegant fingers. "I wish to see the white beaches again, the tall trees. The butterflies. But it is not my home, not anymore. I will visit, perhaps, but I will not stay. I cannot become one of the Peaceful People again."
"When we destroy the masters, the Naathi will return to their shores. The fine handicrafts, shimmering silks, and delicate spiced wines of the Isle of Butterflies will flow once again," Daenerys said.
"I think I would like that."
Even now the gleaming crimson silk of Missandei's dress held hundreds of tiny golden butterflies embroidered at the hem of the skirt, the sleeves, at the curve of her ink-black bodice. Much like Daenerys, Missandei did not forget where she was born, even if she still refused any of Daenerys' offers for her to leave her council and return to her birthplace.
A handful of Unsullied had chosen to stay behind in Meereen, the majority to help safeguard the peace with the Brazen Beasts but one personally petitioned Daenerys to become a tailor which she granted without issue. She had made her stance clear that any who wished to give up their ways as a soldier within her army was free to do so, as would any be allowed to do so in her service as well. Even one as cherished as Missandei.
'No,' Missandei had said simply when the offer was presented when they began preparations to sail to Volantis. 'My place is by your side, Dany.'
It had gladdened Daenerys, that her friend chose to stay. Though it would have broken her heart, Daenerys had been prepared to let Missandei leave if that had been her choice. Ghidorah also approved, as he trusted the Naathi with his mother's well-being.
"It is my duty to protect all," Daenerys looked down at her hands, still clad in the glistening black armour. "We will make Naath safe, we will make the Summer Sea safe from the likes of slavers and pirates and raiders. With Volantis tamed, we will need to send ships to the Summer isles. Gain their alliance and use it as a means of protecting the Summer Sea. The journey between here and Meereen with the Smoking Sea is currently too uncertain."
"Indeed, we must also be careful to watch for any wyvern migration," Missandei added. "They typically do not lair beyond Sothoryos but if they have taken New Ghis and the Basilisk isles as their new roost we must be cautious."
"As it is, they do not seem hostile towards my son but keep your butterflies close for any change in news and I shall deal with them if the need arises," Daenerys said. "But unless they move further inland, perhaps we should leave them be. It will discourage any who try to remake another Ghis."
"Understood. I will keep watch towards the isles, Your Imperial Highness," there was a note of humour in Missandei's voice, as she used Daenerys' new term of address. One that had been reverently spread through Volantis by the red priests, an empress, a red empress with her empire of fire and blood.
"Empress. A strange title," Daenerys said. She had only heard the foreign word in books about the kingdom of Yi Ti, far to the east. Much like how she was no longer Your Radiance or Your Grace, but rather Your Imperial Highness. Daenerys doubted that would cause Ser Barristan to change his ways, however.
"A kingdom won't be what Essos is becoming, but rather an empire," Missandei explained. "Empires are traditionally know for their extensive territorial holdings, diverse cultural and ethnic groups, and centralized political authority. Kingdoms are small in comparison, less diverse than empires, and are often based on a shared cultural or ethnic identity. Westeros has its history of the First Men, the Rhyonar, and the Andals but they were from many centuries ago and now they are just men. Even their Children are gone, lost to the ages."
"Yes," Daenerys said, her voice soft and almost small, even as she thought of the Ifequevron.
Missandei gave her a curious look and when Daenerys remained quiet placed a hand over her wrist, "What is it, Dany? Do you...not wish for the empire? The term empress? I'm sure if you clarify to the red faith they will alter their wording at your command."
"No, it isn't that. But one of the harsh lessons of rule I've learned is that even if I want something it may not come to pass. Or I may have to deny myself it, for the good of my people. And so I am denying myself this."
"And that is?"
"That I will never be Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," Daenerys said.
Missandei watched her with bright eyes that looked like molten gold in the strengthening sunrise. Behind them Ghidorah let out a deep grunt, his wings rustling as he shifted in place.
"You don't want to be queen? To retake the Iron Throne?" Missandei asked.
"I do, but the people of Essos need me more. How could I abandon them when I've spilled so much blood freeing them?" Daenerys said, her shoulders hunching as she finally voiced the roiling thoughts she had ever since they had sailed from Meereen. "How can I both be empress and queen? My son may be swift but how could I keep my attention sure upon not just one land, but two, which are separated by the sea? My children of Essos need me more than Westeros ever will."
Daenerys felt as if she was grieving after saying that aloud; tears pricked at her eyes, making the surrounding city swim and she could feel Ghidorah withdraw from her mind somewhat. He never did like the feeling of grief.
"I will visit Westeros, Dragonstone. I will aid Yara in her campaign just as I promised. I will visit the Iron Throne- and if the monarch is found wanting then they will feel a dragon's fangs. Or if this Aegon Targaryen is who he says he is, or he could already be dead for all I know. Either way, I will not allow a Baratheon or Lannister to sit upon my ancestor's throne- they stole it through conquest and I will take it back through conquest if need be. But I will not remain there, but I will need an ally upon the Iron Throne for when winter comes."
"The Long Night," Missandei said grimly.
"Yes. Regardless, we must be ready even if we know not when the Wall will fall. And I must keep my promise to the Child, to return their Heart to their kin."
Missandei glanced at her, expression carefully neutral as she said, "You have not thought further of the offer of Kinvara?"
Daenerys grimaced, a hand briefly brushing against her armoured stomach. The priestess had been much the same as Lernea; that if she used the Heart, it could restore her barren womb. Kinvara had confirmed as such when they were making preparations to journey towards Volantis, assuring Daenerys that cradled within the greatest temple of the red faith they would be able to perform a ritual using fire and blood and fertile earth to cure her.
Yet still, it was an offer she declined even if a part of her ached to accept. She still remembered how it felt to have Rhaego growing within her, to feel him kick and nudge and squirm. To think upon what her child would look like, how he would grow and how she would raise and cherish him. Teaching him how to rule a kingdom, to be a just and noble king worthy of their blood but just as fierce and battle ready as his father.
She loved Ghidorah, he was her son in all but blood, but he was still a dragon. While he found fascination in the tales of Valyria, of the dragonlords and House Targaryen, he held no interesting in ruling as Aegon the Conqueror had done so. The concerns of the smallfolk meant nothing to him, the burdens of nobility even less so. And as always there was Daenerys and her knowledge Ghidorah would be alone when she passed; either through violence or age, she would die. If she birthed another son or a daughter then she could cultivate a bond between them, even if Ghidorah was steadfast in never permitting another upon his back.
"I think of it every day," Daenerys finally admitted. "But I must keep my promise. Even if- even if I remain without a child."
"I understand," Missandei said, her voice just as calm and neutral as her expression. It helped, knowing Missandei did not voice if she was for or against using the Heart.
Daenerys sighed, kicking her heels against the stone wall below her before she leaned forward with her armour-clad elbows resting on her knees, "I feel that is in part with my grief. Both abandoning Westeros and my ability for children."
"You can train an heir," Missandei offered. "Valyrian blood still runs strong in many places, even that of Targaryen. You can perhaps find one with similar mind to yourself and groom them as a successor. And it is not abandonment when you have chosen to protect the freed slaves here. To be a ruler is to sacrifice yourself for duty, to the well-being of your people. Your desire to remain in Essos, to oversee the safety of those you've freed, proves such a thing, Dany."
"What purpose is a king or queen if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?" Daenerys said, recalling her own words that seemed a lifetime ago. "I'm not so selfish to let my children slide back into chains. I saw the cost my negligence caused with Astapor, with Yunkai. They suffered due to my foolishness and so many died before they could truly be free. I won't make that mistake again, I won't allow myself to. To be a ruler means submitting myself to the responsibility of safeguarding my people, regardless of my own wants, and that is what I will do. I will be the Empress of Essos, not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Essos needs me more."
"I will be by your side," Missandei added as her hand reached out, not taking Daenerys' hand but rather tucking an errant strand of hair behind an ear. "As will Grey Worm and many others you have freed, the tens of thousands who have had their shackles broken."
"And I will happily keep you by my side until the end of days," Daenerys said, lightly squeezing Missandei's wrist. "You help remind me to be kind, to be stern yet fair. The temptation of fire and blood is thick, as my son cares not for mercy, but you help remind me of such a thing. Of why I am doing this."
Missandei smiled and Daenerys felt some of her misgivings fade away; truthfully, she had wept that night she realized she had to abandon the Iron Throne. That she would not reclaim her ancestral seat, and instead would be focused upon Essos. It was giving up nearly two decades of longing, of being raised on stories by Viserys about the Seven Kingdoms and his promises to take it back for them. Now that would not happen, for Daenerys would visit Westeros and Dragonstone and cultivate ties in preparation for the coming Long Night, but she would not take the crown. Her hundreds of thousands of children in Essos needed her more, needed her to safe guard their freedom and she could not abandon them. Not even for her own desires.
But with her friend by her side, Daenerys did not feel as lost. Missandei was closest to her, almost feeling like a sister to her. Someone Daenerys could trust with every inch of her. And it was why Daenerys had made a decision.
"Upon that note I have a gift for you, if you accept it," Daenerys said as she got to her feet. Her Valyrian armour shone in the morning sun, glittering red edges to the slick black steel as she continued with, "I had it commissioned before we left Meereen and it was only just delivered to me."
Missandei also rose, her crimson dress fluttering around her from the sea breeze. Despite the scent of salt, the ash and burnt meat was as crisp as ever. Daenerys pulled forth the small parcel Kinvara had given to her beforehand when the priestess had brought the food, tugging it free of the soft red fabric until the brooch spilled free. Small, no larger than her palm, but made from gold Valyrian steel; the brooch showing a delicately carved hand upon a ring, holding one of Ghidorah's fangs in place like a blade.
"During the Conquest of Westeros my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, chose Orys Baratheon, to be 'my shield, my stalwart, my strong right hand'," Daenerys said, the soft breeze tugging at her hair and making the numerous bells entwined within chime softly. "He spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, drafted the king's laws. He would dispense the king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. The Hand of the King was a responsibility as large as the realm itself."
Missandei blinked. Her gaze was calm and contemplative as always. Ser Barristan once said Missandei was wise beyond her years and Daenerys knew it to be true. She was brave as well, she had to be in order to survive the life she had led. Like Daenerys, Missandei would never forget the price that came with freedom.
Daenerys inhaled, tasting the salt and the ash lingering heavy over Volantis, before she continued, "You're the one who's trust I hold in the upmost importance. And I trust you to act in my stead- I could leave for Old Valyria, knowing that you would be in Meereen to safeguard my people regardless of what would happen to me. You have proven yourself to be reliable, fair, stern and even handed. And my son trusts you with my life, and accepts you."
Ghidorah shifted in a rattle of scales, one immense spikes tail flicking and dragging a line of scratches across the ash-strewn stone. His breath was a hot snort that washed over them as all three of his heads encircled them and Daenerys could tell he approved; Missandei was one of two whom Ghidorah would tolerate within his personal space. The other being Ser Barristan the Bold.
With slow, deliberate movements, Daenerys reached out and gently pinned the gleaming golden brooch upon Missandei's dress. Carefully enough Missandei had time to reject it but the slender woman held herself still as Daenerys slid the brooch into place. Slightly to the left and just above her heart. Missandei's gaze fixed upon the brooch, one slender hand coming up to lightly rest upon Daenerys's gauntlet, before her golden eyes flicked up to settle upon Daenerys's own violet ones.
"Missandei of Naath," Daenerys said, a smile on her face. "I name you Hand of the Empress."
Empress Daenerys by panicawa
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